"They will not be very long, not very long," said the little man, and elevated his eyebrows impatiently; "in three-quarters of an hour they can have beaten the whole over-the hurricane is not so immoderately large, and the dogs they have with them are excellent. The mother of your wolf-hound, Draper, is with them. In fact, they may find the fellow immediately, and then they won't stay out longer."

Draper and Hennings exchanged some words in an under tone; and the latter now took his chair and set it on the other side of the fire, requesting Mr. Pitt to do the same, that the ladies might not be so much hindered in their going to and fro about their cookery.

Mr. Pitt obeyed very alertly, seized his chair by the back, and carried it further round; but suddenly fixed his eye in turn on the pocket of his coat, felt at it, and then gazed by the clear fire-light at his hand.

"Blood!" he exclaimed in astonishment, and stared at the chair on which he had just sate; but Mrs. Draper sprung quickly to it, wiped the

back with a cloth, and said with a voice half choked by anxiety and surprise, "Oh! don't be angry, Mr. Pitt; we have killed a turkey today, and some of the blood was spilled here." Hennings stooped towards Lucy, and whispered, smiling, "Just jog mother's memory about that chapter on lies of necessity."

"O, I beg pardon! I beg pardon!" cried the polite justice, "it is nothing to speak of. I beg pardon; don't concern yourself, I have a pocket-handkerchief; yes, it is merely an insignificant little spot. I was only alarmed at first, lest I had in riding broken a little ink-bottle which I carried in my coat-pocket; and that would have been dreadful, for then my light trou-then my light dress would by such a wetting have been spoiled."

"You have ink with you?" cried Hennings, quickly, and sprung in the excitement of the moment from the chair on which he had just seated himself.

(To be concluded in our next.)

AUTUMN LEAVES, FROM THE THOUGHT-FOREST.

BY MARIA NORRIS.

I.

God. What a vast idea-a meeting-point
Of all ideas! Centre, Sun, and Life,
Whose children we; for us He piled the earth
Story on story, each with treasure rife,
Like mighty King house-building for his heir.
Dear brother, hast thou lost Him? Jarring creeds,
Sectarian quarrels, have they quenched the fire
On thy soul's altar?

Come and read His ways
In rocks, stern histories which cannot lie,
In texts no human pen interpreting
Hath marred or mingled; from the scrutiny
Thy soul will come ennobled, thou wilt see

How these rock-piles, these continents upheaved,
Still bearing traces of volcanic force,

Are picture-books to tell us of the past.
Perchance while waiting in this outer porch,
Humbly prostrated at Creation's shrine,

Thou may'st regain thy Faith, and see how Truth,
God's golden circle, perfect, fresh, and fair,
Is set by him for crown upon the brow
That once wore thorns.

II.

Oh! Heaven, how sick at heart
Of life and all its littleness I feel
Of life and all its greatness! how unsure
To reach the height my spirit longs to scale!
Just on the threshold of all good I stand,
Attaining sometimes, lightning quick, a glimpse
Of the high Altar and the kindled flame
In Thy great Temple. Sudden shuts the door;
The choral songs begin; and I without
Am shut, a prisoner in this lower world,
With prejudice, half knowledge, ignorance,
Eager to stifle all my upward cries,

And drag me, earthy, downwards to the earth.
Forbid it, Heaven! Dear Faith, still tread the path

Where stars like dust are sprinkled. Up, still up, Till, thy wings strengthening with continued flight, They land me in the Paradise of God,

III.

Oh, for a breath, up-blowing from the sea,

On some fresh mountain brow!-a breath of life,
That like the wind among Eolian strings
Makes music on the worn and weary nerves.
Or breezes playing sweetly overhead

In woodland paths entangled, where the shade
Falls chequer-wise all dark among the gold
And glistening sunlight; and the voice of birds
Rains down a flood of ever-fresh delight
Upon the ear below.

THE OLD TREES.

Ye proud ancestral monarchs of the wood!
Still 'mid Time's changes have ye changeless stood;
While Lords of our vain race passed swiftly by,
Unheeded in thy feudal majesty.

Thy stalwart arms spread here the welcome shade
Where the young cradled heir in pastime played;
The sunbeam that he chased among thy leaves
Still o'er the turf its golden lattice weaves,
Streaks each rough trunk with rich fantastic rays,
As when it gleamed to mock his eager gaze.

The child, no more a child, still loved to roam
'Neath thy green beauty, for the spell of home
Gave the proud Hall he loved a name more sweet
Than blazoned History. Here the fairy feet,
He fondly watched for, oft the May-dew brushed
From the wild flowers beneath, that still uncrushed
Looked up and smiled her welcome. Ye have seen
Glad meetings, and farewells, that oft have been
Shadowed by jealous Doubt, by tears wept o'er,
To make Love's April brighter than before.

A fainter foliage thy light branches flung
When from the ancient pile the bridal throng
Issued without the porch. Do ye recall
When with fond words to his ancestral Hall

The bridegroom welcomed there the blooming bride,
And here at evening, wandering side by side,
They looked on Life's long vista, while Love threw
Upon its darkest paths his own sweet hue?
Touched he the lofty thought and graver theme
With the warm fervour of young manhood's dream,
While the dark eyes where yet the tear-drops shone
Reflected back the rapture of his own?

The lone, the aged man did haunt this spot
That Youth's pure dreams had hallowed (unforgot
Amid Life's darker memories), when the laugh
Rung lightly from his lip. Upon his staff
His feeble hands were clasped as he surveyed
His spacious, fair domain. His eager tread
Lost all its energy, his dim eye fell
Upon that ancient pile he loved so well;
He knew that onward to a distant bourne
His steps were bent-that summer would return,
With bee, and bird, and flower: but to him
The summer's glory and the midnight dim
Would be alike. For strangers' steps would fall
In youthful gladness in that ancient Hall,
And blither voices, saddened for awhile,
Speak of the old man with a gentle smile.
And when he passed in silent pomp again
Dark plumes waved o'er him, and a mourning train
Moved slowly on its way. Say, did ye hear
The words of wailing o'er that quiet bier?

On, then, like the little billow
Tarry not in idle sport!
Let the golden fruit of virtue
Trace thy journey to the port.

TRUST NOT TO THE SUNNY SMILE.

BY ADA TREVANION.

Trust not to the sunny smile
Which plays round a shaded brow,
For joyless the weary while

Are the thoughts which lie below; As flowers whose rosy bloom

Is over a tombstone shed, A smile may the face illume

When the heart within is dead.

The winds may release the waves
In their hour of brief repose,
But the faithless Deep hides graves,
Though its tide so softly flows;
And when the rude whirlwind's breath
Hath banished that calm serene,
The wrecks which have slept beneath
On its heaving breast are seen.

The saddest may sometimes seem

All that souls most bless'd could be, But such mirth is a fleeting gleam— The calm of a breezeless sea. The winds will the billows shake Till arise the wrecks of years; And chance-words the heart may break Which conceals a fount of tears. Ramsgate, July 2, 1852.

DOWN, DOWN IN THE DEEP, DEEP SEA.

He lieth hid in a coral cave,

Far, far from the light of day;

And he soundly sleeps in his lowly grave

As none but a dead one may.

On a pillow of pearls he rests his head,
And the waves, so wild and free,
Are sporting for ever around his bed,
Down, down in the deep, deep sea.

With a fairy robe of the sea-weed wrought,
By the mermaids o'er him cast,
He lieth there, and he careth nought
For the wild wind's wildest blast;
But above him, though raging tempests roar,
Right merrily sleepeth he,

A thousand leagues from the nearest shore,
Down, down in the deep, deep sea.

It matters not where to rest we're laid
When our earthly race is run;

We shall sleep as well 'neath the yew-tree's shade
As we can sleep bencath the sun;
But still, if I could, before I die,

Choose where I would buried be,
Like that sailor youth methinks I'd lie,
Down, down in the deep, deep sea.

WALTER WELDON.

Randall Rawley's father was a country 'squire, "whose constant care was to increase his store, and keep his only son at home." Mr. Rawley frequently boasted that "he was an oldfashioned man, and never went along with the times :" nor is there any instance on record of a person having been found hardy enough to contradict him.

Mrs. Rawley was a "restless matron" of the old school, perpetually tying up preserves, jingling keys, and holding mysterious colloquies with a young woman in her establishment, who rejoiced in the obsolete title of "the still-room maid." Randall Rawley, as might be expected from the son of such a couple, was narrow-minded, shy, and conceited. The Rawleys had not even gone to town to see the Crystal Palace vague and terrible ideas haunted them that London would at that time be full of chartists, thieves, and swindlers-that you would be inevitably victimized by lodging-house keepers-probably run over by omnibuses, and possibly subjected at the corner of some sequestered street to the summary discipline of the garotte! Mr. and Mrs. Rawley had an intense horror of foreigners, and of everything bordering on foreign customs. They, however, had one exception to their rule: they considered the plan of the parents of France in making up matches for their children, instead of allowing the young people to choose for themselves, as peculiarly judicious and commendable.

Mr. and Mrs. Rawley's nearest neighbours and dearest friends, were a certain Mr. and Mrs. Hayley, with an only daughter; and Hannah Hayley they deemed worthy of being the wife of their cherished Randall. The young lady in question was a cherry-cheeked, buxom, simpering damsel, as fond of red ribbons as Farmer Flamborough's daughters: she was as narrowminded and as shy as Randall Rawley, but was superior to him, inasmuch as she was totally free from conceit. She was quite ready to give her hand and heart to Randall whenever she was asked to do so: but Randall told his parents that "he was not inclined to be hurried; that Hannah Hayley was a good, inoffensive girl, but that he thought he was entitled to expect something superior in a wife!"

Randall was not only in a general way perfectly unconscious of his own deficiencies, but when forced to acknowledge them to himself, he was careful to prevent anybody else from becoming a partaker in the information. For in

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

66

stance, Randall was remarkably short-sighted. Now, short-sightedness is an infliction which is generally borne extremely well by those who suffer under it. In the first place it is perfectly aristocratic, and in the next it affords idle people the pleasure of spending a great deal of time and a great deal of money in selecting, purchasing, parading, and talking over sundry elegant eye-glasses, gold-mounted spectacles, and colossal double opera-glasses. To such persons, the names of Dollond, Harris, Solomons, &c., are as household words ;" and they look upon the world with considerable satisfaction, albeit condemned to view it through a crystal medium. Such, however, was not the accommodating spirit of Randall Rawley. The Earl of Snowdon, in Theodore Hook's clever tale of "Pride," says, "A Plinlimmon never catches cold!" and Randall held it quite inconsistent for a member of the house of Rawley to plead guilty to any sort of physical defect. Randall was once introduced at the house of a friend to a very pretty girl, and as he sat next her at dinner he had a full opportunity of scrutinizing her features. She had a fairy-like form, and cheeks tinted with the hue of the wild rose. She was incomparably superior to Hannah Hayley. Randall thought of her by day, and dreamed of her by night, for a week. At the end of that time he went to a Flower-Show in the neighbouring town; but the geraniums seemed to lack freshness, and the tea-roses to lack fragrance, and the Floral Devices to lack ingenuity. Poor Randall! he continually passed and repassed the pretty young lady and her party— nay, she cast a glance of encouragement upon him; but it elicited no answering glance, because he was not aware of having received it! When she next met with him at a dinner-party, she was silent and reserved. Randall heard the reason of her change of manner, and he might have exonerated himself at once if he had confessed to her that he was short-sighted; but nothing less than the thumb-screw could have forced such a confession from Randall. He preferred to be thought rude and capricious; and the fair damsel with her slender waist, and wild-rose complexion, soon passed away from his thoughts, and the plump, good-humoured Hannah Hayley was restored to the inconsiderable place that she had held in them. About this time Randall received a few days' visit from an old schoolfellow, of the name of Dawes. He had a situation in the Custom