in the company of any one, still seemed to gaze at him, and not at his companion."*

All such weird influences apart, a portrait-gallery ever contains frequent matter for musing minds, even though its pictured denizens be but of the

common run of

Generals, some all in armour, of the old
And iron time, ere Lead had taken the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain❜d the steed;
And here and there some stern high Patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.†

No lack of matter pensive and pathetic, either, in such company. For how big with truth the little couplet,

A picture is the past; even ere its frame

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same.

On which account, few things are less exhilarating, perhaps, than to study the past and present of family pictures, and draw for oneself the contrast between now and then. Does the reader remember that domestic group on the wall of Mr. Osborne's dining-room, in "Vanity Fair?" There was a picture of the family, we are told, over the mantelpiece,George was on a pony, the elder sister holding him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by her mother's hand; all with red cheeks and large red mouths, simpering on each other in the approved family-portrait manner. "The mother lay underground now, long since forgotten-the sisters and brother had a hundred different interests of their own, and, familiar still, were utterly estranged from each other. Some few score of years afterwards, when all the parties represented are grown old, what bitter satire there is in those flaunting childish family-portraits, with their farce of sentiment and smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and selfsatisfied." A degree of the same feeling may attach to the inspection of individual portraits. But who would be without a faithful one, that could secure it, of any endeared and honoured presence, whom he may not, can not, always have present with him-and whose counterfeit presentment is therefore cherished by him, or one day may be, will be, in the spirit of that gentlest of poets and sons, who could say, as he gazed on what art could yet tell him of his Mother as she looked and lived, sixty years before, that -while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft,Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.§

But this is a subject to be pursued, if at all, in another and concluding

paper.

*

Dombey and Son, ch. xiv.

+ Byron.

Vanity Fair, ch. xxiv. § Cowper: On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture.

THE LAST NIGHT.

BY MARY C. F. Münster.

MARY, is that the cry of some late crane
Up-sailing from the black pools of the marsh?
And yet I thought that full three hours ago
I heard the last tired straggler as he flew
Clamouring in the darkness.

How the wind

Hisses through all the dry leaves of the beech!

Poor leaves, that will not fall, though dead and sere!

Still clinging to the boughs, as to our hearts
Cling memories of hopes dead long ago-
The air is full of dismal sounds to-night:
The swollen beck chafes on the stepping-stones
With such a full-voiced moan of wild complaint
That I could almost think I lay again,
As in the nights that never can return,
Beneath the shelter of my father's roof,
And listened to the plaining of the sea
Breaking against the shingles of the beach.
That time is so far back, so blotted out
By all the waves of misery and pain

That have washed o'er me since, that I could doubt

If I was ever cherished by fond hearts,

And cared and tended like some precious thing.

Ah! Mary, when those tender parents died,

I thought the earth had not another joy
Could win me to forget. I prayed to die—

And would my childish heart's pray'r had been heard!
For I have thanked high Heaven full often since
That those who loved me slept so sound a sleep
As had no room for dreams or thoughts of me.
Hush!-what was that?-did you not hear a voice?
Come nearer, for a sudden awful hush

It may be so,

For I have heard that in the solemn hour

When Time stands trembling between Night and Morn, Death cometh oft'nest to the weary bed

Where sickness lies, and taketh thence his own.

"Tis a fit hour for death, this dark, still time,

And I shall use it, for full well I know

I shall not see another sun go down

THE LAST NIGHT.

Behind the long blue hills; and when the moon
In her new pallid beauty shall arise

And shine into this room to-morrow night,
Her beam shall light a face pale as her own.

I shall look on her never more again,

For where I'm bound to, sun and moon are not,

Nor any star, but that unclouded light

Whence they draw theirs, and which shall never fade,

But shine on, never paling, through all time.

Nay! do not weep for me, but rather joy
That I am near my longed-for rest at last;
You, you alone, true friend! fond, faithful heart!
Who held to me when all beside were false,
Ay! you alone will miss me from the world.
No baby cries shall call me to return,
No husband's tears shall fall on my cold brow,
No vacant place by any household hearth
Shall tell that one beloved by many
Is gone for ever-none will mourn for me.
One bubble more gone from the sea of life,
One handful more of dust returned to earth,
One trembling spirit gone to meet its Judge,
And all is said.

above be green

hearts

my

breast

The spring will come again,
And shroud with verdure one more narrow grave,
And ere the grass
Dear cares and joys shall leave no thought of me
With even you, save as you might look back
'Mid waking life, conscious of sudden gloom,
The sole remembrance of a painful dream.
A dream! ah, what is life but one long dream?
This last hour is the waking.

For the Soul
Grows eagle-visioned as the hand of Death
Palsies the mould of clay. I see it now,
The past is all before me, and I know
How I have wandered from my destined path.
All! what I was, and am, what might have been,
And how I cast the proffered good away,
To strain at that which I could never gain.
'Tis all there written-now, when all too late,
I see what way I might have been beloved,
And safe and happy.

Near-come near to me.

Well trodden down, and closely fenced about,
Where woman has her sphere.

Ay, better thus,
With little children hanging round my neck,
And one to hold me in his heart of hearts,
Than be as I have been, a weak, vain thing,
The sport of flatteries, that bid me raise
The standard of my sex, and strive with man,
On his own field, for fame; but those who strive
In such a cause must own no tenderness,
Have never known it, or have buried it

So deep and long ago, that let it cry
Loud as it may, they shall not hear the call,
Else in the very hottest of the strife
The woman's need of love awakes full grown,
And, finding nought, the weakling sinks to die.
Amid the crowd that crush her in the dust.
Men love her not, for she has forfeited
Her right to fond protection when she dared
To enter on their path; her own poor sex,
Cruel as ever are the weak, will say,
"Let her lie there, poor fool of idle dreams!
Misled with vanity, and half unsexed
By her own act; she has deserted us;
We will not help her, lest our masters say
We share in her rebellion. Let her die.
We want but what we have; our pretty wiles
Suffice to gain our ends; we ask no more."
Ah! Mary, if the wrong be e'er set right,
'Twill need a woman with a man's great soul
And her own subtle skill. "Twas not for me
To do the deed.

When too late to return,

I knew I had no power for the task;

And when I lost all faith in mine own might,

I lost all fitness.

Once I was beloved,

And spurned the blessing, and, when all too late,
I loved. Well! that is over, like all else,
For me on earth: it will not hurt me more
To think that, ere another month be passed,
His feet will tread the path beside my grave
As forth he leads the bride whose childish heart
Loves but the glitter of his gold and fame.
In yonder world we shall not love in vain,
Nor miss our way: there is no sorrow there,
Nor death, nor parting-

What has quenched the light?

Where is your hand? cold, cold.

Yes, ah! I come

CROOKED USAGE;

OR,

THE ADVENTURES OF LORN LORIOT.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A CAT'S-PAW.

In one of the boxes of the obscure restaurant, of which mention has already been made, sat the soi-disant Comte de la Roquetaillade.

It was Sunday, the dullest of all dull days to a Frenchman in London, and as he pored over a weekly newspaper that was spread out before him, it seemed as if he were desirous of prolonging his breakfast to the utmost, in order to dispose of as much of that dull Sunday as possible.

But, in truth, this was not the case: other objects were in his thoughts —all of them having reference to what he read, and had London been as gay as Paris, its amusements would not at that moment have claimed his attention. Let us follow his meditations as he soliloquised, but not aloud.

"This young fellow, it appears, has shown some reticence. All he knew of me he, naturally, told, and fortunately that was very little; but why did he refuse to say where I lived? He must have had some motive for his silence in that respect! What can it have been? I should imagine not love for me who got him into this scrape! Something else, then. Let me consider!"

But consideration on this point was vain, and the Count felt compelled to admit that Lorn's conduct puzzled him.

"It was quite as well," he went on, "that the address was not given, though Drakeford has put it out of their power to trace my movements. He has made his first coup, I see, by burning down his house; his second, the question of compensation from the insurance-office, is his affair, not mine. The report of the fire looks very well in print: At an early hour on Wednesday morning the inhabitants of Perceval-street, Clerkenwell, were roused from their slumbers by fearful cries of "Fire!" which, it was speedily ascertained, proceeded from the roof of the house No. 9, situate in that street, where it appears that a young female, who acted as domestic servant to the tenant of the house in question, a most respectable inhabitant of the parish, named Drakeford, had taken refuge, in order to escape from the devouring element which already raged within, and threatened to involve the whole neighbourhood in one vast and destructive conflagration. The shrieks of the affrighted and bewildered girl, as she cowered between the chimney-pots, to one of which she clung in the agony of desperation, were of the most appalling and heartrending character; and when it was observed that the smoke, accompanied every now and then by fierce jets of flame, came pouring out of the windows of the upper story, none of the spectators, who had now assembled in multitudes, entertained for a moment the consolatory idea that anything

VOL. L.

2 F