The rolling years have come and gone,

The Child is now a Man,

And the Reason of Mind told him long ago Of the Winter of Death, and the end of woe, But told him beside ere its goal be won

Life must fulfil its span.

Still on! still on! o'er Time's dark Sea,

The cycling Hours have passed; Manhood hath changed to Life's last stage, Its curling locks to a silver age,

And the Winter hath come, and the Old Man, he With his Mother is at last.

VIOLETS, VIOLETS.

(A Flower-gift on Christmas Day.)

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Violets are near me, throwing

Balmy fragrance all around;
Fancy's eye beholds them growing

By some hedge, or on some mound,
Where the vernal zephyrs from them
Sip a thousand draughts at ease,
While the azure skies, that dome them,
Seem their deeper tints to seize.
Bees are 'mid them (Fancy utters),
And to Fancy's gaze they look
Little elves, whose humming mutters
Sweeter laud than bard or book
Ever sang or said in letters:

Butterflies are also nigh;
While grim spiders spin tough fetters
For the moth that totters by.

Oh, those Violet-banks, so vernal
In their fragrance and their grace!
Can we not high thoughts eternal

In their growth and beauty trace?
First the seed-whence came it? Heaven
And Heaven's Master sent it, when
With other grains 'twas kindly given
For use and pleasure unto men!

Then the fibrous root, firm fastening
Roving tendrils in the earth-
Then the stem, and broad leaves hastening
To veil the buds that swell to birth:
Then the buds themselves, close-hiding
(As a heart its love) sweet things-
Then the flowers, whose fresh abiding
Rests on leafy shadowings!

While the fragrance from them coming
(Visible to saints perhaps!)
Bees and gnats amidst them humming,
In a swoon of transport wraps!
Who can say that, by pure spirits,
From the odours of the flowers,
Music-such as heaven inherits-
Is not heard at certain hours?

Who can say that seraphs holy
Do not every flower-bush haunt?
Regal rose or lily lowly

May have angel-visitant!
Here, beside me, in the twilight

Of this dreary Christmas night,
Pussy purring by the firelight,

And yon curtain-like a sprite

Glancing 'twixt me and the window,

Here, afar from banks and bees, Comes a whisper-" Let me in, do! And thy very heart I'll please!" Enter! and the Violets, throwing

Essences, which are their speech,
Give me thoughts not worth the knowing
But for some things that they teach.
'Tis that souls-like flowers-are planted
In us by a Hand Divine

For use as well as grace, nor wanted
Bootlessly to flaunt or shine:
'Tis that as bright Violets sweeten
All around them, hedge or hall,
We-a Christian's love complete in-
Should give tenderness to all!
'Tis that, in my lonely chamber,
With the cat upon the hearth,
Basking in the beams of amber
Which the cheery fire puts forth,
I experience grateful feelings
Tow'rds those violets from the sod;
And, for all her gentle dealings,
Commend the giver to our God!

HELEN GREY. 'Midst Beauty's loveliest parterre, None could in face or form compare With peerless Helen Grey: Too pure, too bright for this vile earth, She scarcely seemed of human birth,

Or fram'd of mortal clay.

Her dovelike eyes so soft and bright,
Beam'd with a soul-enthralling light,
The winds enamoured played
Amongst the tresses of her hair,
That on a neck as ivory fair

In golden ringlets strayed.

O'er all her slaves that slender hand
Waved the light sceptre of command.
And when she silence broke,

It seemed that tones of music rare
Stole on the hushed and listening air,
Or that an angel spoke.
From suitors, wealthy, high-born, gay,
With wearied sense she turned away,
Owning no kindred flame.

Her heart untouched, her fancy free,
Until from lands beyond the sea

*

A youthful stranger came.

*

*

*

*

'Twas I who cast Guilt's withering spell
On one who lov'd me but too well-
Deserted and forlorn,

Not long the cruel slights she bore
Of those who envied her before-

The worldling's cutting scorn!
The curse sinks deeper in my brain;
The brand of the first murderer CAIN
Is blazoned on my brow!

That church-yard nook where wild-flow'rs wave,
Marking a turf'd and lowly grave,
Oh God! I see it now!

Remorse's barb'd and venom'd dart,
Clings to my sear'd and festering heart,
While deepens round the gloom.
Thus tortur'd longer shall I live?
The grave alone true peace can give-
Helen, I come! I come!

THOS. D'OYLY.

CHAP. III.

"There was a sadness in her face
That suited not her years;
And with her long and golden hair
She wiped away her tears."

MARY HOWITT.

Next door to the grammar-school conducted by the Rev. Henry Martin, M. A., resided a lady who kept a select seminary for young ladies. It would be an interesting study to ascertain how it is that academies and seminaries are always in close vicinity to each other. The playground of the grammar-school was large, and divided from the spot set apart for the lady-like recreation of Miss Pinchbeck's pupils by a high brick wall. Had it been a low paling, most probably Willy would never have thought of getting over it; but a brick wall, put up no doubt for the purpose of preventing communication between the young neighbours, rendered it highly desirable that he should see what was on the other side. So one summer morning, as he was amusing himself just before school began, he determined to do what none of Mr. Martin's pupils ever had done, or thought of doing-take a walk in Miss Pnchbeck's garden. By the aid of some evergreens he climbed the wall, and on looking over, saw, in a walk separated from the rest of the garden by a thick hedge of ilex, two of Miss P.'s pupils: one, a little girl of seven or eight years old, who stood with her hands behind her, repeating her lesson to an elder schoolfellow, a young lady of fourteen years. Fanny Bartlett was the orphan daughter of a poor clergyman, whom Miss Pinchbeck educated gratis, on consideration of her devoting nearly the whole of her time to the instruction of the juniors. They all loved Fanny, who was one of the gentlest creatures ever known upon the highway of the world, to be jostled and pushed, or cherished and valued, as the case may be.

Now, dear," said Fanny, kissing the little girl, who had evidently been crying very much, "what is the shape of the earth?".

Yes, I have," said Willy; "this side of the wall is ours; but I mean to do more yet, I am coming to have a walk round the garden with you. Little girls must not be impertinent."

Before she could say anything in deprecation, the boy dropped from the top of the wall, aided by a string of his schoolfellows' handkerchiefs knotted together, and tied at one end to a stout yew tree by the wall in his own playground. The younger girl, seeing Fanny was frightened, had run away to tell Miss Pinchbeck at the very commencement of the proceedings; while Fanny was imploring him to go away, unless he wanted to get her into trouble. Down came Miss Pinchbeck, just in time to hear her say earnestly, "Pray do now, if you have any feeling."

Feeling, indeed, Miss Bartlett! you shame. less girl, how dare you encourage rude boys to invade my premises. Not the first time, I dare say."

Fanny's blush was as indignant and sudden as the accusation was false and uncalled for. "Indeed, ma'am," remonstrated she; but was here interrupted by Miss Pinchbeck.

"Oh! no answers, Miss Bartlett, if you please; you will remain a prisoner in your own room a week; that is, in the intervals of your duties as junior teacher." (Fanny was the only teacher Miss Pinchbeck kept, excepting a Frenchwoman, who understood and taught nothing but her own language.)

"Am I not to take any lessons, ma'am?" said poor little Fanny, with tears in her tears.

"No, miss, not for a week. I little thought, when I took you from the arms of your father, you would become such a disgrace to me. And how would he grieve, Miss Bartlett, were he yet alive?-I say, how would your respectable and orthodox parent lament this dereliction from the paths of-of-but I will not waste any more time upon you; go in, and take the little drawing class, don't you hear the school-bell ring?" Then she turned to Willy, who had been silent in passion during this lecture: "As for you," she began—

"As for me," interrupted Willy, (Miss Pinchbeck had never been interrupted or contradicted for fifteen years,) as for me, I say I never saw such an old wretch of an ogress as you are. How could the poor girl help my getting over the wall?"

"Oh, it was an appointment, no doubt," said Miss Pinchbeck; "I'll have that ilex hedge cut down, although it will spoil the garden."

"There's more spite than sense in that; I tell you there was no appointment," said the boy angrily.

"Well, I doubt that, sir. Now if you please leave these premises instantly." Willy looked for the string of handkerchiefs by whose aid he had descended from the top of the wall; but his companions, who of course stood listening on the other side, had pulled it over, so there was no way of escape.

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Ah!" said Miss Pinchbeck, “ I know you must have had assistance in climbing the wall, and that minx helped you over it."

"She did not," shouted Willy; "I had a string of handkerchiefs, but the boys have pulled it over the wall again."

"A probable story, indeed," sneered the lady. "I see how it is; now come with me, and I will let you through the house; and mind, I shall call on Mr. Martin this morning."

Willy made a low bow in mock politeness, and said, "We shall be most happy to see you; I'll tell John to be sure and have luncheon ready by twelve o'clock precisely. I suppose you won't expect anything beyond a little cold meat and a tart or so."

"Go along," said the enraged Miss Pinchbeck, pushing him out at the door.

She did complain to Mr. Martin, and the result was that "Mr. Martin was pained to inform Dr. Campbell, he must relinquish the care of Mr. William's education at Midsummer."

she saw with alarm his increasing moodiness. The varied experiences of long married life had equalized Annie's temper, and the tears she and her husband had mingled over the grave of one innocent babe had solemnized and increased their love. Many conversations they held together about this time respecting Willy. His father thought that, being very sensitive, he was perhaps depressed by the gloomier part of his profession, and said a few months would "harden " him, and put all right. Annie feared that his temper was soured by the frequent reproofs his mischievous performances in his youth had called forth. Neither parent thought that love, that mightiest regenerator of our species, was affecting his heart and his spirits.

The night before Willy's first day at the hospital, he and his father sat together in the drawing-room. Frank and the rest were busy upstairs, and Annie was in the nursery, on the eve of an important discovery-baby's first tooth. Dr. Campbell and his son were strikingly alike; and therefore the contrast seemed the greater, between the fine middle-aged man, rather inclining to stoutness, and the pale young student.

As Willy supported his head on his hand, sitting between the lamp and his father, Dr. Campbell sighed to see how transparent were the delicate fingers. Willy was sitting in silence, looking at the table-cloth, as he very often did for an hour together.

"So to-morrow, William, you and I go together."

"Yes, father."

Willy went home. He soon regretted that he had been the means of getting this poor girl into trouble. Her gentle look of appeal to him, when Miss Pinchbeck accused her of encouraging him to come, had touched his pity. Her disappointment when she heard she was to take no lessons for a week, showed that she had an interest in learning as much as possible. It was clear, too, that she had no father. "I dare say she's to be a governess," said he to himself. very sorry that I got her into this trouble. That wrong-headed old woman would never believe us, even if I were to get my father to call and say it was all my fault." This, however, he succeeded in getting his father to do; and the only answer Miss Pinchbeck made was, that she " was sorry a gentleman of Dr. Campbell's great good sense should be so deceived by his own son." So Willy very shortly left school, and entered on his studies; his father was delighted with his progress, but not quite satisfied with his health. Willy had never been able to see Fanny again, nor, although he had inquired directly and indirectly many times, could he find out where she was gone. All he could learn was, that she had taken a situation somewhere as governess.

The remembrance of her helpless beauty was his perpetual meditation; and the thoughts that he had known her only to trouble her, and that she must dislike him, were the foundation of a constant regret. Frank, whose childlike gaiety and simplicity found the change quite incomprehensible, wondered to see, during two years, his brother become silent and "solid" as he called it. Willy seemed to shrink from being drawn into conversation about himself; even to his mother he refused his confidence, and

I hope I shall please you, father; but I almost hope I shall never live to succeed you." "My dear boy-”

"Well, I mean, unless my future life prove happier than the present."

"This is a subject your mother and I have long wished to speak to you about."

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Nevertheless," said the young man, respectfully but firmly, "it is one I cannot discuss. I have said inadvertently what I wish I could recall."

one else, some good in her. Fanny therefore spent another year in teaching the juniors, and in making use of every educational privilege for herself. She was a pretty, accomplished girl, with one of the most loving hearts in the world. She had a peculiar sweetness of temper and disposition, and a stock of patience, which rendered her eminently fit to be a governess.

Miss Pinchbeck had no difficulty in procuring her a situation as teacher of music, in which she excelled. So winning were her gentleness and docility, that the bent old music-master, usually so crabbed and snappish, wrote, unasked, the most flattering testimonial of her abilities. So she entered on her duties at Primrose Villa. She had, of course, to teach only little children; indeed Mrs. Vincent took no others. Mrs. Vincent was a very good woman, who was unfortunately as poor as she was good. Fanny shared a bedroom with seven little girls, one of whom was her own bedfellow. The little bedsteads all the same height, and decorated with white hangings quite alike, have ever a monotonous effect.

Fanny would have been grateful if to-night, the first night at Primrose Villa, she could have commanded a place in which to be alone; here were fourteen bright little eyes, some of which even a single sigh or sob might unclose. Fanny had left schoolfellows she loved; and Miss Pinchbeck, whom she tried to love, and who certainly deserved her gratitude for affording her a home and an education. She had left the only home she ever knew, for the first time in her life; and if she had been alone to-night, she would have relieved her desolation by (not a few) tears. She regretted she had been misunderstood in the Campbell affair; but beyond this, Willy certainly occupied none of her thoughts.

Fanny was too good-hearted to suppose that Miss Pinchbeck's charitable action was not the offspring of pure kindness. The fact was, that her protection of this little orphan (taken when she was only a year old, and when Miss P. had only three pupils) had made the protectress a reputation and a connexion. The motive was a mixed one that prompted to the good action, but Fanny gave the lady credit to the utmost extent for generosity and charity. Who can describe a year in which every day brings nearly the same occurrences-in which a journal of one week may serve as a specimen of the whole?

Here is one

Monday: geography and arithmetic; roast mutton; Miss Pilkins's mamma came to tea, and Miss Gardiner, the weekly boarder, came back.

Tuesday: globes and writing; boiled beef; Mrs. Wood came to fetch Miss Wood home to see her grandpapa from the country. Wednesday: history and chronology; boiled mutton; Miss Watson, the new pupil, came. Thursday: studies, and dinner like Monday's; very wet; no one called all day.

Friday: history and writing; dinner like Tuesday's; Miss Wood was brought back.

Saturday: weekly repetition, and meat pie; Miss Gardiner, the weekly boarder, went home. Sunday church three times; roast beef; nothing particular occurred, excepting that Fanny Bartlett was severely scolded for being stared at all church time by the youngest usher of the academy over the way.

This will do. Forty-two weeks (for this is about a school year) of this sort Fanny spent at Primrose Villa. Just before the Midsummer holidays, the return of the season at which she had come to Mrs. Vincent, Fanny sat in the music-room (the music was a daily infliction) teaching some of her pupils. It was an underground room, so damp that the paper had in many places peeled off the walls. There were small paved cells outside the sunken windows; and here, rejoicing in the green mould engendered by the damp among the stones, not unfrequently were seen frogs and slugs. Fanny sat fourteen hours a day in this wretched place, to which any of the new prisons, with the luxuries of light, cleanliness, and dryness, would be a palace. The yellow slugs and black-beetles that crawled over the floor were decidedly objec tionable to Fanny, who had no turn for natural history. (In parenthesis we will remark, that if there be two things from which our timidity especially recoils, they are school pianos, and the neighbourhood of Smithfield on market day.) Fanny was superintending the jingling of some seventy-eight loose wires, one morning just before Midsummer. She felt a strange pain in her limbs, and a heavy languor, which not even an obtuse pupil could remove.

"Oh dear, Miss Jane," said poor Fanny, "1 think I have told you fifty times this half-year that the head of a crotchet rest turns to the right, and now you tell me this is a quaver rest. You know your mamma expects so much from you in music; if she should question you at all, I am sure I cannot tell what she will think of your teacher."

"Oh my dear Miss Bartlett," said the kindhearted little girl, "I will tell mamma you take so much pains with me, and that I am stupid. Indeed I try to learn, but somehow I forget. I wish you were going to spend the holidays at our house, then you could show mamma how much trouble you take-oh, I am sure she will not blame you. Do go home into Devonshire with me, dear Miss Fanny: we should soon give you a colour. Tom has the sweetest little black pony you ever saw; oh! I love pony-riding much better than wearing out my brains at this stupid music!"

Hush, dear, the music is not stupid; now do try very much, and remember what I tell you to-day, for you know school breaks day after to-morrow."

up

the

School broke up the next day, as far as regarded Fanny. She became very ill; and Mrs. Vincent could not afford to pay a medical attendant for her. It may well be supposed that out of fifteen pounds a-year our little Fanny had no hoard; the consequence was, that she was sent in a fly to the hospital.

Fanny was to have spent the vacation at Miss Pinchbeck's, to mend up her clothes, and keep house, while Miss P. went to Paris; for " Martin's boys were all at home, and Miss Pinchbeck said, Fanny could do no great mischief if she had plenty to do.

The youngest usher, who had anticipated his quarterly stipend to purchase a handsome bouquet for Fanny on "going-home day," (the academy broke up a day later,) watched for her attentively all the day, when he ought to have been examining arithmetic books, for his desk stood conveniently in a window that overlooked the road. He could not obtain a sight of her, and the poor fellow threw away the flowers in despair, when he heard that the fly that came yesterday to Mrs. Vincent's took the little music-teacher away with a fever, nobody knew where.

Mrs. Vincent sent Miss Pinchbeck a note, to say that Fanny was ill. But her mind was fixed on Paris; and beside, fever might contaminate the house. (She did not remember it was rheumatic.) All her plans were made; she meant to make economy the handmaid of pleasure; to discharge her servants, and get some honest person to keep house and mend her clothes while she was gone. The trip saved money in more ways than one. As provisions were dear, and as Miss P. said, every one makes a difference," she saved twenty pounds a-year by this voyage, beside the board of the resident Parisienne; for when she returned from her three weeks' tour, she herself taught French, acquired on the continent." Clever woman, Miss Pinchbeck! She was no "Idler in France," for she scampered through Paris in twenty-one days, and “acquired" the language into the bargain.

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Alas! here is our sweet Fanny, with a sensitive heart, lying ill, with no mother, sister, or aunt to nurse her, uncared for by any one who can help her just at present. She looks as pale and pretty as a girl can look, but she is a stranger among strangers. All that is known about her by the ninety sharers of the ward is, that "No. 17" is full again. Here comes one of the physicians, bringing seven or eight noisy merry students, who, stamping in their heavy creaking boots, have about as much mercy on the ears of the nervous patients, as a blacksmith on the iron he hammers. Here they come, clustering round the bed like bees; joking and laughing as if "all the ills that flesh is heir to " were matters of gratulation, as affording them the prospect of a livelihood. The physician counts his patient's pulse; but how this day ended must afford a commencement for

CHAP. V.

"Two tapers thus, with pure converging rays,
In momentary flash their beams unite,
Shedding but one inseparable blaze
Of blended radiance and effulgence bright,
Self-lost in mutual intermingling light."
MRS. TIGHE'S Psyche.

The morning after the conversation with which ends our third chapter, William went with his father to the hospital. In going the round of the wards, Dr. Campbell stopped his pupils (there were seven or eight, beside his son) at one of the beds, saying, "Here is a new patient." The young men scrambled for the nearest places, and Willy did not see the sufferer. Dr. Campbell's first question called forth an answer in a voice that thrilled through his heart, and almost stifled him by the emotion it produced. It was Fanny! He felt that he could not trust himself to look at her, or to speak just then; so hastily leaving the ward, he returned home, leaving a note for his father, to say he was suddenly indisposed.

He reached home; and hiding his face near that maternal heart in which as first-born he held the supreme place, told the history of the last two weary years. The tender mother wept with and for him. He dared scarcely hope that his father would consent to his marriage with a girl so poor as Fanny evidently was, by being in an hospital. Dr. Campbell might command, no doubt, very good marriages for his children.

His mother promised her intercession if Fanny were found irreproachable in every respect. “I am safe, then," said William, proudly, "if excellence of character will gain my father's consent." He had nursed in his heart for two years a beauideal of woman under the name of Fanny; so that, although he really knew nothing of her, he thought her all his "fancy painted her," and that was assuredly both "lovely" and "divine.”

"You must remember you are only children yet, you are only seventeen, you will have to wait."

"Wait! oh yes, I can wait seven years, if I may see her and speak to her; for you know even if my father approve, I do not think she cares about me yet. But I don't like her to be in an hospital."

He heard his father's step just then, and rushed up stairs to his own room.

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Well, Annie," said the doctor, "how is William? What is the matter with him?"

"An affection of the heart, I believe, dear," said Annie, laughing; she added, "but really it is no laughing matter; he has been in love these two years, and has to-day found the poor girl, whom he never saw but once before, (and that when he climbed into Miss Pinchbeck's gardenyou remember that,) ill in the hospital.”

"Indeed! it is no doubt my new patient, at whose side we stopped first this morning; a sweetly pretty creature. She has the seeds of a