knee. Oh! how blest that mother, that she never lived to witness such a fearful change. Mrs. Grainger felt that her days were nearly run, and yet her task was not accomplished. Feeble as she was, she seldom went beyond the farm, and never met Horace Leigh. Once only he had passed her, turned, and given a slight recognition; she saw that every muscle in his face was quivering with emotion, as he spurred his horse quickly forward, and disappeared. It was in the winter-time-ten years from Ruth's death-that Mrs. Grainger heard that Horace was ill. She resolved to go to him, fearless of his anger; he could not be violent to Ruth's mother, she thought; she might do him good; and perhaps sickness would soften his heart, and dispose him to forget the past, and be reconciled to Stephen. The widow entered with a trembling heart the threshold which she had not crossed for years. Bitter memories rose up; and from every dark nook and corner three happy children's faces seemed to gleam out, smiling at her. Where were they all now? Horace Leigh was lying asleep on an oldfashioned couch, in a room that had once been his mother's. Repose, and the calming influence of illness, had given to his now harsh and strongly-marked features somewhat of their olden look; at least the aged widow thought so, as she stood beside him, and her tears fell fast upon his once abundant and glossy hair, now so thin, and marked with grey. She waited until he awoke, and seeing her, started up, crying out "Who are you-why have you come hither?" "It is only I, Horace-I heard you were ill, and thought you would not be angry if I came to see you." "I have been ill-but that does not signify; I wanted no one-you least of all.” "But why should I not come? You know I always loved you, Horace." And the widow gently took his hand, and looked at him as she had done in his boyhood, until the iron heart was melted. Horace sank back, and covered his face with his hands. By what means Mrs. Grainger succeeded in lulling his anger, and charming away even the agony that her presence must naturally have brought, it is needless to say. She was one of those ministering angels who work by unseen but all-powerful means; only living to do good. At last Horace bore her visits with calmness, almost with pleasure; he suffered her to do with him as she chose; and by degrees even endured to hear her speak of Stephen; but no arguments, no entreaties, could soften his inexorable hatred, or induce him to see or pardon his brother. "You never injured me," he would say ; "I was wrong to feel anger against you. I am sorry if I have caused you pain; but no power on earth shall ever make me forgive him." The widow dared not say that if forgiveness were needed, it was equally on Stephen's side. Oftentimes her heart failed her; and at last her anxiety, and her frequent journeyings to visit Horace for he never would come to herproved too much for her aged frame. Mrs. Grainger was laid on a sick bed, from which she knew she would never rise. When she felt her strength failing her, the widow sent a message to Horace Leigh. "Tell him," she said, "that he will see me no more unless he comes, and quickly too; and that Ruth's mother cannot die in peace without speaking to him again." There was a long struggle between Horace's pride and anger, and his long-smothered but still sincere love for one who had been as a mother to him. At last his better angel conquered, and Horace came. He had feared to see his brother, but Stephen was not there; Mrs. Grainger had sent him away, lest his presence might even then rouse the evil spirit in Horace's heart. He saw nothing but the place where he had been once so happy, and the dying mother of Ruth. "Thank you, Horace," she said feebly, stretching out her hand; "this is good of you." Horace clasped that withered hand-he was too deeply moved to speak. "I wanted to say something to you," she continued; "will you not do one kindness towards me ?--I shall never ask more." "Anything-anything-but one," cried Ho race. "Do not ask me to speak to Stephen." The widow half raised herself from her pillow, and looked full at him. "Horace Leigh," she said slowly and solemnly, "I took you and your brother from the arms of your dead mother-the mother of both. I filled her place as far as another could do toward you. It was my child you both lovedwhich caused such deadly enmity between you. Do you think that my gentle Ruth would welcome her mother in heaven, if I have to tell her that the two she loved best here, one as a betrothed husband, and one as a brother-for as such she did indeed love you, Horace-that they were living in hatred towards one another on her account?" The widow stopped from exhaustion; Horace had fallen on his knees before her; his head was bowed upon his clasped hands, but he made no answer. Mrs. Grainger laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Horace, my dear Horace, listen to the mother of the girl you loved; let me tell Ruth, that for her sake you gave up your anger." "But he hates me too; and I will not ask forgiveness, I will not be the first to yield," muttered Horace. There was a movement of the half-open door, and Stephen entered; but Horace did not see him until he felt his hand taken softly, and heard his brother say in low tones, with eyes full of tears "I do not hate you, Horace; I will be the first to say, Brother, forgive me--let us be friends!'" "My children, my children forgive one another," said the dying woman faintly. They were her last words. Hand-in-hand, the reconciled brothers knelt beside the couch of Ruth's mother, and watched her during the long hours of night, which she passed in unconscious lethargy, until the spirit fled on the wings of sunrise. Horace and Stephen Leigh followed the remains of the aged widow to the grave, and saw her laid beside Ruth in the church-yard on the hill-side. Then they returned home-to a home which was henceforth to be the same for both brothers. They never spoke of the past, but lived together as though it had never been. They were not rivals now, for they knew that "death sanctifieth all things," and that in heaven “there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage." Under the willow-tree was placed a stone, with Ruth's name and age, and that of her mother. Below the latter was engraved this line from the Holy Book Now I think that a church-yard wakes each solemn Which dwells in the heart, or at least that it ought; With its smiles and its smirks ; With things mournful and dread, To the merrier part. This just was the case that soft summer night, I sat down to rest on an old tomb-stone, "Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be The legend it bore, which thus began:- new); But it also was hinted that bacon, or pin, So doubtless each customer's taste they could please, So peaceful and happy the life that was led "Since only the good people here seem to lie, "In memory of a darling wife, This stone is raised by him who now, Also in memory of"-was underneath; The village poesy, Though I supposed it then Turned to that "best of men" Himself, who doubtless followed to the grave That at the head, Where was recounted this sad tale, Mine was a kind of waking dream, Which I could plainly trace, That there might grow, Bade me, in voice though low yet clear, And soon he made his visits 'few and far between,' And, oh! the next time that he came, I did not know him for the same. Sables were doffed; he smiled and looked so gay- grown "In memory of dear Jane, A LOVER'S PERVERSITY. BY MRS. ABDY. Why dost thou blame her? why deplore No force can bind, no spell restrain I know her false, I know her vain, Why name her errors? none to me The icy scorn by which she tried Trust me, I seek not to defend The false one from thy blame; Yet could a thousand tongues, my friend, And Echo, ere the accents die, TO THE LAURESTINUS. BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMAN. Pride of the garden! when the Winter's snow To free each leaflet from its frozen pall When, one by one, have slowly disappear'd The varied flowers, whose blossoms shed a joy Pale, blooming Evergreen! thy virgin white Thou, too, who, when the Spring doth don her robe, Dost dwindle, like the song of wood-birds wild, Yet, when the snows, returning, fill the air With icy whisperings, and crisp the plain With snowy garment, still, sweet Laurel, there Thou blossomest in beauty once again! Thou art the truest emblem of that Thing, The Genius of Man, whose wondrous birth, Though the shoots fade, with happier times doth bring Fresh forms of beauteousness to gladden Earth! "All hail to the new-born year! To the child of hope and fear! And he opens his robe to receive us all, "Hope! spread thy soaring wings! Look forth on the boundless sea, "Build palaces broad as the sky, And store them with treasures of light; "We are gliding fast from the buried year, And the present is no more; But Hope, we will borrow thy sparkling gear, The gate of the year!-the birth-morn of them again. They sleep; our eyes will soon another round of months has dawned, and glad-grow heavy likewise! ness reigns around us far and wide-music, and mirth, and jubilation. From how many lips pass those gentle words, "A happy New Year!" Some in accustomed careless courtesy, and some in hollow mockery; but more, far more, we trust, in all true brotherly human kindness. will Never do twelve months pass by without strange mutations chancing in the district where we reside, and in the circle of our acquaintance. There is no rest in our present stage-no pause. Nothing is certain to the earthly, save death. So the world moves on, generation succeeding generation; all toiling, some despairing, some hoping, yet all departing into the veiled Future! A year has gone, and during it many have left us, to return no more, bequeathing, nevertheless, memories, and a warning of our own departure. Let us, whilst we cherish the first, never forget the second; but, according a natural sorrow to the dead, prepare shortly to meet * These pleasant papers reached us too late by many days for us to insert the first in its proper place. Our only expedient seems to be to print two together.-ED. N. M. B. A, "We How much there is to make us pause in heart examination in this same first day of January! How much, while the heedless are wrapped up in glee, to bid us wonder and weep at the world's deeds and our own, meditating sorrowfully till we make resolutions, bravely thinking to keep them, and saying softly to ourselves, truly have this hour numbered another year of mortal life, and Time yet goes on, without voice or sound, a silent but imperious ruler. We may not stay his pinions by our prayers, nor impede his progress by our tears: on, on he hurries us into the illimitable Future. We look back upon the Past, and it is a span's breadth; and forwards, and we are overwhelmed by immensity-the immensity of Eternity, without beginning or end, where years cannot be counted, nor centuries, nor cycles. The human mind, burthened by its earthly companion, shrinks back, unable to contemplate stedfastly a vastness-an infinity-in which, nevertheless, itself must inevitably partake: then are many appalledvoices of demons whispering, "Put these things away from your hearts, for verily they are yet afar off!" So angels weep because men will not be wise. ever-changing light and shade; while the sun glints on them through wreathing mists that curl around the higher summits in fantastic shapes-a never-resting sea of cloud; now swelling up like ocean's troubled billows; anon spreading out as calm, and we might also fancy as lucid, as a waveless lake! Dark is thy birth-time, Onew-born year! heavy | the dark brown hills and half green valleys, in are the clouds that curtain thy wintry cradle! And yet in these our northern regions, cold though they be, when we hear from age-stained church-towers the old bells ring out in the still midnight to welcome thee, as they did thy predecessors centuries ago, at first low and sweet, with silvery tones like the fairy bells of a summer's eve, when "the moon sleeps with Endymion," then all at once swelling into a loud triumphant peal, as for a nation's highest jubilee-sorrow after a season imperceptibly melts away, and January's first murky morn becomes as blithe as the dewy repose of June's twilight. Perchance the clouds roll gently away at intervals, until they rest only on the distant horizon, leaving our neighbour mountains depicted in stern majesty against the intensely blue arch of heaven, whence the stars, twinkling like spiritual eyes that may not show forth all their lustre, look down in lovely, yet awe-inspiring splendour. Can we behold those perpetual watchers, whose circuit has not intermitted since Creation was called from Chaos, shining with the same surpassing brilliancy that rivetted the gaze of patriarchs, when earth was young, without feeling a sense-subduing emotion come over us, and kneeling entranced in spirit, hearing as it were their mysterious music as they move in unvarying courses? Nor is night only fair. Often by day how beautiful appear Oh, there is ever splendour perceptible in this visible creation-an harmonious loveliness, born of all things Deity has made. The proudest and the meanest unite together-the rugged and the delicate combine in forming the magnificent whole; whilst MAN, its Lord, too often disregards the mind-treasures it offers to his grasp; so their precious influences ascend in vain, and he, foolishly ungrateful, goes on his way, troubled at heart, yet not knowing why he is dispirited. But not so all. Some gentler ones there are, who seek to gather to themselves riches worldlings never comprehend, and reading with attentive eyes the book of Nature, obtain an inward, an imperishable joy, owning in His munificent gifts their great Creator. In this happy band, kind reader ours, we trust that you are numbered; then will you find gladness alike when Winter reigns, and when the Springbirds sing, and, patiently awaiting May's merry hours, endure with cheerfulness the dark skies and cutting blasts of JANUARY. No. II. FEBRUARY. "The night was Winter in his roughest mood; CowPER.-The Task, book vi. A song in the early month! Sing ye it merrily! A song for the young and fair, A cheerful lay for the long-wish'd day And many a maiden's heart will bound Although February is a cold, bleak, and often stormy month, symptoms of approaching spring begin to develop themselves-faint foreshadowings of the beauty about to descend on earth. Already the sleeping Titan moves, not yet fully awakened, but needing only the first touch of vernal messengers to arise in renovated majesty already a few glad-hearted birds resume their cheerful songs, warbling as if their happiness might never keep silence, and delighted to bask in a brief mid-day sunshine-even when the white frost-rime has hardly melted from immense tree-boughs and long ghost-like windlestraws. Blessings on the sweet melody that re minds us of Summer's enthusiastic musical loveliness, inducing dreams of blue skies and |