'He does. He is fond of you. You are his favorite.'

'Am I Graham's favorite?'

'Yes, more than any little child I know.' The assurance soothed her; she smiled in her anguish. I put her to bed. The candle being extinguished, a still half-hour elapsed. I thought her asleep, when the little white shape once more lifted itself in the crib, and the small voice asked

'Do you like Graham, Miss Snowe?'

'Like him! Yes, a little.'

Child, lie down and sleep,' I urged.

"

'My bed is cold, said she. 'I can't warm it.' (I saw the little thing shiver.)

'Come to me,' I said, wishing, yet scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange, capricious little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She came, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I took her in. She was chill; I warmed her in my arms. She trembled nervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillised and cherished, she at last slumbered.

'A very unique child!' thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance by the fitful moonlight.

Thus ends this affecting little narrative; and it reminds us that we have got to bring our own to a conclusion.

The scene of our early love was laid in Brighton. The young lady was on a visit branches of her family, and they all joined us to the sea-coast with her papa and other in our walks-for be it known the young ladies had gone to school with certain friends of ours, and an intimacy naturally

followed.

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Two families had sought the sea-side; and visiting was a matter of course. Roving on the sands of Worthing is pleasant-very; and taking little walks and strolls in the bracing air is delightful-very. The ringing laugh of Caroline S- still haunts us, like a had taken more than two of these walks. pleasing vision. We fell before it, ere we We fell sick too-and pined!

One day, in a state of fever, we were heard to utter, imploringly and affectionately, "Dear-est Caroline S-!" This led the doctor to smell a rat. Within four days subsequently, Carry's papa himself placed us in his daughter's arms. How long we nestled there we know not, but we remember being supremely happy. Immediate change of air and scene was of course considered for US. necessary The vision vanished but too soon, and the poetry of early life merged at once into the commonplace prose of conventional usages and proprieties.

"A PALPABLE HIT”

AT

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

THE following "skit" upon Westminster Abbey is from Matthew WARD's "English Items," a book full of "hits" at the people of England-not over and above goodnaturedly bestowed, but many of them fully

merited.

We all know how visitors are fleeced at St. Paul's--perhaps, too, our knowledge extends to the same extortions practised at the Abbey. Yet is it amusing to hear what our American author says of us. We have thrown many stones at his country; it is only fair to receive his fire at us.

A SCENE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

The

The accumulated expectations pent up since his boyhood become oppressive by delay, and the visitor grows warm and fidgety in his anxiety to be admitted to the holier places of the church. This intensely vivified excitement never becomes dangerous however, as, by a charitably considerate arrangement of the English Government, it is always allowed ample time to cool. numerous gentlemen in black, whom the Government compels the old church to pay for so shabbily doing its honors, being of sedentary habits and a literary turn of mind, are unwilling to be interrupted to convey a single visitor through the interior chapels. It requires a party of seven curious individuals, each one provided with a talisman in the shape of a sixpence, to interrupt the comfortable repose of a pompous official. And as most people have ceased to consider a show, composed of mouldy monuments and tattered flags, a very lively one, even when it happens to be a great bargain, a stranger will usually incur the risk of remaining some time in the ante

chamber.

During the painful period of his probation, he is subjected to the impositions of another class of hucksters. Watching with the liveliest interest the various stages of his impatience, they rapidly advance upon him from every nook and corner the instant they perceive him arrived at the extreme point of desperation. With unblushing assurance, they poke at the bewildered gentle man descriptions of the Abbey, plans of the building, pictures of the monuments, and armfuls of other plausible stuff, which they feel very confident he has not the courage in his exhausted condition to refuse. Of course he buys everything without much examining the contents; for in his melancholy frame of mind, the advertisements of the Times a week old would prove a refreshing literary treat.

At length, however, the mystical number of seven is made up. The stately keeper slowly rises, unlocks the door, passes us in one by one-that being the most convenient mode of collecting the sixpences; enters himself, and then turns the key. An extraordinary metamorphosis instantly occurs. Our guide assumes an alacrity quite startling, when contrasted with his former torpidity. The man appears to be worked by steam. In his mumbled routine of names, dates, and non

WHAT PASSES IN the course of twentyfour hours within the precincts of London, would, if known and reflected on, cause millions to marvel, thousands to sigh, and hundreds to weep.

Much human sorrow is there amongst us, carefully veiled from sight by timidity and a sense of shame. The deserving mix among the undeserving, the latter getting fat on their apparent misfortunes; whilst the former die from sheer starvation, being unable to "sham " sorrow, or ask for aid from the passer-by. How many a wan and eloquentlyspeaking countenance meets our eye daily; telling us more than we dare to inquire into, knowing our inability to play the part of a Good Samaritan. With a bleeding heart we often deplore the little discernment there is amongst those who are well off, and the apathy with which they turn aside from the stricken heart, fast falling into the grave for the want of only the common necessaries of life. On this subject, our pen would run riot; but we know how impossible it is to work on hearts of iron and brass, and therefore study brevity.

The subjoined paper is slightly abridged from an article in "Bentley's Miscellany." We let the humane writer speak in our stead; cordially echoing his sentiments, and hoping that his labor may not be altogether in vain :

A poor man falls down in a fit, or the weakness of hunger overpowers him; he sinks against the wall of some splendid mansion; his features are compressed, his brow clammy cold, his lips livid; you saw him sink, not fall upon the ground with a squash, as the professional gentlemen, with artificial blood in their noses, do the trick; it is a clear case of famine, and no mistake. Now is your time to see what human nature is made of. The master of the house, or the lady, comes to the

window, and instantly retreats; a powdered footman appears at the door, and looks up and down the street for a policeman to remove the nuisance. Several well-dressed passengers look at the poor man, and pass on the other side; ladies, as they go by him, fumble a little in their pockets-as if they meant to give something; but think better of it. An elderly gentleman, with drab gaiters and silk umbrella, pretends to feel the patient's pulse, shakes his head solemnly, and walks off, satisfied that he has detected an impostor. A housemaid of the mansion, touched with tender pity, hands up through the area rails a glass of water.

Now troop by the poor lost creature a group of working men, in fustian jackets, going to their dinners, whistling and gossiping as they go. They halt and surround the unfortunate man; they lift him, and put him in a more easy posture. One runs to the public-house, bringing some ale, warm, with ginger; they speak kindly to him, bidding him keep up his heart; they ask him-question to bring tears into dry eyes-where is his home? He looks up piteously, and whispers he has no home. He has not where to lay his head!

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"Now then," says one of the fustian jackets, taking off his hat, and shoving it into the encircling mob, the poor devil's hard up, hasn't got no home, nor no victuals; drop a few browns to pay for a cab, you'll never miss it."

The appeal is heard, curiosity is shamed into benevolence; the Samaritans in fustian call a cab, and the homeless man is driven to try the hospitality of Mary-le-bone workhouse.

I think I hear a respectable gentleman, in an easy chair, with an easy income, and easy shoes,

excl im :

"Mister Author, this is very fine, but I have no doubt, for my own part, the fellow was a humbug the scoundrel was acting."

"Was he though! All I can tell you is, my good fellow, if he was acting, you never missed such a chance in the course of your theatrical life; you have paid seven shillings to the dress circle many a time and oft, for a much worse per formance, and here was a little bit of tragedy, without scenery, machinery, dresses, or decorations, you might have seen for sixpence, and been six and sixpence better for it."

I have seen these tragedies more than twiceeverybody has seen them who knows London: Gilbert White saw them when he said:

I shall sink, As sinks a stranger in the busy streets Of crowded London; some short bustle's caused, A few inquiries, and the crowd close in, And all's forgotten.

I do not deny that impostors are common. I know that they are clever, and are with difficulty to be discriminated from those real heart-rending cases of distress that London almost daily exhibits to our view. No punishment is great enough for these scoundrels; not that the offence is so great in itself, but because it adds and ministers to that covetousness, that bardness of heart, which furnishes us with an excuse, which we are all too ready to make, of not giving once, lest we might once be deceived.

To a man living on the shady side of life, whose poverty compels him to walk with his own feet,

hear with his own ears, and see with his own eyes, the contrasted conditions of London Life, afford much matter for painful contemplation. These contrasts are striking and forcible; they run the whole gamut of the social scale, from the highest treble to the deepest bass. They exhibit human life in every color, from hues of the rainbow to the deepest shadows and most unchequered glooms; and all this in a day's walk-in the space of a few palmy acres. Next door to luxury and profusion, you have hunger and despair-the rage of unsatisfied hunger, and the lust of desires that no luxury can quench.

I have scen little children, fat enough for the spit, wrapped in woolpacks of fleecy hosiery, seated in their little carriages, drawn by goats, careering over the sward of Hyde Park; and at the same moment, crawling from the hollow trunks of old trees, where they had found refuge for the night, other children, their nakedness hardly concealed by a few greasy rags flapping against the mottled limbs of the creatures, heirs of shame and sorrow, and heritors of misery and its necessary crime. I have seen a poor family, ragged and hungry-the children running after an ugly pugdog, with a velvet jacket on, who was taking the air, led by an attendant footman with goldheaded staff. I have seen an old woman of eighty, painted, periwigged, bejewelled, and brocaded, taking an airing in a gorgeous coach, three footmen hanging on behind, her ladyship's companion, a cynical-faced pug, probably the only friend she had in the world; and I have seen another old woman of eighty-any of the Wapping Old Stairs watermen will remember Mary Mudlark-up to her mid-leg in the Thames, raking and scraping the mud and water, for rags, bits of stick, gingerbeer bottles, scraps of iron, or whatever she could recover from the waters, by which she might earn a few pence to keep her from starving.

But it is painful to multiply these painful contrasts of condition, which every day's walk exhibits. One only conclusion can we draw from these spectacles--namely, how far removed is man by the "accident" of fortune from his fellow-man; how utterly abandoned, even in the centre of civilisation, outlawed from human aid, protection, sympathy, so soon as he ceases to have certain tokens of humanity in silver, gold, paper, or brass about his person.

THE GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE.

Lo! a fond mother with her children round,
Her soft soul melting with maternal love.
This on the cheek she kisses; that she clasps
Unto her bosom; on her knee one rests,
Another sits upon her foot; and while
Their actions, lips, and speaking eyes unfold
Their various wishes, all she understands;
To these she gives a look, a word to those,
Smiling or chiding, still in tender love.

Such unto us is blissful Providence,
So o'er us watches, comforts, and provides;
Listening to all, assisting every one,
Withholding oft the favors we implore
But to create more earnest supplication-
And, while it seems a blessing to deny,
In the refusal grants us-HAPPINESS.

A PLEA FOR THE SKY-LARK.

SKY-LARKS IN CAGES.

WE FEEL MORE THAN JUSTIFIED, CALLED UPON, to plead hard for the Sky-lark at this season. Till within the last week, or so, thousands of fresh victims have been caught by the villainous trappers, and caged. Mated, and affectionately employed in building nests for their expected young, they have after a long season of cold and misery just begun to enjoy themselves, when a net closing over them has suddenly separated them for ever from all they hold dear in the world.

To imagine that these birds will sing, or that they can be "happy," would be ridiculous. Birds are not such fools-neither are their tender hearts made of such materials as ours. Whilst ours bend, theirs break.

We are moved to pity, not unmingled with detestation, to see certain birds day by day hung out of windows to make them "sing "the sun scorching their heads, and the wind sweeping through their cages in fitful gusts. Oh! the agony endured by those heralds of the sky, as they listen to the distant voices of their free brethren, mounting up to Heaven's gate! Yet do their tenderhearted owners see no harm in confining them. "They are used to it !"

We are quite aware that all WE can say will avail nothing. Birds alas! are a doomed race. WE are made happy by their sufferings! To show that we are not singular in this idea, we subjoin the remarks of a brother naturalist (Broderip), who thus forcibly speaks his mind :

Of all the unhallowed instances of bird incarceration (not excepting the stupid cruelty of shutting up a robin in an aviary), the condemnation of the skylark to perpetual imprisonment is surely the most repugnant to every good feeling. The bird, whilst his happy brethren are carolling far up in the sky, as if they would storm Heaven itself with their rush of song, just at the joyous

season

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear, is doomed to pine in some dingy street!

There, in a den with a solid wooden roof, painted green outside, and white-glaring white within, which in bitter mockery is called a skylark's cage, he keeps moving his wretched wings, and beating his wings against the wires, panting for one-only one-upward flight into the free air. To delude him into the recollection that there are such places as the fields, which he is beginning to forget, they cut what they call a turf-a turf dried up in the vicinity of this smoke-canopied Babel of bricks, redolent of all its sooty abominations. This abominable lump of dirt is presented to the skylark as a refreshment for his parched feet, longing for the fresh morning dews.

Miserable as the winged creature is, he feels that there is something resembling grass under

him; and then the fond wretch looks upwards and warbles, and expects his mate! Is it possible to

see and hear this desecration of instinct unmoved? And yet we endure it every spring; and, moreover, we have our Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals!

NOTES ON THE WHITE SHARK.

IN EARLY CHILDHOOD, we often associate curious ideas with that monster of the deep, the shark; and if we turn our memory back to days when cork floats and shot-bound lines formed the symbols of our childish Paradise, our budding intellects would then startle at the least nibble, and draw thoughts to the nursery-book wherein was depicted that scourge of the ocean-the decimating shark.

But when the form of manhood is full on, those childish pleasures-exciting our simple imaginations to indulge in horrible visionssoon vanish; the fly rod is exchanged for the tough ash stick, and we feel ourselves, after a season or two's practice, more lords over the finny tribe than any statesman could wish to be: for the art is gentle.

But to our purpose. The matter with which I am at present engaged, relates not to the rural sports of Britain, and savors little of any claim in an act connected with the government of this country. Small scope there would be for litigation in my subject, even if there were any "Fishery Laws" in vogue for the protection of sharks; my only wish is that the shark may not form an overpowering attachment to the cod and other fish of our coasts.

Our interest must now be concerned with

the deep sea waters, whose denizens in many parts are little known, and whose habits must be very curious to those who can witness them. On our coasts the White Shark (Squalus carcharius) is seldom met with, especially when full grown. It possibly follows shoals of fish during their migrations through the St. George's Channel, Irish Sea, German Ocean, and English Channel; but it appears to know the value of deep waters, and instinct warns it to give a wide berth to strangers, for the creature only affords a random chance to be noticed by Naturalists. Dame Nature, it would seem, teaches it to keep well out to sea, and enables it to say good-bye to the stuffing fraternity, commonly styled in these "fast days of knowledge "Taxidermists."

might have gratified the taste of a Buffon, It does not follow that subjects which would be by any means acceptable to the man who labors for his daily rations; especially to men of a maritime class, in which are hardships innumerable, and accidents too common. The lover of shark knowledge would often glory in a capture which involves