in the vicinity chimed "a quarter past," and at half-past we were to have met another professional man at Somerset House. I could not, nevertheless, give up the idea "I WON'T BE A MINUTE!" "I WON'T be a minute!" is the excuse to others, and often to ourselves, for turn-of seeing Mr. Law, knowing what had ing aside from the pursuit of some impor- been done, without an effort; so I knocked tant plan, to gratify a petty curiosity, or at the door of the adjoining rooms. "Mr. other equally worthless feeling. Law is likely to be found at the registrar's office," said the inmate; so thither I hurried. I had some trouble in finding the place; and when I had done so, I learned from the porter that Mr. Law and a friend had been there, but had gone away-whither, no one knew. The clock chimed halfpast, and I was more than five minutes' walk from Somerset House. I resolved to take a cab, but not one could be had, so hurriedly walking away, I rushed to endeavour to keep my second appointment. I had promised J. B-, on Thursday, to meet him at several places in London, on points of business of great consequence to me, upon which depended the issue of certain legal proceedings pending between us. I breakfasted with him in the morning, at his house at Greenwich, and we came up to the City together. Everything promised well for a settlement satisfactory to me, till my unlucky disregard of the value of "just one minute," destroyed all the plans which had taken time, and labour, and money, to bring into such a promising position. "Twenty-three minutes to one!" said my watch, as, almost breathless, I sprang up the stairs at Somerset House. The official informed me with coolness that J. B— had been waiting several minutes for me, and that, as I had not kept the other engagement, he had concluded that I had no objection to the law-suit proceeding—and so had left just in time to catch one of the Greenwich steam-boats at Hungerford pier. "Cab "I won't be a minute," said I, turning aside from my companion, and stopping at a shop window to admire some prints. They were beautiful-and I could soon overtake J. B-, so in I went to inquire the prices. The shopman was obliging, and I was delighted; and thus two minutes fled. With a hurried step I re-entered the street, under the impression that a quickened pace would presently bring me to my companion's side. An accident, however, had happened in the crowded thoroughfare, and five minutes more elapsed before I could get a fair start to overtake my friend; and then, in walking quicker than the mass, I found that I was not only impeded by the passengers 1 met, but, moreover, by those whom I overtook. "Five minutes to twelve!" said my watch. At twelve we had agreed to meet a legal gentleman of noted punctuality at his chambers in Chancery Lane, but I was only yet in Cheapside. At the crossing near St. Paul's, the tide of carriages, cabs," our boats leave here every quarter of an and omnibuses, rendered it impossible for hour, and the last has been gone just one me to get on without considerable delay, minute!" and the clock reminded me that the time for our appointment was already passed before I entered Ludgate Hill. "Ten minutes past twelve!" said my watch, when, annoyed and heated, I tapped at the door of Mr. Law's chambers. Rap, rap, rap. No answer. J. B- must have called, transacted his business, and gone. Rap, rap, rap! No answer still. A clock "Sixteen minutes to one!" said my watch. I rushed into the Strand. man, drive me with all haste to Hungerford pier," said I, jumping into the vehicle, and smashing my hat against the top. Away we went, as fast as the lean horse could carry us. "Every moment is of importance," I shouted through the window to the driver, who lashed his poor beast to a gallop. "Fourteen minutes to one!" said my watch; as I rushed on to the pier. Just too late, sir," said the money-taker, I missed J. B-, who refused afterwards to enter into any negociations for the settlement of our dispute: the law-suit went on, and I had to pay damages and costs. The moral is plain:-Never allow any good opportunity to pass, or it may chance that insuperable difficulties will prevent its ever being overtaken. OLD AGE. UNDER an old shed, on a flower-stand, Grass was beneath his feet, and at his side A garden full of trees in bud and bloom, And over fields afar there was, besides, The sky was dotted with fine-weather clouds- With its soft wailing through the hedge and trees; Came fresh and fragrant to his cheek, and stirr'd A crutch and stick were at the old man's side, For mild and gentle was that old man's look, Old age has its reflections-What were his? They might have been, how he had plung'd a stream When, sparkling in the sunshine of his lite, His days were as that river bright, Which, flowing on to manhood, they had lost For shadows swept across it, as Time gave, And to his dark look early gave A tint of grey. WHITHER does my true love tarry? Now a gentle light steals o'er me, Balmy grows the whispering air- To earth's beauties closed my eyes. THE LOST STAR. WHERE do I see thee not? When night has spread I see thee in each lovely face, Each wreathed cloud, each flower of spring: Where do I hear thee not? In every sound I hear thee in the gushing song Of birds, their woodland anthems singing; When prattling brooklets lisp along, Thy music-voice seems in my fancy ringing. When do I love thee not? Heart! answer-When? Let my deep desolation say How, for the hour in which we meet again, I love thee ever, for my heart's thy throne, in her fresh-ness smiles, With fäe-ry Fay-a-way. The ten-der light of her blue with a thou-sand loves, My sylvan Fay-a-way. O'er peaceful riv-ers like a The name of a beautiful Indian girl in the South Sea Islands, who became attached to a sailor kept prisoner there for several years. The story of Fayaway will be found in a future page. |