suspecting a person who had shown her so much kindness, but the next minute the emphatic words and warning looks of the woman recurred to her mind; and though they were but the words and looks of an orange-woman, she could not help dreading that there was some truth in them. The clock struck ten whilst she was in this uncertainty. The woman of, the house urged her to go without farther delay to Mrs. Carver's, who would undoubtedly be displeased by any want of punctuality; but Anne wished to wait for the return of her father and mother. "They will not be back, either of them, these three hours; for your mother is gone to the other end of the town about that old bill of Colonel Pembroke's, and your father is gone to buy some silk for weaving; he told me he should not be home before three o'clock." | Notwithstanding these remonstrances, Anne persisted in her resolution. She took off the clothes which she had received from Mrs. Carver, and put on those which she had been used to wear. Her mother was much surprised when she came in to see her in this condition; and no words can describe her grief when she heard the cause of this change. She blamed herself severely for not having made inquiries concerning Mrs. Carver before she had suffered her daughter to accept of any presents from her; and she wept bitterly when she recollected the money which this woman had lent her husband. She will throw him into jail, I am sure she will; we shall be worse off a thousand times than ever we were in our worst days. The work that is in the loom, by which he hoped to get so much, is all for her, and it will be left upon hands now; and how are we to pay the woman of this house for the lodgings? . . . O! I see it all coming upon us at once," continued the poor woman, wringing her hands. "If that Colonel Pembroke would, but let us have our own. But there I've been all the morning hunting him out; and at last, when I did see him, he only swore, and said we were all a family of duns, or some such nonsense. And then he called after me from the top of his fine stairs just to say that he had ordered Close the tailor to pay us; and when I went to him, there was no satisfaction to be got from him-his shop was full of customers, and he hustled me away, giving me for answer, that when Colonel Pembroke paid him he would pay us, and no sooner. Ah! these purse proud tradesfolk, and these sparks of fashion, what do they know of all we suffer? what do they care for us? It is not for charity I ask any of them-only for what my own husband has justly earned, and hardly toiled

66

At

for too; and this I cannot get out of their hands. If I could, we might defy this wicked woman; but now we are laid under her feet, and she will trample us to death." In the midst of these lamentations Anne's father came in. When he learned the cause of them, he stood for a moment in silence; then snatched from his daughter's hand the bundle of clothes which she had prepared to return to Mrs. Carver. "Give them to me; I will go to this woman myself," cried he with indignation. "Anne shall never more set her foot within those doors." Dear father," cried Anne, stopping him as he went out of the door, "perhaps it is all a mistake; do pray inquire from somebody else before you speak to Mrs. Carver-she looks so good, she has been so kind to me, I cannot believe that she is wicked. Do pray inquire of a great many people before you knock at the door." He promised that he would do all his daughter desired. With most impatient anxiety they waited for his return: the time of his absence appeared insupportably long, and they formed new fears and new conjectures every instant. Every time they heard a footstep upon the stairs they ran out to see who it was: sometimes it was the landladysometimes the lodgers or their visitors. last came the person they longed to see; but the moment they beheld him all their fears were confirmed. He was pale as death, and his lips trembled with convulsive motion. He walked up directly to his loom, and without speaking one syllable began to cut the unfinished work out of it. What are you about, my dear?" cried his wife: "consider what you are about; this work of yours is the only dependence we have in the world." "You have nothing in this world to depend upon, I tell you," cried he, continuing to cut out the web with a hurried hand: "you must not depend on me-you must not depend on my work-I shall never throw this shuttle more whilst I live-think of me as if I was deadto-morrow I shall be dead to you—I shall be in a jail, and there must lie till carried out in my coffin. Here, take this work just as it is to our landlady-she met me on the stairs, and said she must have her rent directly—that will pay her-I'll pay all I can. As for the loom, that's only hired-the silk I bought today will pay the hire-I'll pay all my debts to the utmost farthing, as far as I am able-but the ten guineas to that wicked woman I cannot pay-so I must rot in a jail. Don't cry, Anne, don't cry so, my good girl - you'll break my heart, wife, if you take on so. Why! have not we one comfort, that, let us go

out of this world when we may, or how we may, we shall go out of it honest, having no one's ruin to answer for, having done our duty to man and God, as far as we were able? My child," continued he, catching Anne in his arms, "I have you safe, and I thank God for it." When this poor man had thus in an incoherent manner given vent to his first feelings, he became somewhat more composed, and was able to relate all that had passed between him and Mrs. Carver. The inquiries which he made before he saw her sufficiently confirmed the orange-woman's story; and when he returned the presents which Anne had unfortunately received, Mrs. Carver, with all the audacity of a woman hardened in guilt, avowed her purpose and her profession-declared that whatever ignorance and innocence Anne or her parents might now find it convenient to affect, she was confident they had all the time perfectly understood what she was about, and that she would not be cheated at last by a parcel of swindling hypocrites." With horrid imprecations she then swore that if Anne was kept from her she would have vengeance, and that her vengeance should have no bounds. event showed that these were not empty threats: the very next day she sent two bailiffs to arrest Anne's father. They met him in the street as he was going to pay the last farthing he had to the baker. The wretched man in vain endeavoured to move the ear of justice by relating the simple truth. Mrs. Carver was rich-her victim was poor. He was committed to jail; and he entered his prison with the firm belief that there he must drag out the remainder of his days.

66

The

One faint hope remained in his wife's heart. She imagined that if she could but prevail upon Colonel Pembroke's servants, either to obtain for her a sight of their master, or if they would carry to him a letter containing an exact account of her distress, he would immediately pay the fourteen pounds which had been so long due. With this money she could obtain her husband's liberty, and she fancied all might yet be well. Her son, who could write a very legible hand, wrote the petition. "Ah, mother!" said he, "don't hope that Colonel Pembroke will read it; he will tear it to pieces, as he did one that I carried him before." "I can but try," said she; "I cannot believe that any gentleman is so cruel and so unjust; he must and will pay us when he knows the whole truth." Colonel Pembroke was dressing in a hurry to go to a great dinner at the "Crown and Anchor" tavern. One of Pembroke's gay companions had called, and was in the room

waiting for him. It was at this inauspicious time that Mrs. White arrived. Her petition the servant at first absolutely refused to take from her hands; but at last a young lad whom the colonel had lately brought from the country, and who had either more natural feeling or less acquired power of equivocating than his fellows, consented to carry up the petition, when he should, as he expected, be called by his master to report the state of a favourite horse that was sick. While his master's hair was dressing the lad was summoned; and when the health of the horse had been anxiously inquired into, the lad, with country awkwardness, scratched his head, and laid the petition before his master, saying, "Sir, there's a poor woman below waiting for an answer; and if so be what she says is true, as I take it to be, 'tis enough to break one's heart." "Your heart, my lad, is not seasoned to London yet, I perceive," said Colonel Pembroke, smiling; "why, your heart will be broke a thousand times over by every beggar you meet." "No, no: I be too much of a man for that," replied the groom, wiping his eyes hastily with the back of his hand; "not such a noodle as that comes to neither; beggars are beggars, and so to be treated; but this woman, sir, is no common beggar-not she; nor is she begging any ways

I

only to be paid her bill-so I brought it as was coming up." "Then, sir, as you are going down, you may take it down again, if you please," cried Colonel Pembroke, "and in future, sir, I recommend it to you to look after your horses, and to trust me to look after my own affairs." The groom retreated, and his master gave the poor woman's petition, without reading it, to the hair-dresser, who was looking for a piece of paper to try the heat of his irons. " I should be pestered with bills and petitions from morning till night if I did not frighten these fellows out of the trick of bringing them to me," continued Colonel Pembroke, turning to his companion. "That blockhead of a groom is but just come to town; he does not know yet how to drive away a dun-but he'll learn. They say that the American dogs did not know how to bark till they learned it from their civilized betters." Colonel Pembroke habitually drove away reflection, and silenced the whispers of conscience, by noisy declamation or sallies of wit. At the bottom of the singed paper, which the hair-dresser left on the table, the name of White was sufficiently visible. "White!" exclaimed Mr. Pembroke, "as I hope to live and breathe, these Whites have been this half year the torment of my life." He started up, rang the bell, and gave

immediate orders to his servant that these Whites should never more be let in, and that no more of their bills and petitions in any form whatever should be brought to him. "I'll punish them for their insolence-I won't pay them one farthing this twelvemonth, and if the woman is not gone, pray tell her so-I bid Close the tailor pay them: if he has not, it is no fault of mine. Let me not hear a syllable more about it-I'll part with the first of you who dares to disobey me." "The woman is gone, I believe, sir," said the footman; "it was not I let her in, and I refused to bring up the letter." "You did right. Let me hear no more about the matter. We shall be late at the Crown and Anchor.' I beg your pardon, my dear friend, for detaining you so long." Whilst the colonel went to his jovial meeting, where he was the life and spirit of the company, the poor woman returned in despair to the prison where her husband was confined. We forbear to describe the horrible situation to which this family were soon reduced. Beyond a certain point the human heart cannot feel compassion. One day, as Anne was returning from the prison, where she had been with her father, she was permitted to see a gentleman, pleasing both in his person and manners; and she related, at his request, the circumstances by which she and her parents had been reduced to such distress. His countenance presently showed how much he was interested in her story-he grew red and palehe started from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation, till at last, when she mentioned the name of Colonel Pembroke, he stopped short, and exclaimed, "I am the man-I am Colonel Pembroke I am that unjust, unfeeling wretch! How often, in the bitterness of your hearts, you must have cursed me!" "O no! my father, when he was at the worst, never cursed you; and I am sure he will have reason to bless you now if you send him only enough to release him from jail and let him begin work again." That shall be done," said Colonel Pembroke. "It is time I should make some reparation for the evils I have occasioned," continued he, taking a handful of guineas from his pocket: "but first let me pay my just debts." My poor father!" exclaimed Anne: "to-morrow he will be out of prison." "I will go with you to the prison, where your father is confined-I will force myself to behold all the evils I have occasioned." Colonel Pembroke went to the prison; and he was so much struck by the scene that he not only relieved the misery of this family, but in two months afterwards his debts were paid, his

I said to my heart, between sleeping and waking,
"Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching,
What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what
nation,

By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-patation?"
Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply:
"See the heart without motion, tho' Celia pass by!
Not the beauty she has, not the wit that she borrows,
Give the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.

"When our Sappho appears-she, whose wit, so refined,
I am forced to applaud like the rest of mankind—
Whatever she says is with spirit and fire;
Every word I attend-but I only admire.
"Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim;
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes-
Those stars of this world are too good for the skies.

"But Chloe, so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care;
When she comes in my way-the motion, the pain,
The leapings, the achings, return all again!"

EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

CHILDREN.

"Heaven lies about us in our infancy," says Wordsworth. And who of us that is not too good to be conscious of his own vices, who has not felt rebuked and humbled under the clear and open countenance of a child?-who that has not felt his impurities foul upon him in the presence of a sinless child? These feelings make the best lesson that can be taught a man; and tell him in a way, which all else he has read or heard never could, how paltry is all the show of intellect compared with a pure He that will humble himself and good heart. and go to a child for instruction, will come away a wiser man.

If children can make us wiser, they surely can make us better. There is no one more to 1 The latter part of this tale is slightly abridged.

be envied than a good-natured man watching the workings of children's minds, or overlooking their play. Their eagerness, curious about everything, making out by a quick imagination what they see but a part of their fanciful combinations and magic inventions, creating out of ordinary circumstances and the common things which surround them, strange events and little ideal worlds, and these all working in mystery to form matured thought, is study enough for the most acute minds, and should teach us, also, not too officiously to regulate what we so little understand. The still musing and deep abstraction in which they sometimes sit, affect us as a playful mockery of older heads. These little philosophers have no foolish system, with all its pride and jargon, confusing their brains. Theirs is the natural movement of the soul, intense with new life and busy after truth, working to some purpose, though without a noise.

When children are lying about seemingly idle and dull, we, who have become case-hardened by time and satiety, forget that they are all sensation, that their outstretched bodies are drinking in from the common sun and air, that every sound is taken note of by the ear, that every floating shadow and passing form come and touch at the sleepy eye, and that the little circumstances and the material world about them make their best school, and will be the instructors and formers of their characters for life.

And it is delightful to look on and see how busily the whole acts, with its countless parts fitted to each other, and moving in harmony. There are none of us who have stolen softly behind a child when labouring in a sunny corner digging a lilliputian well, or fencing in a six-inch barn-yard, and listened to his soliloquies and his dialogues with some imaginary being, without our hearts being touched by it. Nor have we observed the flush which crossed his face when finding himself betrayed, without seeing in it the delicacy and propriety of the after man.

A man may have many vices upon him, and have walked long in a bad course, yet if he has a love of children, and can take pleasure in their talk and play, there is something still left in him to act upon-something which can love simplicity and truth. I have seen one in whom some low vice had become a habit, make himself the plaything of a set of riotous children with as much delight in his countenance as if nothing but goodness had ever been expressed in it; and have felt as much of kindness and sympathy toward him as I have of revolting

toward another who has gone through life with all due propriety, with a cold and supercilious bearing toward children, which makes them shrinking and still. I have known one like the latter attempt, with uncouth condescension, to court an open-hearted child who would draw back with an instinctive aversion; and I have felt as if there were a curse upon him. Better to be driven out from among men than to be disliked of children.

RICHARD H. DANA.

EVELYN HOPE.1

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed: She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love: beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew-
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, nought beside? No, indeed! for God above.

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love,I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a fewMuch is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's redAnd what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

1 From Men and Women, by Robert Browning. London: Chapman & Hall.