myself, as I had appeared on the day of my marriage; the eyes, the hair, the complexion, every circumstance, point by point the same. I leaped a gulf of thirty-two years. I waked from a dream troublesome and distressful beyond description; but it vanished, like the shades of night, upon the burst of a glorious morning in July, and left not a trace behind.

-WILLIAM GODWIN.

N

NEVER RAIL AT THE WORLD.

EVER rail at the world—it is just as we make it,
We see not the flower if we sow not the seed;
And as for ill luck, why it's just as we take it,—
The heart that's in earnest no bars can impede.
You question the justice which governs man's breast,
And say that the search for true friendship is vain;
But remember, this world, though it be not the best,
Is the next to the best we shall ever attain.

Never rail at the world, nor attempt to exalt
That feeling which questions society's claim ;
For often poor Friendship is less in the fault,
Less changeable oft, than the selfish who blame.
Then ne'er by the changes of Fate be depress'd,
Nor wear, like a fetter, Time's sorrowful chain;
But believe that this world, though it be not the best,
Is the next to the best we shall ever attain.

-CHARLES SWAIN.

THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE.

'HERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess;
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain,
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ;
It cannot feel for other's woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest, 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
-BYRON.

THE NOVICE.*

T was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, richly

marked the works of our industrious and imaginative forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the size; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich colouring and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The window was large, but what with the branch of a huge cork tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple curtains—a purple almost black-the light was nearly excluded.

On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carving was worn smooth and shining with time; and on the other was a cumbrous bookcase, filled with large and silver-clasped tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small table and a heavy, high-backed chair, covered with black serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. The abbess herself was seated in the chair-pale, abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at least, was severe.

The door opened, a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the room, but darkened instantly as the portress admitted the visitor. The abbess rose. not from her seat, but motioned with her hand to the stool beside her.

"A stranger and a foreigner?" said she, turning a gaze rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed guest. "What dost thou seek from the servant of the Madonna ?"

A moment's silence intervened, which was broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her.

"I come for refuge." The voice, though broken, was sweet; and the Italian correct, though with the accent of a foreign land.

"Our Lady never yet denied her protection to the unhappy," replied the Abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her suppliant placed her among those to whom assistance is most readily accorded; at the same time, caution might be requisite. "Your voice is sad, but sincere. look upon your face."

*From "Romance and Reality: a Tale" (edit. London, 1831).

Let me