tempted to revenge yourself on the rascal who had deliberately tried to snatch from you the jewel you considered within your grasp?

Peter, with some such feelings swelling in his bosom, gazed sternly on the placid form before him, most probably with the intention of annihilating him on the spot, but, discovering that his own head came somewhere near the bottom button of his adversary's waistcoat, he changed his mind, and blew his nose furiously instead.

"Oh, Cheatem! Cheatem!" at length broke in Peter Peepskin, holding up his arm as a sage might do if a flea bit him in the arm-pit, "may you never know happiness-may your misery equal the misery which now gnaws me, and I am happy once more. You deserve to die at once, Sir, but you shall live to die by my hand. My card, Sir."

Saying this the little hero drew himself up proudly, and flung his card upon the table. Facile, during the anathema, had been employed in brushing his hat with his handkerchief, and softly whistling the popular air of "O, dear, what cau the matter be," after which he blew his nose and smilingly departed.

"Good shot, Peter? I say, old boy, six and five make eleven; ta ta!" H. B.

"Yet I've a tale which must be told,

So now bow down thine ear

Close, lest the walls should catch the sounds

Which thou alone must hear.

"O, I had thought my deed of shame

For aye untold would rest,

Deep in the silent tomb-but Death

Unlocks the sturdiest breast.

"Time long ago I loved a maid
Yet ever was denied,

In vain I strove to gain her heart,
And win her for my bride.

Humbly I sued with haughty words
She spurned me from her sight,
And then I swore, come weal, come woe,
To make her mine by might.

"There was another won her love,

A knight on bended knee,

Though gold nor broad lands owned he none,

And came of low degree.

"Under an oak, their trysting tree,

Beside a forest green,

Like lovers true they often met,

But not by me unseen.

"There once, when I had watched them meet

In secret, and apart,

Maddened with jealousy, I stabbed

My rival to the heart,

"But not o'ercame by skill of arms,

Fell he in knightly strife,

As would some cowardly thief by stealth,

1 robbed him of his life.

"Her whom I could not gain by love,

By force I made my bride,

But o'er me hung a withering curse,

She pined away and died.

"Nay, shrink not. Could'st thou feel the pangs

This aching heart has known,

Thy loathing would to pity turn,

Aye, though thy heart were stone,

"Oft on my breast I've turned the sword, By death to atone my crime,

Yet stayed the blow, lest death should damn My soul before its time.

"From my own self I fain would fly,

My conscience is my foe; And in its secret cry of blood

Rests all the peace I know.

"Friendless am I, in this wide world
There's none I care to greet;
For oh, methinks, I read my guilt
In every face I meet.

"Yet not alone, for there is one

Stands ever in my sight,

In the broad light of heaven by day,
In darkest hues of night;

"There, there he comes, I see that look,
Black as the winter storm,
Father, hold forth thy crucifix,
And shroud me with thy form,

"Move not thy bloodless lips; I know
Spirit, what thou wouldst say;
Raise not thy gaunt and withered arm,
Thy summons I'll obey."

The monk he turned him round to look,
Nought met his searching eye,

But his life's blood curdled in his veins,
He felt the spirit by,-

He gazed upon the baron's form

Stretched prostrate on the bed,

His hair erect, his eyeballs strained,
And bursting from his head-

A hollow groan-no more-and straight
Death's icy touch was there;

His hair stood stiff, his eyes retained

Their fixed, unaltered stare.

Within the halls of Ellandale

The noisome weed hath grown, And sadly through its roofless towers The fitful night-blasts moan,

We have heard that, in the last years of his penal exile, the celebrated George Barrington sank into a mental imbecility. In this situation, his eye lost all intelligence; and, with a fixed unmeaning look, he would sit listless and silent by the fire-side, regardless of passing conversation, and unmoved even by the presence of strangers. But though thus mentally decrepid and imbecile, there was one word that would rouse him to all the vigour of early life,—would bring back the fire to his eye, and brighten his haggard cheek with unwonted cheerfuluess,—that word was "London." With so simple a dissyllable rushed back all the memories of former days; the artful frauds-the daring thefts-the theatre-the ball-room-the crowded assembly,-all arenas of his splendid crimes,-the revelries and dissipations encouraged by his success. All these were associated with the great city, and by the magic sound "London," the withered convict was for an instant transformed into the gay and dashing robber.

We must use Barrington, however, only as an instance of the power of associations,-we would not, in truth, that our memories be such as his. But who knows not some word that carries him spell-bound to other scenes. Does "butterfly" never present to the mind blue skies and sunny fields-the ardent pursuit-the painted and fluttering captive in the net-the green bank on which limbs, wearied with the chase, were carelessly thrown,-things well- beloved in infancy? Does "cowslip" never call to recollection the taste of that strange beverage, so

popular in childhood-cowslip tea-the little cups, the little plates, and little blunt knives, in short, in whole Lilliputian equipage. Ourselves this Spring-time, have partaken of that same decoction, and, though unpleasant to our elder taste, yet did its flavour bring back bright and distant memories to us. Oh! the haunts of former times are loved by us. We have a village in a small unnoticed county, and barely situated enough in a spot unblessed by nature, and unadorned by art. Yet do wild mountains and fair teeming vallies affect us not like that solitary place. In early manhood, and standing on the verge of active life, we have wandered down its silent street-we have sat in the church-yard, and looked on the square house once our home. We have passed by dull fields, down the course of a sluggish stream, once deemed a little paradise, and in all these scenes have we fondly dwelt on infancy; and bitterly have we thought for how much gained in head, we have lost in heart.

Some will hardly bear with us, -they will harshly deem us morbid and sentimental. We mind them not, for we inwardly feel that every one may learn much from his own past that no mingling in crowded worlds or hurried business life can teach him. The man may often be instructed by the child; but by child, we mean, no wicked and inky twelve-year-old,—not so; we speak of him of kite and top,-him to whom each season brings its peculiar charms,-him to whom nature does not speak in vain,-by flowers and sunshine-by bleak winds and falling leaves. In very early boyhood, the living much in the open air, the constant sight of gardens and green banks, do inspire a gladsome, thoughtless joy within, and stamp a brightness on the very countenance. The clamour and intrigue of schools-the dirt and meanness of the boycrowd-the influence of older and more experienced sinners, soon wear away that real joyousness. Yet it has been, and may live again in the thoughts, and may again influence the actions. For we believe that childhood has much communion with Nature, which is often blessed by a higher Power, and we believe that that communion, cherished in manhood, might still do greater things for us than worldly experience.

There are many deep feelings and true sensibilities experienced in childhood, which we miss with a fond regret in later years; there are chords which, as with Memnon's harp, only the first beams of daylight may sound.

Intimately connected, too, with personal associations, are those of a nation, Blessed old days are there in merrie England-the welcoming in the young Spring with a May dance-the social meetings round the Christmas hearth-and many more. Oh! we shall be sorry indeed when these happy times pass, by unheeded, as they come round in their ap