near him afterwards said, that he became instantly pale as marble-that for a moment he seemed bewildered-that he averted his head, and dashed the tears from his eyes. Certain it is, that without replying a word to Lora, he directed one of his companions to take the command of the men, and spurred his horse onward to the head of the insurgents-that seeing it was then too late interpose in order to change the position of the prisoners, he leaped from his horse, and rushed forward directly in front of Graham.

Colonel Ashly advanced rapidly, with exact military order; and it was not till the instant that he was about to give the command to fire, that he perceived the barbarous arrangement which the insurgents had made. "Often," the kind hearted old man afterwards said, "often had he been on the field of battle and death, but never before had he trembled. Many among the insurgents were his neighbours, his own folks; and t was an ugly job to fight against them: but when he saw the prisoners set up for a mark for heir own friends to fire upon, and above all, when he saw young Graham, the gallant boy, the ife blood of their cause, his heart died away within him." But the stern duty of the veteran oldier prevailed over the feelings of the man; nd he gave that order, still remembered by some, 'n whose ears it then tingled, "Pour in your fire, Joys, and, God have mercy on their souls!" It was at this instant, that Lee had thrown himself before Graham. The fatal order was obeyed. Graham's life was preserved-his friend was the victim.

This was the last and severest contest that occurred during the insurrection; but, after a short space, the rebels gave way, and dispersed in every direction; and while the Militia pursued the fugitives, and removed the dead and wounded, one little group remained stationary. Harry Lee was stretched on the ground, and supported in Graham's arms; his head resting on Lora's bosom,

The mistakes that had led to this fatal issue were all explained. He placed Lora's hand in Graham's, pressed them both to his bosom, faintly articulated," Remember my mother," and expired.

HOURS OF STUDY.

"On morning wings how active springs the mind, That leaves the load of yesterday behind."

IT has been usual with many persons of a literary turn of mind, to devote the evening, and oftentimes a large portion of the night, to study. The reason is obvious; they are not so liable to meet with interruption as in the day. It is, however, very injurious to the health, which requires the regular refreshment of sleep; neither, unless they lead abstemious lives, are their ideas likely to be so clear as in the morning.

Dr. Jennings, the author of the Jewish Antiquities, of a Treatise on Medals, (which was printed by the famous Baskerville,) and other writings, was, as I have been well informed, accustomed to rise at five every morning in summer, and at four in winter, thereby devoting several quiet hours to his studies, at a time when no one could be expected to intrude on his privacy.

His family being used to his plan, he gave no additional trouble to the servant; who, every night, prepared the fire-place for the wintermorning. As he kept a lamp burning, he lighted his fire himself as soon as he rose.

By this regular system, he saw his friends with ease; put no one to inconvenience; and preserved health to a good old age, in peace and tranquillity.

As his circumstances permitted the expense, he generally made a rural tour once in the summer; this had beneficial effects also, and tended to recruit the exhausted spirits; all studious persons would do well to adopt such measures, with occasional relaxation, to prevent the wearied frame from sinking under the pressure of continual exertion, which must, otherwise, inevitably happen. Neither is it a good method to attempt to sustain nature under such exertions, by having recourse to fermented, or spiritous liquors ; as I remember was the case of Dr. Gilbert Stuart, the historian, who wore out his frame, by that bad habit at the age of forty-four.

The morning is the proper time for mental efforts, when the faculties are clear and undisturbed by the bustle of the day. After the allotted hours are passed over, we are then ready to enter on the necessary affairs of life; and not being fatigued from want of our natural rest, cannot be mistaken, when we appear, for walking images, as the poet humourously describes such a person to be:

"So stiff, so mute, some statue you would swear,
Stepped from its pedestal to take the air."

It has been said, that "life is not merely to live, but to be well," I would therefore advise all persons, writers or readers, to refrain from neglecting their health in this particular; it is not always easily restored, and, in all events, let it be remembered, that prevention is far better than remedy. Lastly, I would recommend to all literary persons to mix frequently in society; it will soften the manners, meliorate the ideas, discourage the growth of peculiarities, and that propensity to affectation and pedantry, which too much seclusion is apt to produce.

An attention to these friendly hints may prevent many from regretting the loss of time, when gone by, and past recal.

Oh! would indulgent heaven restore,
The years which I shall see no more.

This vain wish will never be uttered by those who take care of their health, and make a prudent use of their allotted term, by devoting it, wisely, to beneficial purposes; making it thereby a blessing to themselves and to others.

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For the Lady's Book.

A BALLAD.

Oh hear me lady o'er the stream!
My anxious love will chide;
For I have many a weary mile

Before the night to ride.

Rough rolls the wave, my boat is frail,
The rushing winds are high,
And swiftly scud the thick dark clouds
Across the troubled sky.

A bolder hand than mine must guide
My bark o'er such a tide;
Then warrior rest-to morrow I
Will bear thee to thy bride.

Let the bleak blast roar as it may-
The raging torrent rave-

If frail thy bark, my gallant steed
Must dare the angry wave.

The priest beside the altar stands,
The wedding guests are met,
My Ada's pale and trembling cheeks
With anxious tears are wet.

Then come-thy task the boat to row-
Be mine the helm to guide-

Thy charger's free and lightsome foot
Perchance may stem the tide.

Loud roar'd the winds, the lightning flash'd,

The pattering rain fell fast,

But safely o'er the rapid stream
The little bark has past.

Thanks lady, thanks, the warrior said,
Wilt come my bride to see?

Quick, mount, my steed is strong and fleet-
Dost fear to ride with me?

Thou wilt not-then farewell, kind maid, I may not-must not wait;

Love calls-night's shadows gather round Already I'm too late.

The lady smil'd a ghastly smile—
"So soon then must we part?"
She pluck'd a dagger from her zone,
And plung'd it in his heart.

And know'st thou not this hand, she cried,
This hand, oft clasp'd in thine,
Didst think revenge could cease to burn
Within a breast like mine.

No hated rival e'er shall press
Those lips I oft have prest;
No scornful dame shall find repose
Upon that faithless breast.
Too late the dying Edmund knew
The face he once thought fair;
He breathed one sigh to Ada lost,
To heaven one ardent prayer.
And thou forgive, too cruel maid,
Thy many wrongs, he cried;
Then on the damp and pebbly shore
He laid him down, and died.

And now the rash, revengeful maid,
Is wild and frantic grown ;
The steel she dyed in Edmund's blood,
Streams purple with her own.
From yonder tower, who gazes forth
With anxious, tearful eye?
Heedless of every bitter blast
That rudely rushes by.

'Tis Ada, who has waited long, In sadness and in fear;

Who watches on the turret's top Her Edmund's horn to hear.

Why tarries he, the much loved one-
Why linger thus his feet?

Long past the promised hour when we
The wedding guests should meet.

But hark, along the howling storm
The sound of hoofs is borne:
Quick, warder-let the drawbridge fall
And blow your joyful horn.

He comes-I see his gallant grey-
How swiftly love can ride;

My tongue can nought but welcome speak,
My tongue that fain would chide.

Soon shall I see those eyes again,
Where love and valour shine;
Soon shall these fond and longing arms
That noble form entwine.

THE advantages of female society are numerous, and extend themselves over almost every custom and every action of social life. It is the social intercourse with women, that men are indebted for every effort they make to please and be agreeable; and it is to the ambition of pleasing they owe all their elegance of manners, as well as the neatness and ornaments of dress. It is to the same cause, also, that they frequently owe their sobriety and temperance, and, consequently, their health; for to drunkenness and irregularity, nothing is so effectual a check as the company of modest woman; insomuch that it is seldom we find a man so lost to shame as to get drunk when he is in or to go into their company. To them we are not less frequently indebted for the calming of violent disputes, and preventing of quarrels, which, with every other species of rudeness, are happily reckoned so indecent in their presence, that we often postpone them till another opportunity; and in the interim, reason resumes the rein which passion had usurped. But this is not all; many disputes and quarrels, already begun, have been amicably settled by the interposition of their good offices, or, at least, the fatal effects of them prevented by their tears and mediation. Fond of the softer scenes of peace, they have often had the address to prevent, by their arguments and intercession, the dire effects of war; and, afraid of losing their husbands and relations, they have sometimes rushed between two hostile armies ready to engage, and turned the horrid scenes of destruction into those of friendship and festivity.

In our sex, there is a kind of constitutional or masculine pride, which hinders us from yielding, in points of knowledge or of honour, to each other. Though this may be designated by nature for several useful purposes, yet it is often the source also of a variety of evils, the most dangerous to the peace of society; but we lay it entirely aside in our connexion with women, and with pleasure submit to such dictates and behaviour from their sex, as from our own would call up every irascible particle of our blood, and inflame every ungovernable passion. This accustomed submission gives a new and less imperious turn to our ideas, teaches us to obey where we were used to command, and to reason where we used to be in a passion; to consider as only good breeding and complaisance, that which before we looked upon as the most abject and unbecoming meanness; and thus the stern severity of the male is softened and rendered mild by the gentleness peculiar to the female nature. Hence we may rest assured, that it is the conversation of virtuous and sensible woman only, that can properly fit us for society; and that, by abating the ferocity of our more irascible passions, can lead

us on in that gentleness of deportment, distinguished by the name of humanity. The tenderness we have for them, softens the ruggedness of our nature; and the virtues we assume in order to make a better figure in their eyes, sometimes become so habitual to us that we never afterwards lay them aside..

FASHION.

It is fashionable to complain of fashion. There are some people who make a point of getting quarrelsome upon every change and circumstance in the fashions of modern days. They are perpetually pointing back to the times of old, as if the unstable elements of fashion in the days of their grandmothers were never agitated and changed and dissolved. They ask us to imitate our ancestors-and in what? in the powdered wig, the deerskin breeches, and the tail-like queue, which according to the sage opinions of Lord Monboddo, completely assimilated the human figure to the Monkey and Ourang-Outang? Would they have our fair ones-the' bright particular stars' of the horizon of beauty, lay aside the light drapery which now floats around their exquisite forms, like the foldings of a sun-set cloud around a beautiful spirit of evening, and don the uncouth garb of their grandmothers? Only think of the hoop-the hooped petticoat! The good saints preserve us from anything of the like. We would as soon see a lady in the indescribable garb of a Block Island fisherman. Seriously, there is a great deal said to no purpose in regard to the dressing-gear of the ladies. It is moreover ungentlemanly as well as entirely useless. What if the ladies through the medium of their magazines and albums, should undertake to criticise and condemn the habiliments of the "lords of creation?" There would be a universal outcry against such unparalleled presumption. It would not be tolerated. But our gentlemanly writers consider themselves perfectly competent to judge of the fitness or unfitness of any new fashion which finds its way among the ladies. Do they wear a huge bonnet-the saillike Navarino for instance, hanging over their features like a cloud over the White Mountains, or sport a pair of sleeves at their sides larger than those of the old friars of Melrose, who carried off in theirs provisions and ale for a month's consumption, there is no bounds to the cavillings of the gentleman critics. Then too, there is the corset, the everlasting corset, and nothing but the corset-a perpetual theme for the ill-natured, a standing subject for the first essay of a young physician. We protest against these unpardonable liberties. Let the ladies dress as they please. If a gentleman strangle himself with his cravat, or if his ears suffer from the edge of his starched dickey, no body seems to take cognizance of the matter. So, if the corset of a lady prove as fatal to her as did the poisoned girdle to Moore's Alethe, let us not interfere in such a delicate affair. Forourselves, should the corset be bound tighter and tighter, even to the employing of steam-power in the screwing process, we shall look on in silence.

THE BIBLE.

THERE is no book which may be more easily comprehended than the Bible. It may be asked why do so many read it without deriving any benefit? The fault is not with the Bible, it is wholly with the reader.

The written word is a pointed arrow, aimed by God himself at the heart of man; but the reason it is not felt and understood, and remembered, is because the natural man is not willing to attain this knowledge; he seldom opens the Bible; he reflects not on what he reads; none of its contents have power to fix his wandering thoughts, except perhaps a moral precept, or a poetical expression: he does not seek to be made wise unto salvation: sufficient light is given him, but he wilfully shuts his eyes.-There is no veil cast over the Bible, but satan and himself have a veil over his understanding-and his heart is so filled with the vanities of the world as to leave no room for the reception of heavenly things. Now it may be firmly asserted, that any person regarding the Bible will reverence the word of God, and reading it with a humble and teachable disposition, holding its contents as sacred truths, and sincerely desirous to impress them on his mind, may without difficulty comprehend what he reads.

I do not say that the light of natural man is in equal degree with that of spiritual man; (neither has one spiritual man the same proportion of light that another may possess ;) but can we doubt of God's assistance in this holy study? Will not this knowledge, like all other, be progressive? It may at first be compared to the feeble glimmering of dawn, which, though but onc faint streak, is nevertheless a certain presage of the meridian sun.

Let any man shut this book altogether; never enter a church door, where its truths and precepts are explained-nor even into the company and conversation of those who frame their lives by this book, and I will tell him he is hastening to the land of unalleviated sorrows. On the other hand, let him read this book for edification, learn the way to Heaven-let him carefully attend upon the preaching of the gospel; converse and hold sweet counsel with the excellent ones of the earth, and imitate their example, and I will tell him he is not far from the kingdom of Heaven. God never did, and never will, withhold his blessing and the influences of his spirit from those who diligently seek him.-Irving.

A SISTER'S LOVE.

THERE is no purer feeling kindled upon the altar of human affections, than a sister's pure, uncontaminated love for her brother. It is unlike all other affections ;-so disconnected with selfish sensuality; so feminine in its developement; so dignified, and yet, with all, so fond, so devoted. Nothing can alter it, nothing can suppress it.

23

The world may revolve, and its evolutions effect changes in the fortunes, in the character, and in the disposition of the brother, yet if he wants, whose hand will so speedily stretch out as that of his sister; and if his character is maligned, whose voice will so readily swell in his advocacy. Next to a mother's unquenchable love, a sister's is pre-eminent. It rests so exclusively on the ties of consanguinity for its sustenance, it is so wholly divested of passion, and springs from such a deep recess in the human bosom, that when a sister once fondly and deeply regards her brother, that affection is blended with her existence, and the lamp that nourishes it expires only with that existence. In all the annals of crime it is considered something anomalous to find the hand of a sister raised in anger against her brother, or her heart nurturing the seeds of hatred, envy, or revenge, in regard to that brother. In all affections of woman there is a devotedness which cannot be properly appreciated by man. In those regards where the passions are not all necessary in increasing the strength of the affections, more sincere truth and pure feeling may be expected than in such as are dependant upon each other for their duration as well as their felicities. A sister's love, in this respect, is peculiarly remarkable. There is no selfish gratification in its outpourings; it lives from the natural impulse; and personal charms are not in the slightest degree necessary to its birth or duration.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

Or the origin of the name " Forget-me-not," (Myosotis,) Dr. Johnston, in his " Flora of Berwick-upon-Tweed," gives the following account, extracted from Mills's History of Chivalry, and communicated to that work by Dr. A. F. Thom

son:

"Two lovers were loitering on the margin of a lake on a finc summer's evening, when the maiden espied some of the flowers of Myosotis growing on the water close to the bank of an island at some distance from the shore. She expressed a desire to possess them, when the knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water, and swimming to the spot, cropped the wished for plant; but his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement, and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers upon the bank, and casting a last affectionate look upon his ladylove, he cried 'Forget-me-not!' and was buried in the waters." As the world insists upon a reason, this story is as good as another; but the worthy knight must have been sadly out of his element not to have been able to return from a bank on which his mistress could discern so minute a blossom, unless, indeed, we suppose him to have been clad in armour, which was an habiliment ill-adapted for a lover by land or water."

A BEAUTIFUL kind of Embroidery is executed at the tambour, which is a frame resembling a hoop, over which the material is placed; another hoop, made to fit, is passed over it: both hoops being covered with woollen cloth, the work is strained tight between them. The hoop is then placed in a horizontal position, between two upright supports, fixed in a stand, and, when in use, placed on a table. For large subjects, a square frame is used, the four sides of which separate, and which, having a number of holes near their ends, are united by moveable pegs, according to the size required. This frame rests on a stand, at a convenient height from the ground. The tambour needle is a small steel instrument fixed in an ivory handle, and has a small notch near its point, which answers the purpose of a hook; and, in working, the right hand, which directs the tambour needle, will always be on the upper side of the work; and the left hand, which supplies the worsted, or cotton, on the lower side. The principal materials on which Tambour work is employed, are muslin and net, and the Embroidery is generally done in coloured crewels, white twisted cotton, or gold thread. The design is previously drawn on the material or ground with indigo, which will afterwards wash out. If it be intended to work in crewels, a coloured pattern will also be of service, as a guide to the selection of the worsteds, which are

usually worked into very beautiful groups or wreaths of flowers, in their natural colours, principally for the bottoms of dresses.

In working, the needle is passed through the muslin, from the upper side; the worsted, or cotton, being held underneath, is placed on the hook, and drawn through, so as to form a loop on the surface. The needle is then passed through that loop, and also through the muslin, at a few threads' distance; a second loop is then drawn up through the first; a third loop through the second; and thus the work is continued. In a narrow or pointed leaf, it is usual to work its complete outline first, passing up one side and down the other, and filling up the middle with succeeding rows. In a round or oval leaf, the stitches should begin at the outside, and form one row within another, terminating in the centre. Stalks are worked in single or double rows, as the thickness in the pattern may require. Small sprigs are sometimes thus embroidered in gold thread on India muslin, for ladies' head dresses.

Print-work, so called from its resemblance to dotted and line engraving, is principally applicable to small subjects, on account of the minuteIness of the stitches employed. The design is sketched, in pencil, on white silk, or satin, previously stitched on a frame. It is worked with a very fine needle, in black silk, or in silk of dif