who had ordered her carriage to come for her at a certain hour, and was determined, on second thoughts, to sit down and wait for it, was able, unheard, to push open the door, and to enter the library unperceived;—for the girl | lied to those who bade her lie, when she said that she saw her walk away. In that room Mrs. Atheling found a sofa; and though she wondered at seeing a large screen opened before it; she seated herself on it, and, being fatigued with her walk, soon fell asleep. But her slumber was broken very unpleasantly; for she heard, as she awoke, the following dialogue, on the entrance of Cecilia and her lover, accompanied by Fanny. "Well -I am so glad we got rid of Mrs. Atheling so easily!" cried Cecilia. "That new girl seems apt. Some servants deny one so as to show one is at home."-"I should like them the better for it," said Fanny. "I hate to see any one ready at telling a falsehood."- "Poor little conscientious dear!" said the lover, mimicking her, "one would think the dressedup saint has made you as methodistical as herself." "What, I suppose, Miss Fanny, you would have had us let the old quiz in."-"To be sure I would; and I wonder you could be denied to so kind a friend. Poor dear Mrs. Atheling! how hurt she would be, if she knew you were at home!". "Poor dear, indeed! Do not be so affected, Fanny. How should you care for Mrs. Atheling, when you know that she dislikes you!"-"Dislikes me! Oh yes; I fear she does!"—"I am sure she does," replied Cecilia; "for you are downright rude to her. Did you not say, only the day before yesterday, when she said, 'There, Miss Barnwell, I hope I have at last gotten a cap which you like.'"No; I am sorry to say you have not?"""To be sure I did;-I could not tell a falsehood, even to please Mrs. Atheling, though she was my own dear mother's dearest friend."- "Your mother's friend, Fanny! I never heard that before;" said the lover. "Did you not know that, Alfred!" said Cecilia; eagerly adding, "but Mrs. Atheling does not know it;” giving him a meaning look, as if to say, "and do not you tell her."-"Would she did know it!" said Fanny mournfully, “for though I dare not tell her so, lest she should abuse my poor mother, as you say she would, Cecilia, because she was so angry at her marriage with my misguided father, still I think she would look kindly on her once dear friend's orphan child, and like me, in spite of my honesty."-"No, no, silly girl; honesty is usually its own reward. Alfred, what do you think? Our old friend, who is not very penetrating, said one day to her, 'I suppose you think my caps too young for me;' and that true young person replied, 'Yes, madam, I do.""- -"And would do so again, Cecilia;-and it was far more friendly and kind to say so than flatter her on her dress, as you do, and then laugh at her when her back is turned. I hate to hear any one mimicked and laughed at; and more especially my mamma's old friend." "There, there, child! your sentimentality makes me sick. But come; let us begin."-"Yes," cried Alfred, "let us rehearse a little, before the rest of the party come. I should like to hear Mrs. Atheling's exclamations, if she knew what we were doing. She would say thus:" .. Here he gave a most accurate representation of the poor old lady's voice and manner, and her fancied abuse of private theatricals, while Cecilia cried, "Bravo! bravo!" and Fanny, "Shame! shame!" till the other Livingstones, and the rest of the company, who now entered, drowned her cry in their loud applauses and louder laughter. ... The old lady, whom surprise, anger, and wounded sensibility had hitherto kept silent and still in her involuntary hiding-place, now rose up, and, mounting on the sofa, looked over the top of the screen, full of reproachful meaning, on the conscious offenders! What a moment, to them, of overwhelming surprise and consternation! The cheeks, flushed with malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, became covered with the deeper blush of detected treachery, or pale with fear of its consequences;-and the eyes, so lately beaming with ungenerous satisfaction, were now cast with painful shame upon the ground, unable to meet the justly indignant glance of her whose kindness they had repaid with such palpable and base ingratitude! "An admirable likeness indeed, Lawrie," said their undeceived dupe, breaking her perturbed silence, and coming down from her elevation; "but it will cost you more than you are at present aware of. But who art thou?" she added, addressing Fanny (who though it might have been a moment of triumph to her, felt and looked as if she had been a sharer in the guilt), "Who art thou, my honourable, kind girl? And who was your mother?”—“Your Fanny Beaumont," replied the quick-feeling orphan, bursting into tears. "Fanny Beaumont's child! and it was concealed from me!" said she, folding the weeping girl to her heart. "But it was all of a piece;-all treachery and insincerity, from the beginning to the end. However, I am undeceived before it is too late." She then disclosed to the detected family her generous motive for the unexpected visit; and declared her thankfulness for what had taken place, as far as she was herself concerned; though she could not but deplore, as a Christian, the discovered turpitude of those whom she had fondly loved. "I have now," she continued, "to make amends to one whom I have hitherto not treated kindly; but I have at length been enabled to discover an undeserved friend, amidst undeserved foes. . . . My dear child," as a added she, parting Fanny's dark ringlets, and gazing tearfully in her face, "I must have been blind, as well as blinded, not to see your likeness to your dear mother.-Will you live with me, Fanny, and be unto me DAUGHTER?"—"Oh, most gladly!" was the eager and agitated reply.-"You artful creature!" exclaimed Cecilia, pale with rage and mortification, "you knew very well she was behind the screen."-"I know that she could not know it," replied the old lady; "and you, Miss Livingstone, assert what you do not yourself believe. But come, Fanny, let us go and meet my carriage; for, no doubt, your presence here is now as unwelcome as mine." Fanny lingered, as if reluctant to depart. She could not bear to leave the Livingstones in anger. They had been kind to her; and she would fain have parted with them affectionately; but they all preserved a sullen, indignant silence, and scornfully repelled her advances. But "You see that you must not tarry here, my good girl," observed the old lady, smiling; "so let us depart." They did so; leaving the Livingstones and the lover, not deploring their fault, but lamenting their detection;-lamenting also the hour when they added the lies of CONVENIENCE to their other deceptions, and had thereby enabled their unsuspecting dupe to detect those falsehoods, the result of their avaricious fears, which may be justly entitled the LIES OF INTEREST. THE SEVEN SISTERS. Seven daughters had Lord Archibald Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, Right onward to the Scottish strand Beside a grotto of their own, Away the seven fair Campbells fly, Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: The empty house when he comes home; Some close behind, some side by side, A lake was near, the shore was steep, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The stream that flows out of the lake, WORDSWORTEL THE MOTHER'S HEART. [Hon. Mrs Caroline E. S. Norton, born 1808. died 1877. She was related to Richard B. Sheridan. Her first literary efforts were produced in 1829, and since that period she has distinguished herself in poetry and fiction. Her latest works are The Lady of La Garaye, a poem; and Old Sir Douglas, a novel.] When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, Yet patient of rebuke when justly given: And meekly cheerful,-such wert thou, my child! Haunting my walks, while summer day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn: but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Oh! boy, of such as thou art oftenest made Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And thine was many an art to win and bless, The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming! At length THOU camest; thou, the last and least; And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming; Nor injured either, by this love's comparing: MY BABES IN THE WOOD. I know a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, "Is it a fairy story?" Well, half fairy At least it dates far back as fairies do, And seems to me as beautiful and airy; Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. You had a baby sister and a brother, Two very dainty people, rosy white, Poor slightly golden heads! I think I missed them I fancy, too, that they were softly covered Their names were-what yours are. At this you wonder. SARAH M. B. PIATT. 1 Mrs. Piatt was born at Lexington, U.8, in 1835. She is a contributor to the principal American maga zines, and was joint author, with her husband, of The Nests at Washington and other Poems, 1864. MARTHA THE GIPSY. [Theodore Edward Hook, born in London, 22d September, 1788; died at Fulham, 24th August, 1841. He was the author of sixteen novels and numerous other works. Maxwell, Jack Brag. and Gilbert Gurney-the latter is autobiographical-are considered his best novels. It was as a wit and a practical joker that he made the greatest reputation, and in this character he won the patronage of the Prince Regent, who secured for him in 1812 the appointment of accountant-general and treasurer at the Mauritius. Hook had no knowledge of accounts, and in 1819 he was obliged to return to England, as a deficiency of about £12,000 was discovered in the treasury, and the government claimed repayment from the treasurer. A friend hoped that he had not been obliged to come home on account of ill health; Hook regretted to say "they think there is something wrong in the chest." He was quite unable to refund the money; but the prosecution was not pressed until after he had made himself obnoxious to the Whig party by his articles in the John Bull, of which he was the editor, and in 1824 he was imprisoned for the debt. He was discharged in 1825, and continued a brilliant but sad career as the reigning wit of society. The last dinner-party he attended was in July, 1841, when he looked at himself in a mirror and said, "Aye, see, I look as I am-done up, in purse, in mind, and in body, too, at last." His powers as an improvisatore are reported to have been marvellous.'] I These midnight hags, By force of potent spells, of bloody characters London may appear an unbefitting scene for a story so romantic as that which I have here set down: but, strange and wild as is the tale I have to tell, it is true; and therefore the scene of action shall not be changed; nor will I alter nor vary from the truth, save that the names of the personages in my domestic drama shall be fictitious. To say that I am superstitious would be, in the minds of many wise personages, to write myself down an ass; but to say that I do not believe that which follows, as I am sure it was believed by him who related it to me, would be to discredit the testimony of a friend as honourable and brave as A 1 In his recently published Book of Memories, Mr. S. C. Hall tells the following pathetic anecdote. At a party during Hook's latter years, of which he had been the mainspring of mirth throughout the night, he was seated at the piano sustaining the fun to the last. servant opened the shutters and the morning light shone upon the wit and a fair-haired boy who was standing beside him. Hook paused, laid his hand on the boy's head, and in tremulous tones improvised a verse, of which these were the concluding lines: "For you is the dawn of the morning, ever trod the earth. He has been snatched from the world, of which he was a bright ornament, and has left more than his sweet suffering widow and his orphan children affectionately to deplore his loss. It is, I find, right and judicious most carefully and publicly to disavow a belief in supernatural visitings; but it will be long before I become either so wise or so bold as to make any such unqualified declaration. I am not weak enough to imagine myself surrounded by spirits and phantoms, or jostling through a crowd of spectres as I walk the streets; neither do I give credence to all the idle tales of ancient dames, or frightened children, touching such matters: but when I breathe the air, and see the grass grow under my feet, I cannot but feel that He who gives me power to inhale the one, or stand erect upon the other, has also the power to use, for special purposes, such means and agency as he in his wisdom may see fit; and which, in point of fact, are not more incomprehensible to us, than the very simplest effects which we every day witness, arising from unknown causes. Philosophers may pore, and, in the might of their littleness, and the erudition of their ignorance, develop and disclose, argue and discuss; but when the sage, who sneers at the possibility of ghosts, will explain to me the doctrine of attraction and gravitation, or tell me why the wind blows, why the tides ebb and flow, or why the light shines-effects perceptible by all men-then will I admit the justice of his incredulitythen will I join the ranks of the incredulous. However, a truce with my views and reflections: proceed we to the narrative. In the vicinity of Bedford Square lived a respectable and honest man, whose name the reader will be pleased to consider Harding. He had married early; his wife was an exemplary woman; and his son and daughter were grown into that companionable age at which children repay, with their society and accom plishments, the tender cares which parents bestow upon their offspring in their early infancy. Mr. Harding held a responsible and respectable situation under government, in an office in Somerset House. His income was adequate to all his wants and wishes; his family was a family of love; and perhaps, taking into consideration the limited desires of what may be fairly called middling life, no man was ever more contented or better satisfied with his lot than he. Maria Harding, his daughter, was a modest, unassuming, and interesting girl, full of feeling and gentleness. She was timid and retiring; but the modesty which cast down her fine black eyes, could not veil the intellect | habits and propensities, the formidable title of which beamed in them. Her health was by grandmamma. no means strong; and the paleness of her cheek -too frequently, alas! lighted by the hectic flush of her indigenous complaint-gave a deep interest to her countenance. She was watched and reared by her tender mother, with all the care and attention which a being so delicate and so ill-suited to the perils and troubles of this world, demanded. George, her brother, was a bold and intelligent lad, full of rude health and fearless independence. His character was frequently the subject of his father's contemplation, and he saw in his disposition, his mind, his pursuits and propensities, the promise of future success in active life. With these children, possessing as they did the most enviable characteristics of their respective sexes, Mr. and Mrs. Harding, with thankfulness to Providence, acknowledged their happiness and their perfect satisfaction with the portion assigned to them in this transitory world. Maria was about nineteen, and had, as was natural, attracted the regards and thence gradually chained the affections of a distant relative, whose ample fortune, added to his personal and mental good qualities, rendered him a most acceptable suitor to her parents, which Maria's heart silently acknowledged he would have been to her, had he been poor and penniless. The father of this intended husband of Maria was a man of importance, possessing much personal interest, through which George, the brother of his intended daughter-in-law, was to be placed in that diplomatic seminary in Downing Street whence, in due time, he was to rise through all the grades of office (which, with his peculiar talents, his friends, and especially his mother, were convinced he would so ably fill), and at last turn out an ambassador, as mighty and mysterious as my Lord Belmont, of whom probably my readers may knownothing. The parents, however, of young Langdale and of Maria Harding were agreed that there was no necessity for hastening the alliance between their families, seeing that the united ages of the couple did not exceed thirtynine years; and seeing, moreover, that the elder Mr. Langdale, for private reasons of his own, wished his son to attain the age of twentyone before he married; and seeing, moreover still, that Mrs. Langdale, who was little more than six-and-thirty years of age herself, had reasons, which she also meant to be private, for seeking to delay, as much as possible, a ceremony, the result of which, in all probability, would confer upon her, somewhat too early in life to be agreeable to a lady of her How curious it is, when one takes up a little bit of society (as a geologist crumbles and twists a bit of earth in his hand to ascertain its character and quality), to look into the motives and manoeuvrings of all the persons connected with it; the various workings, the indefatigable labours which all their little minds are undergoing to bring about divers and sundry little points, perfectly unconnected with the great end in view; but which, for private and hidden objects, each of them is toiling to carry. Nobody but those who really understood Mrs. Langdale understood why she so readily acquiesced in the desire of her husband to postpone the marriage for another twelvemonth. A stranger would have seen only the dutiful wife according with the sensible husband; but I knew her, and knew that there must be more than met the eye or the ear in that sympathy of feeling between her and Mr. Langdale, which was not upon ordinary occasions so evidently displayed. Like the waterman, who pulls one way and looks another, Mrs. Langdale aided the entreaties and seconded the commands of her loving spouse, touching the seasonable delay of which I am speaking; and it was agreed, that immediately after the coming of age of Frederick Langdale, and not before, he was to lead to the hymeneal altar the delicate and timid Maria Harding. The affair got whispered about; George's fortune in life was highly extolled-Maria's excessive happiness prophesied by everybody of their acquaintance; and already had sundry younger ladies, daughters and nieces of those who discussed these matters in divan after dinner, begun to look upon poor Miss Harding with envy and maliciousness, and wonder what Mr. Frederick Langdale could see in her: she was proclaimed to be insipid, inanimated, shy, bashful, and awkward; nay, some went so far as to discover she was absolutely awry. Still, however, Frederick and Maria went loving on; and their hearts grew as one; so truly, so fondly were they attached to each other. George, who was somewhat of a plague to the pair of lovers, was luckily at Oxford, reading away till his head ached, to qualify himself for a degree and the distant duties of the office whence he was to cull bunches of diplomatic laurels, and whence were to issue rank and title, and ribands and crosses innumerable. Things were in this prosperous state, the bark of life rolling gaily along before the breeze, when Mr. Harding was one day proceeding from his residence to his office in |
