conscience, perhaps, upbraiding, and whispering that false means never justify a good end attained thereby.

Better had she suffered him to rest on the memory of a hopeless love, believing the object of that love to be pure and worthy; then he might have sought his God, found comfort, resignation, perhaps, even, happiness. But as it was, life's springs were poisoned; and with a heart seared, and for ever buried with the wronged, she had assisted in chaining him to the living, the fetters being golden, but not wreathed with flowers, and hard as iron eating into the soul.

Better to live on the memory of a buried love, than to desecrate the soul, pollute the body, and falsify the heart.

BIRTH DAY VERSES.

TO A LADY.

BY J. EWING RITCHIE.

C. A. M. W.

WHAT Would'st thou that we wish for thee, on this rejoicing day?
The happiness that life can give ? that life can take away?
The treasure rare? the costly gift? the sparkling pearl and fine,
From the everlasting deep, or the bosom of the mine.

Oh no; we wish not these for thee, thou dost not care for them,
For the cold and empty splendours of glittering gold or gem.
Thou know'st as well as we can tell, that pain and sorrow set
Themselves upon the crested top of crown or coronet.

We wish not these for thee,-the vain and gilded shows of earth,
That thou should'st wear upon thy cheeks the sign of hollow mirth,
That thou should'st bid thine eye shine bright, though thy heart be full of

care,

Or feign the sound of laughter, though its spirit be not there.

Thou know'st we wish thee more than this,-that thy life's way may be
Arched o'er like some glad fairy-land with clustering love and glee,
That thy gems may be the priceless ones, more bright than all beside,
Of deeds of faith and charity that ever shall abide.

That thus the dart of gnawing care may never come near thee,
And anger, with her sullen eye, thy presence always flee,
And jealousy, with aching heart, may never sadden thine,
Nor quench the flame of love that beams within thee so divine.

That each returning year may find thy peaceful heart at rest,
And friendly voices wishing thee to be ever glad and blest,
And sorrow's pale-faced children breathing for thee earnest prayers,
That woe may never grieve thy heart as it has withered theirs.

We commend thee to the care of thy God who dwells above,
We pray for thee most fervently the blessings of his love,
That his joy within thy heart may be a foretaste of that bliss,
Which waits thee in a better world, when thine eyes have closed on this.

And that with the sainted and the good whom thou hast loved well,
In holy fellowship and sweet thou may'st for ever dwell,

And there, where sorrow ent'reth not, where pains for ever cease,
From the presence of thy God thou may'st drink in joy and peace.

A meeting, mystery, and, perhaps, an attempt to interest the reader by events.

Ir was a cold day in January,-a very cold day,-and the state of the temperature was felt by few more severely than by that ambulating lieutenant, whom we beg to point out just passing a lamppost in Lincoln's Inn Fields for the thirty-second time within the half-hour. Yet he was not lightly clad,-far from it: he was dressed " up to" the season, quite.

Perhaps it was that he wore a great-coat, under which the "febris insoluti,' or ague of the thing unpaid for, crept into his bones,for, to recur to Bland and boyhood,

"Sunt quos pergraviter turbat sartoris imago,"

it may be there was a chilliness of debit in his boots and gloves; and that there was a sort of moral winter at work, for which physical protection was vain and useless. Independently, however, of causes such as these, some men there are who, from certain hidden agencies, know nothing, or almost nothing, of the seasons outwardly, who are blind to the lilac, deaf to the voice of birds, and lame for the invitation to sport; but these have a series of irregu

*Continued from page 170, vol. xlix.

lar summers and winters, springs and autumns, in their own breasts, the separate influences of which they are born to experience most keenly.

Amble was not the light-hearted, joyous spirit of the few months past, he had rapidly become blasé to the extent of his actual position in society, and had constantly ventured beyond his own circle for relief and relaxation: he had made the most of his time and anticipated funds in running through the gaiety of the season in London, and he had enjoyed a couple of months' good hunting in the country. This very morning he had been recommended to part with his cab at once, and keep on the look out for some one to purchase his two hunters. Edward Westwood was urgent on the first of these points, and Greville Jones on the second. It was the barrister's recommendation only which Amble heeded and brooded over, for he could not but acknowledge how much he had originally been led on by him in his earlier expenditure and dissipations. As for the other man, he was always advising,-it was his only return for certain kindnesses received, but as it may be necessary to explain who this new individual was, we will quickly dispose of him in a few words, premising that it is probable he will not show his face in the tale again.

Greville Jones was the no, he was not-we really cannot say what he was, for although it would not be absolutely requisite to adhere to the strict button and stitch of verity in a sketch of this description, not only are we ignorant of his réal circumstances, but we cannot invent anything suitable for him, to supply the deficiency in this particular. He was rather short and stout, of ruddy complexion, dark brown hair and whiskers, always had the same bright smile, and, to all appearance, the same white hat, and the same invisible green coat and drab trousers; there was more mystery than variety about his waistcoats, and perhaps more shyness than change about his linen; his boots were tolerably good, but sometimes the butt end of the riding-whip would drop suspiciously on the toe, as though for a purpose, and people were apt to infer from this, that they were not unimpaired by time or wear. judge from his constant visits, he seemed to belong to every club in London, but, failing at the military ones, we have inquired after our friend at the Conservative, Reform, and fifty other similar rendezvous, in vain,-and we believe his profession and pedigree to be about as unapproachable as his residence. He goes to a great many balls during the season, and takes a great many rides in the Park; the dancing he considers a fair equivalent to the supper ;we do not know who mounts him, but he has a good show of nags at his disposal: in conclusion, he will dine with any one that likes to ask him, and, in return, will always give advice.

To

"Amble," said this last mentioned authority, slapping his friend on the back, as they were sitting in rear of the boxes at the Hay

market theatre; 66 take my word for it, that cattle must be disposed of; it's all very well, so long as the money lasts, but— draw in, better draw in,-as I do myself,-as many others have done, and before it is too late ;-sell the horses to-morrow." "But where ?-how ?"

"No matter how,-make your mind up to the thing,-charming girl, that, now on the stage,-cut the turf and sporting altogether; -by the bye, what's the play?-a comedy, isn't it?-come and dine with me to-morrow at 's, and we'll talk the matter

over.

A half groan, and an uncomfortable movement on his seat, were the sole acknowledgments of the party addressed.

"I'll fetch you at your club, and we'll go somewhere," was the usual winding up of Greville's invitations, which ended in his procuring a remarkably cheap dinner for himself, however expensive to his guest, and so his point was gained, and his advice thrown out freely.

The fact is, the expected fortune had not arrived,-many were the surmises and rumours afloat on the subject. The barrister's information was very confused and straggling,-at all events, as gathered from him by our hero, who, it must be admitted, made no great exertions to comprehend the legal intricacies of the question. It was, indeed, something to this effect:-Spencer Âmble had departed this life nearly two years since, leaving the bulk of a greatly diminished property to his widow, under certain provisoes, the interest of the whole was then amounting only to some four or five hundred pounds per annum; there was abundance of land besides, which yielded no produce, and of gold tied up out of reach. The widow had endeavoured to extricate the estate from its encumbrances, but, falling ill, had handed over the whole control of her affairs to Messrs. Grabbe, Mincington and Grabbe, lawyers of Lincoln's Inn. These worthies had engaged an opposing faction in a Chancery suit, had plunged into many and peculiar skirmishes on behalf of the bereaved lady, and finally, had settled accounts with their client altogether, by placing her, in a highly respectable coffin, beside her husband. The rambling eye of Edward Westwood had detected these things;-he had called upon the lawyers, and, as a friend of both the deceased, had made inquiries on the state of affairs: the answers were satisfactory enough; Messrs. Grabbe and Company had, it must be supposed, duly and legally retained all funds and papers in their own possession,-they were paving the way to successful arrangement, and the son and heir was shortly to be addressed on the matter.

In this the barrister had forestalled them, he had written himself: the young soldier, never dreaming of an inheritance, and