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waterfalls, and seats and grottos erected at the most picturesque turns of the stream. I have charming designs for schools; and I expect from London, some drawings of the decorations for the church. Now, are you satisfied ?"

Her friend only sighed, and said, “It is growing chilly, dear ; we had better go in.”

Why not remonstrate with her now, Mrs. Maitland? Why not fulfil your mission by guiding, and when necessary reproving, the young girl whom your dying friend committed to your care? You have gently reminded her that her riches are not unbounded. That is not sufficient. You think that her guardian will prevent any undue expenditure. You shrink from your duty and leave it to be done by another. That may be pleasant, but it is not right, Mrs. Maitland. Had you studied to gain proper influence over your young charge, whose natural thoughtlessness, though chastened for a time, has overcome her unusual gravity, you might induce her to give up her extravagant fancies, and commence the discharge of her duties towards her dependants. « There can be no great harm,” you think, “ if Miss Thornton should waste some part of her fortune. It is hers, let her please herself with it.” You may say this to quiet the still small voice within, but you know that such reasoning is false. Money is a talent, confided to her to be improved, not a gift bestowed to be wasted, therefore let her lay aside a portion for good and wise purposes, before she spends aught in luxury.

Mrs. Maitland's affectionate persuasions might have led her to do this, but Mr. Graham's peremptory refusal to let the wealth over which he had more control than his ward, be thrown away on such “trash and nonsense,” roused Ella's determination to do all, and more than she wished; and when she found that her power over her own property was so cir. cumscribed, instead of retrenching her expenses, she concealed their amount, promising to pay her daily accumulating debts when she should be of age. And she who should have been her monitress, weakly yielded to · Ella's entreaties to say nothing to the severe lawyer on the subject.

The first steps in evil are ever dangerous; and in your case, Ella, imprudence and deception are those first steps.

All went smoothly on, however. During Mr. Graham's unavoidable absence, artists, and architects, and skilful workmen transformed the interior of Greyhurst into a very palace of loveliness and art. He came back too late to stop the progress of the work, and paid, with much displeasure, the bills that Ella frankly laid before him. “ You are ruining yourself,” he said, before he knew the extent of her outlay : and rather

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than incur his farther reproaches, she concealed the moiety of her debts. He never suspected the reservation—the wary man of the world was deceived by the apparent candour of the inexperienced girl.

Was Ella happy? Did prudence never urge that she was acting foolishly? Did conscience never whisper that she was doing wrong? “ May I not do as I like with my own?” was her reply to their upbraidings. Yet she was not altogether easy. She grew weary of her useless, aimless life. The cravings of her higher nature would not be satisfied with the mere gratification of the senses.

Again there is an opportunity for a word in season. You let it pass, Mrs. Maitland. You sorrow that Ella should so neglect her mission ; but do you perform yours ?

Poor Ella! In an unfortunate hour, after an angry dispute with Mr. Graham, who, to cure her extravagance, had, as he said, "stopped the supplies,” she accepted an invitation from i Mrs. Wilton, the wife of her other guardian, to accompany her and her family to town for the season-in an unfortunate hour, for the heiress, courted, flattered, fêted, drank deeply of the intoxicating cup of pleasure ; she learned to laugh at her former lofty aspirations as childishly romantic, to consider her early friend, whom she had once thought the pattern of womanly perfection, an amiable and well-meaning, but narrow-minded and needlessly strict religionist, and to seek distinction only in the world of fashion.



Far, far beneath the salt sea wave,
Where the scaly dolphins play,
Down where the “ desert waters rave"
And whirl the livelong day.

With the hard rock for a pillow,
And the cold waves for a shroud,
O’er his breast beats many a billow,
When the winds blow hoarse and loud.

And curtain'd is his manly brow
With the waving, shining weeds,
And the reef whereon he resteth now
Is the only couch he needs.

Play gently, () ye ripplets !

ye breezes, softly blow,
Weave a dirge in mournful triplets,
For the mariner below.

We know he soundly sleepeth,
Where the deep and solemn ocean
Her restless vigil keepeth,
With never-ceasing motion.
But soon a calm shall come,
O'er the ocean in her bed ;
And from many a cavern tomb
Shall the "sea give up her dead."
Then no more the stormy blast
Shall beat his weary breast,
But, his haven reached at last,
He shall then for ever rest.

Where'er our tomb may be,
In the dark and silent grave,
Under the cypress tree,
Or beneath the rolling wave,
May the same glad sound arise,
And call our souls away,
To the mansions in the skies,
To the realms of endless day.

West Ham.

H. E. W.

LIFE IN THE FLATS. A FRIEND of mine, a rising young architect, has just assured me that if I were to relate my own experience of “Life in the Flats,” it would not only serve to introduce to public notice a new and important building scheme, but also would probably remove some portion of the prejudice which this scheme is certain to encounter. My experience in this matter has not been a lengthened one, but I have resided long enough in Victoria Street, Westminster, to be able to speak positively on the subject.

You may have walked along this broad and goodly street, which starts away from the Abbey and is slowly being fringed with palatial piles of residences. Rising to a height of eighty feet, they present an imposing appearance. In one of these I reside, dear reader; I, my husband, three children, and two servants. These compose 'the whole of our domestic establishment. We inhabit an eighth part of the house, without taking into account the six shops and their mezzanine floors, over which our chambers extend. If


reckon those, why we have only one-fourteenth part of the whole house to call our own. So that there are fourteen families actually resident under one roof!

Well, but this is living in lodgings! Oh, dear, no. We have more privacy than we used to possess when we had what is popularly called “ a house." We quite distinct from the other families, have our own front door, and can talk as much about the “ Englishman's castle," as any other independent patriot. I have said that our privacy is greater. When we resided in Belvedere Street, a vastly genteel street, to be sure, rents and taxes aristocratically high, we could hear the bells ring in the adjoining house, and I well recollect what misery I used to be in because my

next neighbour would strum on her piano, forgetting that

e are

"walls have ears” sometimes. Nothing of the sort can occur here. The floors and walls are sound and fire-proof.

Then, in Belvedere Street, the people on the oppo- . site side of the way, could preserve a species of surveillance over us.

And did so: sundry peepings through Venetian blinds giving evidence. Now these chambers we are really private. The seven other families can see nothing of us, but our mahogany front door. The six shop-keepers, who roost beneath us, have no communication with our part of the house, and know nothing of our proceedings, except those that render us their customers.

But you want this explained. You want to know how it is that a house can become a colony. I will endeavour to enlighten you.

You will be pleased then to ring the porter's bell at the street door. This will bring Cerberus—but, no! we must not call this polite, respectable man, who officiates as porter, by such a name. You tell him, you want Mrs.

He informs


that she resides at No. 3; and bids you ascend the spacious and handsome stone staircase. Here, on the right and left, you find numbers 1 and 2, so that No. 3, is evidently on the second-floor. Another flight of stairs brings you opposite this door, where you can suppose I am standing to welcome you; or where you can suppose, if you prefer it, that the door is closed, and that your ring brings my very neat Betsy to answer your inquiries, and introduce you into our presence.

You enter, and find yourself in an entrance-hall. That door on your right hand, communicates with a bed-room; that door on your left, with the kitchen. We pass both these, and proceed along the hall till we reach the diningroom, on our right. This is a good-sized room, fifteen feet by sixteen feet, elegantly fitted up by the builder. My furniture suits admirably, you are pleased to say. Well, the next is the drawing-room, fifteen feet by

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