make Mary and himself happy all the rest of their lives. The girl was no less sanguine and full of simple and dreaming hope, in which there mingled no shadow of mistrust, no thought of change; and yet, how she wept to part with him! "Nay, but it must be for a little time," whispered the young sailor, as he kissed away her tears; "and then we will never separate again." "But when will you come back?” "In a year, perhaps." "A whole year, and then only perhaps !" "Oh, Mary, what can I do? God knows I would not leave you if I were not sure it was for the best. And after all, what with working hard-as we shall both of us have to do-and thinking of each other, the time will soon pass away." Mary wept silently; but she uttered no more complaints, for fear of saddening him. And they parted thus, in hope; Tom Overton contriving, at the nearest seaport town, to dispose of every little article of value which he possessed, and had vainly endeavoured to persuade her to accept, or "take care of for him," as he termed it, and transmit the money to his cousin, when it was too late for her to be able to refuse, or return it. and the bleak, chilly winds, that made her wish, when she was obliged to venture out, for something warmer than that thin, faded shawl. It also brought back an old enemy of hers, in the shape of a deep, harassing cough; and, what grieved her more than anything else, shrivelled up the leaves of her favourite flower, until it was reduced to a few withered sticks. But for all that, Mary knew it was not dead, and thought over all the changes that might come to pass before it once more put forth its tiny blossoms-whether she should still sit and watch it bud and bloom alone-whether she might even live until another spring-time. 'Any how," murmured the young girl, with an air of patient submission, God's will be done; what he ordereth is best for us." She might well say that! 66 It was a cold, hard winter-a terrible winter for the poor! Unable to afford the luxury of a fire, Mary often sat at work until her hands were so stiff and frozen, that she was forced to creep down stairs, and ask leave to warm them for a few moments at the stove of a widow woman who lived in one of the kitchens, and took in ironing and clear-starching; for there were so many of the Browns to crowd around the tiny fire, that smouldered rather than burnt all day long in their cheerless grate. The character which the widow bore among her neighbours was that of a stern, violent-tempered woman; and it was some time before Mary-cold and wearied as she was-could summon resolution to enter her presence. Years had passed away since then-years of toil and privation-during which the girl had grown pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed, and gone through many sore trials and temptations, such as more forcibly assail the children of poverty, and still preserved her pure and gentle spirit "Warm yourself, child? to be sure you may. unspotted from the world. Nay, even the very Why not bring down your work altogether? trust of her girlhood lingered yet. Tom Over-To be sure it's rather dark here; but you ton's long silence was a source of constant might manage, I should think, when it was melancholy, but unmingled with the gall of bit- nothing very particular." terness or suspicion. He is ill," she thought, "or dead, perhaps ;" and then she would bow down her head and weep: but the possibility of his being changed, or his having forgotten her, never entered her mind for a single instant. The unhappy are naturally superstitious, and trifling things come to us at such times, fraught with a deep and hidden meaning. To Mary, the recovery of what seemed like a lost treasure, the possession of her flower, appeared a glad omen, and served to make her hopeful and happy for a long time. Never, surely, was money better bestowed. It was like an old friend and companion; and all the girl's holiday moments were spent in watering, and tending, and shifting it from one streak of sunlight into another; while the flower lived on in that little close room, as if to cheer and comfort her; and a great comfort it was. It was said that Mary even got into the habit of talking to it, during the many long hours when she sat working all alone; and that her kind neighbour-the shoemaker's wife before mentioned-used to peep in, wonderingly just at first, to see whom she had with her; but grew accustomed to it after a time. Spring and summer passed away, and the autumn set in drear and early; so at least Mary learned from her friend Mrs. Brown's almanac, The poor girl's grateful reply touched the heart of that lone widow; and in a few moments, Mary was sitting by the stove, talking away perfectly at her ease; she even told her all about the flower, and how she feared these severe frosts would quite destroy it, and her companion offered to let it remain in her warm room. And then Mary began to love and be with her, and learned ironing and clearstarching; which was a great relief after sitting so long at her needle, and enabled her to be of service to her new friend, whenever she chanced to be more than usually busy. Thus it is that the very poorest help, and are kind to one another. What would become of them, if it were not so? It happened, at length, that Mary, in taking home some needlework, one wild, snowy night, being but thinly clad, caught a violent cold, or rather increased one which had been hanging about her for months before, and unable to bear up any longer, was laid upon a bed of sickness. "Poor child!" said the widow, as she and Mrs. Brown spoke together for the first time; while the latter, startled by the mild tones of her voice, felt sorry for all that she had ever said or thought against her. "Poor child! what is to become of her ?" "God knows," replied her companion; "but she must not want, while we have a bit of bread or a sup of milk; and it may be that it will please Him to take her presently to himself; for she has been long ailing, and seems to have little but toil and trouble before her in this world!" "And yet, how good and patient she is!" said the widow. "Aye, you may well say that; and when she had nothing else, was always ready with the kind word and the willing hand. No, she must not want." But little more passed between the neighbours, thus strangely brought together; but they met frequently after that at the bedside of poor Mary Ashton, and seemed to hold a sort of kindly rivalry with each other, which should be the most useful. Sometimes the mother, who was very fond of her children, would tell how they had offered of their own accord to go without a bit of meat on Sundays, the only time they ever tasted such a luxury, that it might be made into a nice, nourishing soup for the invalid, forgetting that it was only in imitation of her own self-denial so often evinced; while the widow praised them to her heart's content; and Mary, too weak to speak or move, although perfectly conscious of what was going forward, would fold her thin hands together, and bless them in her prayers. Directly she got the least bit better, nothing would do but she must sit up in bed, and work, had not her nurses absolutely forbidden it. "Wait till you are stronger, dear," said Mrs. Brown. "Shall I ever get stronger?" asked the weak and weary girl. "I hope so. 66 Ah, yes; for if I were to die, who would ever repay. all your kindness?" God," said the widow. "But is it for this only you desire to live ?" 66 Almost," replied Mary, beginning to weep afresh, for she was as feeble as a child. The widow went out silently, returning with the flower, or rather the flower-pot, which she placed smilingly at the foot of the bed; and then the girl smiled too, and soon afterwards fell asleep. Mrs. Brown thought it very strange, but the widow was thoughtful and sad: it may be that she also had some token-flower, for she was also friendless and desolate; while her companion, secure in the love of her husband and children, could almost defy poverty itself. Ah, it makes so much difference whether we suffer alone. It was a fine, bright morning, when the rare sunlight is full of promise, and friends congratulate each other that the winter is going at length; when a young man, with a broad, open brow, and somewhat weather-stained complexion, passed hastily down the small, close street in which the scene of our truthful history is laid, and paused at the very spot, just as Mrs. Brown returned from making her few and simple purchases, in which the wants of our poor heroine were not forgotten. a "Yes, her cousin. But where is she?" 66 Softly; you might frighten her." "No fear of that," replied the stranger, with clear, ringing laugh. "Not if she were well, perhaps; but be composed. I will tell her that you are here. Nay, she is better now. There is no danger, so you are careful." After a few moments, Mrs. Brown came back to say that Mary was asleep, and if he was not in any very great hurry, it would be best not to disturb her, as it was but little rest she got now, for her cough; and that the gentleman was quite welcome to sit in her room a bit, until the girl woke up. Tom Overton followed her mechanically. "Has Mary been long ill?" he asked, after a weary pause, during which his loquacious companion was only waiting for him to speak first, in order to tell him all that she knew; and a long and melancholy tale it was, although unfortunately but a very common one. When she came to relate about the flower, her guest, unable any longer to control his emotion, bowed down his head, and wept like a child; the good woman mingling her tears with his, for very sympathy, and presently, as though sharing in his impatience, she went again to see if Mary was yet awake. Nay, we fear it was not entirely accident that made her stumble over a chair that was not the least bit in the way, while the girl opened her eyes instantly, with a bewildered glance; and when Mrs. Brown told her all the joyful news, arranging as she spoke, with the instinct of a true woman, the soft, shining hair upon that faded brow; Mary, remembering only that he had returned, uttered his name in wild, glad accents, that brought him in another moment to her arms. And now all our heroine's real troubles are over, and she has suffered too many to seek imaginary ones for herself. It is true she was much changed, worn, and wasted, by toil and disease, to a mere shadow of her former self; but now that Tom had returned, she should soon grow well and strong again; and if not, he would love her just the same, she was sure of that. Mary's was the true faith it is in sickness and sorrow that affection is perfected, not lost. She judged him by her own warm heart, and Tom Overton was worthy of its sweet trust. The last time we saw Mary and her flower, was in a small picturesque cottage on the seacoast, where she let lodgings part of the year, and found ample employment during the re mainder in looking after her husband and babe. Tom Overton possessed an excellent situation in the Excise, and had altogether the careless, happy air of one well to do in the world. Mary was the most altered; we almost marvelled whether it could really be the same, to hear her blythe cheerful voice, and see how she tossed up her laughing child, or raced with it by the sea-shore. But the flower? Ah, there it is, by the open casement, against which they were now leaning; and the young wife has just broken off a blossom to place in the bosom of him for whose sake alone it had been so prized; while Tom Overton chides and kisses her at the same moment, for such wilful waste. Was it wasted? Now they are talking of old times. Mrs. Brown's second daughter has, it seems, been ill, and is coming to them in another week for change of air; and they have persuaded the poor widow to accompany her. They are to come down with a friend of Tom Overton's, free of all expense; and Mary's grateful heart is longing to pay back the debt of kindness which it owes, while she wonders, with a bright smile on her fair round face, whether they will know her again. But we must hasten to conclude this brief sketch; and it shall be with the fervent wish that all histories of the poor may end as happily as that of Mary and her Flower. THE CABALIST'S LAST DREAM. Bright midnight had becalmed the earth to peace, Save for the wild birds' thrilling notes of love, And where the rippling stream her music made, Reflecting the clear stellar skies above, A hermit sat within a wild alcove, O'erhung with flowers of hues and odours sweet. And his glazed orbs were roving through the sky, His cryptic dreams had been his mind's choice food; Still as he sat encircled in his dreams, His pale lips thrilled-the Cabalist was dead. FIRST LOVE. BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS. They never loved, oh never! who declare They never loved, oh never! who can feel They never loved who deem it like that flow'r, The sweet heart-rose,* in loveliness array'd, That gaily blossoms in meridian hour, But lo! at eve falls wither'd and decay'd. No, love; the love of woman, faithful, true, Oh! e'en when basest infidelity The tend'rest feeling of her soul requites, Still, like the aromatic sandal tree,† Which sheds around the ruthless axe that smites A perfume richer than it e'er exhaled, As falling prostrate, riven to the earth; So woman's love, 'mid wrong hath never failed, But blesses still the one who gave it birth. Bereft of hope, forsaken, and forlorn, Her love survives, her most unselfish love, Pure as the ether that receives young morn When she awakes to gild the skies above. Oh, as the peeydo's melancholy strain Delights the eastern maiden's pensive heart, Although its song bids her wounds bleed again, It still is cherish'd for that very smart ; So, mem'ry in her bosom keeps alive The bitter anguish of the blighted past, Against whose harrowing pangs she doth not strive, But hopes most holily 'till death they'll last! *"The jâsûndi, is a sort of red rose, which, when it opens from the bud, a thing like a heart becomes visible. It looks rich and beautiful on the tree, but withers in a single day.”—Memoirs of Baber. "The beautiful Arya couplet, written three centuries before our âera, pronounces the duty of a good man, even in the moment of his destruction, to consist not only in forgiving, but even in a desire of benefiting his destroyer; as the sandal tree, in the instant of its overthrow, sheds perfume on the axe which fells it."-Sir W. Jones. "The peeydo (beloved), probably a thrush, is said by Abul Jazel to sing most enchantingly during the night, when its lays cause the old wounds of lovers to bleed afresh."-Metropolitan Magazine. "You must all come to the French plays to night at St. James's Theatre," said Cholmondely, as he paid his morning respects one fine day in February: "they are just opened, and it is quite a study to watch the actors; their style is so different from that of our English performers." The proposal was carried by universal acclamation, and a private box engaged. The first piece was a lively vaudeville, and the gentleman had barely time to read the bill over to the ladies before the curtain drew up. All were highly amused: there were, as usual, a cruel father, a despairing lover, an espiègle daughter, and a brigand and his wife. Now," said Mary, laughingly, we shall the next scene, I see, be admitted into the brigand's cave. I wonder if he makes a kind husband. The parts are played by husband and wife-Monsieur and Madame Augustine." The scene shifted; a woman on her knees, imploring the mercy of a ruthless tyrant; the man's back was to the audience; he turned round suddenly with a furious ejaculation, and through the false locks, the paint, the disguise, Edina Bremer recognized her father! She could not, would not believe it; but the voice was his; and, oh shame and horror, when the woman rose and advanced near the footlights, the face was that of the hated Mrs. Benjamin Stratton. With a sudden start Edina glanced at Cholmondely; she might she might be mistaken; but the expression of deep, sad pity, as she caught his eye, told her she had seen too truly. Vainly she attempted to master her emotion; grief, horror, terror overwhelmed her, and she fell lifeless on the seat she occupied. Cholmondely whispered a few words of explanation to the terrified ladies, and lifting the senseless maiden in his arms, bore her instantly to the open air; but still she showed no signs of returning animation; and as he did not dare to leave her, he summoned a street cab, and drove rapidly to her lodgings. She never moved the whole way; the blow seemed to have struck at the very root of her life: she did not breathe, but lay heavy and pale in his arms. Cholmondely was deeply touched; he had always seen in her such wonderful calmness, such habitual self-control, that he knew the anguish must be terrible which could thus prostrate her senses. Arrived at the house, he carried her to the sitting-room, laid her on the sofa, and summoned the maid; but in spite of hartshorn, salts, and water, it was half-an-hour ere they could restore her; and the first signs of life she gave were sighs that seemed to break her heart. After a fit of shuddering, which shook her frame, she at length opened her eyes; but seeing Cholmondely, all seemed to rush back on her memory: she closed them, and murmured piteously, "Oh that I could die-that I could die! Shame! shame! oh, heavy, heavy blow!" Her faint colour ran back into her face, then ebbed once more; and the large hot tears slowly rose to the shut lids, and oozed through the long, thick lashes. Hoping a fit of weeping would relieve her, Cholmondely now thought of returning to the friends he had left at the play; but when Edina, sitting up, and gazing round the room, saw he was about to leave her, she implored him so earnestly to stay, that he could not refuse; he was really alarmed for her, her words were so incoherent. "You may go, Benson," she told the servant; "I shall not want anything more; I am well, quite well, now," and she put back the long hair, which had fallen confusedly over her face, and tried to smile. But her appearance was so ghastly, that Cholmondely begged her to let him send for a medical man. No, no," she murmured, "I need nothing, nothing, but-but your assistance. Oh, let me entreat this kindness. Will you see him?"-she could not name her father. "Will you find him out for me? I cannot see him; it is too much!" she continued, speaking at intervals, and with great effort. It would be shame to both father and child, but I would help him: I have some money, more than I need; I would give him an annuity to support him, withoutwithout such degradation as we saw to-night, if she (here she stopped, and her blood rushed all over her face and neck)-if she-" then she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed-" if he would give her up, and show some respect to the memory of my poor unhappy mother. 66 A pause ensued; Edina's face was hid in her hands, and she wept long and vehemently. Cholmondely's heart was penetrated with admiration and respect for the noble, pure-hearted girl, and he was silent from a choking in his throat, which prevented his words from being heard. At last he mustered courage to assure her of his aid, his brotherly aid, he said, with affectionate emphasis; and promised to discover the unhappy man's abode, and to call on him next morning; and, by her further request, he agreed to relate to the faithless husband the awful end of the deserted wife. "It may touch him; it must, if he has a heart; oh, God grant it may soften him." She held out her hand to the young man; he pressed it respectfully and fervently to his lips; she looked surprised, fluttered, and again burst into tears. "God forgive me for my repining," she said; "I have still friends in this desolate world." her then, long, long ago, ere I had forfeited all influence over her fate." "I am not her husband," answered the young man, blushing deeply; "but being engaged to her cousin, Miss Melville, I take a brother's interest in your noble-minded daughter." "Ah, noble-minded she is-glorious, glorious young creature! Had I listened to her, I should not have been wholly lost. None can know but myself the excellencies of that girl. And how brutally I rewarded them! threw her and her mother helpless on the world!" He seemed afraid to ask after his injured wife. Very wretched and degraded he looked; his tone was that of despair. Cholmondely had some difficulty in unfolding his mission; and when he related, with faltering tones, the dreadful madness and death of Mrs. Bremer, the guilty man was shaken to the soul. He flung himself on the couch, and deep convulsive sobs racked his frame. At length he became more composed, and asked many questions about his daughter, bitterly reproaching himself for his sins towards her and towards the dead. 'I have never had a moment's peace since I left them. The money I procured by selling my commission was soon squandered; we then went to France-we!-oh, young man, beware of my example. This unhappy woman loved me, and though I could desert wife and child for her, yet a fancied honour has prevented me casting her on deeper infamy. This last resource of acting was for bare subsistence." Cholmondely now told him Edina's offer, and its condition. Mary was much astonished at Cholmondely's long absence, and still more so when he mentioned Edina's extreme illness, and gave no cause for it; for the poor girl had begged him not to betray such a painful discovery; even consolation, she said, was agonizing in such circumstances. Mary was a little piqued: she dearly loved Edina, but she thought her lover had spent a very unnecessary hour with a sick person-better to have left her to Benson, or procured a doctor; but she was too sweet-tempered long to indulge in pettishness, and I have no doubt this transient jealousy inclined her more warmly towards her affianced than she had ever felt before. No woman's feelings arrive at their height till urged upwards by a passing fit "I cannot give up Eugenie," repeated the of jealousy a passing one, for such a frequent unfortunate; "for me she wrecked life and visitor were more likely to alienate than to en- honest fame-I cannot abandon her to starvadear. Cholmondely was true to his promise; tion; nay, it is my duty, since I am free, to he ascertained at the theatre that night the abode marry her, and do her all the justice I can; her of Monsieur Augustine, and the next morning husband has been long dead. Leave us, Capfound him on his way thither. It was a forlorn-tain Cholmondely, I am dying—I am past hope looking house, in a narrow, shabby street, off in this world; leave me to my wretchednessthe eastern end of Oxford-street. A dirty, God forgive me!' is my daily cry but surely I shaggy man opened the door, and ushered the have sinned past all forgiveness." gentleman into a small, smoky parlour, with no fire, and very little furniture. On a very suspicious-looking sofa, which I daresay had for many years graced the pavement of Tottenham Court Road before it found a purchaser, the soi-presence. Oh, if you are a friend, watch over disant Madame Augustine sat, conning her role for the evening. She coloured at the entrance of a handsome and elegant man, with a soldierly bearing which none could mistake. She was still very handsome, though her cheeks were haggard, and her dress slovenly. A few seconds after his arrival, the unfortunate and guilty father stood before his daughter's friend. The lady hastily retired on his appearance, and the two men were left gazing at each other. "You come from my child," said the unhappy father: "I saw you last-night beside her; I saw her faint at the sight of me: yes, she might well shrink in horror from the wretched author of her being! Are you her husband? I remember your face well; you seemed to like Cholmondely's heart ached; he did indeed seem bound for the grave, and floating rapidly to the tomb. "I will leave England," he said, "I will not grieve my child by my detestable my helpless girl. She is self-sufficing to a wonderful degree; but, alas! woman is exposed to many and bitter trials and dangers. Never lose sight of her, Captain Cholmondely; be her friend and her guardian for life. It is the last prayer of a dying, despairing man." Cholmondely readily promised his prayer, and the earnestness of his voice left no room to doubt his sincerity. He then returned to Edina, and gave her an account of his visit. Various were the feelings that agitated her breast; and Cholmondely thought she looked almost beautiful as the colour rose and sank in her face, and her deep inquiring eyes restlessly changed and melted at his recital. She was mortified at her father's refusal to accept of her assistance, |