approve of her desire to act as she thought right. Ellen had heard of the proposal, and did all she could to strengthen Mary. She considered that she had decided for the best, and, whenever they were together, employed her in the arrangements of the journey: she was cheerful herself, and talked of the pleasure they should feel if she were restored to health, and able to return and meet her friends after so long an absence. Mary had so long sought for comfort and direction from Ellen, and was so well aware of the improvement and pleasure to be derived from her society, that the separation was much dreaded; but Miss Stanmore, although weak and suffering herself, spared no pains to raise the spirits of all round her; and the day when she took leave of them was much less melancholy than they expected. Mary now devoted herself more to Bessie than ever, and determined to do all she could that the child might not miss her instructress, and thought only of the satisfaction and reward it would be to her, if Ellen, on her return, found Bessie as much improved as she expected.

CHAPTER VIII.

EVERY day that brought fresh strength and knowledge to Bessie, made a still greater, though very different, change in Robert. The poor old man suffered much in the winter from rheumatism, and depended entirely on the two little girls for his comfort and amusement. While Mary was busy with her household duties, Bessie, seated on a stool by the side of his chair, in her childish language would give him long accounts of their walks and visits to Mrs. Adams, at the now deserted Hall. While watching her artless endeavours to make herself understood, and to amuse him, Robert, for the time, forgot his pains. He often longed to be able to see her father receive from his child the domestic joys and comforts which his wife's death had taken from him; he often tried to accustom her to believe, that, should he ever return, she owed to him the obedience and attentions that she now bestowed on her grandfather. But no news had been heard of her parent since his wife's death; and, although they sometimes spoke of his coming, no one appeared to expect him: Mary, who feared he might take the child from them, always felt averse even to hearing the event talked of. Robert had become quite intimate with Mr. Beverley, and it seemed the greatest relief to him to be able to talk unreservedly to such a considerate friend. He felt happy in the idea that his two girls were surrounded by those who would watch over them when he was taken from them; he did not allow such anxieties to press on his mind, and tranquilly awaited the end of his mortal life, which, from his age and the trials he had undergone, he felt sure would not be very distant. To Martha Robert proved as great a blessing as she had hoped he would be. Her children learned to value his precepts, and soon found that obedience and constant endeavours to do what was right, brought them far greater happiness than their former carelessness had ever afforded them. Robert was never tired of repeating to them the advice of his former master, and contrived various ways of showing them practically what they ought to do. He treated all the younger branches of the family as his grandchildren, and watched their improvement with heartfelt satisfaction. In the course of time they entered upon their different modes of supporting themselves; and some left their father's house to follow the employments which they had adopted. James remained at home to superintend the farm, and showed no inclination to leave his parents or his cousin Mary.

The winter that Miss Stanmore spent abroad seemed a very long one to her friends, and, when the spring returned, all rejoiced in the idea that she would soon come back to them; but so many objects of interest presented themselves on the way home, that Mrs. Stanmore was tempted to linger, and it was late in the summer before the family arrived. Mary had been so

anxious, that Mrs. Adams promised to send her word directly she had seen Miss Stanmore. For several days the message was expected, and being disappointed, she determined to go and see if any fresh intelligence had been received. As she could not leave home until late in the evening, she first put Bessie to bed, and made Robert comfortable in his easy chair. Robert had begged her cousin James to walk with her, as it would be so late and dark when she returned. The two cousins, happy in having an opportunity of enjoying the beauty of the evening, walked merrily to the Hall, where they found they were just in time to receive the travellers, Mrs. Adams having a few hours before heard that they would reach home that night. She had not forgotten her promise to Mary, but was very glad she had come to spare her the trouble of sending. Mary readily assisted in the preparations, but, on hearing the carriage stop at the park gates, she left James to finish what she was doing, and ran towards it, impatient to catch a glimpse of Ellen. Miss Stanmore had alighted once more in her own house, and the two girls were soon walking side by side. The restoration of the latter's health was the chief subject that interested Mary; and, when she had learnt that her kind friend was perfectly recovered, and had given a rapid account of Bessie, she would not indulge in further conversation, and departed, with the hope of soon meeting again. As Mary walked back with James, she amused him with her gay spirits. She could scarcely control the joy she felt, and chattered and laughed so heartily, that she did not notice they had entered the village, until he reminded her that they were now at Mr. Beverley's, and she had promised to inform him of their friend's safety. Mary felt quite ashamed at having so nearly forgotten her errand, and asked her companion to wait while she gave the message, telling him she should soon come to him, as Robert and Bessie would also be glad to hear the news. She was not very long speaking to Mr. Beverley, and when she joined her cousin she was surprised to find a stranger with him. He immediately turned towards her, and explained why he addressed them. She had mentioned the names of two persons he was now seeking, and entreated she would give him all the particulars she could relating to them, as he thought they must be the same. Mary was almost frightened at the agitation and eagerness with which the man spoke, and gladly left it to James to answer him. After asking several questions, !! the man enquired whether they would take him to see the old man and child of whom they were speaking. Mary did not think it was quite right the stranger should wish to disturb them at so late an hour, and told him she thought he had better wait until the next day. "I cannot," she added decidedly, "wake the child without knowing that your reason is a good one."

"Suppose," replied the man, in a tone that bespoke his interest, "you were a parent, seeking a long-lost child, would you like to be kept several hours in suspense, when you hoped that you had found her?"

James, who had before suspected the truth, now in his turn made many enquiries; and the result was, that all three were persuaded he was Bessie's father. It was impossible to object to his seeing his child, and Mary hastened forward to tell Robert of the meeting, while her companions lingered outside. She feared the old man was not strong enough to bear any sudden emotion, and, as gently and as gradually as she could, she related all that had passed. The stranger was called in, and when Robert saw him, there was no longer any doubt. The last time they had met was on so painful an occasion, that both were much affected. Mary saw that her grandfather was unable to take him to his child, and accordingly begged that he would follow her; shading the candle with one hand, she drew near to the bed. The unconscious little one received her father's kiss in ignorance of the deep feelings she had excited in his heart. She greatly resembled her mother, and a thousand painful recollections crowded into his thoughts.

Before he turned from the bed-side he resolved never again to forsake the dear child who was now so merci fully restored to him, but to devote his remaining days to her, who would henceforth be his greatest earthly happiness. When they returned to the sitting-room, Mary entreated that Robert might be spared further excitement that night; he was quite exhausted, and required the night's repose. With reluctance they were obliged to separate, James taking the traveller to the farm. He was to see Bessie again early the next morning; he dreaded lest his child should treat him as a stranger, and refuse his caresses; but Mary promised to prepare her for the meeting. The child had experienced so much affection from all around her, that she never doubted her father would love her, and returned his embrace with so much confidence, that all his fears were dissipated, and they were soon intimate. The previous evening Mary had had a severe struggie with her own selfish feelings: she much dreaded a separation from her little darling, and had with difficulty persuaded herself to feel rejoiced at the event, but when she saw the child's head resting on her father's shoulder, her laughing eyes fixed with wonder on his sunburnt countenance, and delighted with finding herself so petted, while the father first blessed his child with heartfelt emotion, and then turned to thank Mary for her care of his treasure, she no longer grieved, but joined in their happiness. Robert seemed much relieved by his son's return, and made him his chief companion and attendant. Mary, who had refused to leave him or Bessie while they so much needed her care, now felt in a great measure released from such constant watchfulness, and, with the consent and approval of all interested in her, returned to her uncle's house as James's wife. Martha had long loved her as dearly as her own children, and with great satisfaction resigned to her the active duties which she had fulfilled for her husband and family.

a comparison with any work of a like character, ancient or modern.

There are in these volumes many very interesting particulars, many discoveries of the most informing nature, and very agreeable and entertaining descriptions of the researches made A melancholy feature, among the mountains. appertaining to the work, consists in the death of the Rev. E. Daniell, a most intelligent traveller, who died from the effects of his exertions in the pursuit of all that could enlighten mankind with respect to this interesting country. This gentleman had intended publishing a work of the same nature as the present, but was taken away, ere he had finished collecting the materials. An apology is made by his fellow workers, for which there seems little occasion, as they have executed their designs nobly, and have presented the public with two volumes which are calculated to improve our acquaintance with Lycia to a very considerable extent. The sites of no fewer than eighteen cities were explored and determined during these investigations and researches. The situation of the pleasure houses of the Turks, are chosen with an evident appreciation of the beautiful. The description of Tlos is very well drawn.

"We remained three days at Tlos. It is a most delightful place. Few ancient sites can vie with it. Built on the summit of a hill of great height, bounded by perpendicular precipices and deep ravines, commanding a view of the entire length of the valley of the Xanthus; the snow-capped Taurus in one distance, the sea in another; the whole mass of Cragus and its towering peaks and the citadel of Pinara in front; itself immediately overhung by the snowy summits of the Massicytus,-a grander site for a great city could scarcely have been selected in all Lycia. Pinara has, perhaps, more majesty; but there is a softness combined with the grandeur of Tlos, giving it a charm which Pinara has not.

older tombs are similar to those at Telmessus; but there are others, of an apparently later period, having their chambers excavated in the rock, but with the doorways regularly built. Such tombs have often long Greek inscriptions. The oldest tomb, to all appearance, at Tlos, is the largest and most interesting. It is a temple-tomb fronted by a pediment, borne on columns of peculiar form and Egyptian aspect, having no carved capitals, and being wider at the base than at the upper part. From such columns the Ionic might have originated, for we can hardly suppose this, apparently the most ancient and important tomb in Tlos, to have carved door, or rather imitation door, with knocker and been left unfinished. Within the portico is a handsome lock, on each side of which are windows opening into large tombs. On one side of the portico is carved a figure, which we may recognise as Bellerophon, which may represent Mount Cragus, to encounter an mounted on Pegasus, and galloping up a rocky hill,

enormous leopard sculptured over one of the tomb entrances on the right side of the door. This animal may be a form of Chimera, but presents none of the mythological attributes, and is, in all probability, the representation of a "caplan," the leopard which infests the crags of Cragus at the present day. An ornamental flourish appears on the door side near the leopard, and

is repeated on the corresponding panel on the other side; but there is no animal carved on that panel. On the panels beneath the tomb are carved dogs, and there are also traces of others on the pediment. Pegasus is a Persian horse, having a top knot and knotted tail. A saddle cloth of ornamental character has been painted on his back. The group of figures appears to have been originally painted. The head dress of Bellerophon is very peculiar, as also the arrangement of the beard. The eye is rather full and Greek. There is no inscription on the tomb. A few feet from it, on a level with the pediment, is a Lycian inscription in a panel on the rock, the characters of which are much larger than any we have met with elsewhere. Two other Lycian inscriptions occurred at Tlos; one on a tomb on the opposite hill, and another on one near the base of the acropolis hill. None of these had been previously noticed."-Vol. i. p. 33.

A curious superstition prevails at Isna, where a stone is believed by the peasantry to contain a treasure, and that any one attempting to break it to possess the interior, is instantly deprived of the use of some of his limbs, or even life. All attempts to reason them out of this belief are utterly thrown away. It would seem that the party were greatly annoyed by the Turkish dogs, who barked and bit their horses, and would not upon many occasions be quieted until they had smelt gunpowder. Generally speaking, the inhabitants afforded every facility for the comfort, convenience, and information, of the scientific inquirers. Gipsies are numerous, and are incessant beggars.

"The gipsies abound in this neighbourhood, and plagued us when working among the tombs, the women unceasingly asking for money. Some of the girls were pretty, and there is a grace and air about the Chingunee women which the Turkish and Urook females cannot boast of. Some had tambourines, and others sang the wild airs of their tribe. They dress in the fashion of Turkish women, but do not veil the face.

A white scarf is twisted round the head, and partly covers the chin; and the body shawl is usually particoloured, bright green and bright red.

"The men are cattle dealers, and tinkers; and, though dressed as Turks, are easily distinguished by their countenances and lively manner,-not the busy liveliness of the Greek, but the wild gaiety of the Zingari."-Vol. i. p. 152.

It is satisfactory to know, that Mr. Sharpe's conclusions as to the coins to which he has paid so much attention, were fully borne out by the observations of Professor Forbes. The finding the site of Termessus is thus graphically related:

Early in the morning we commenced the ascent of the mountain, to seek for the ruined city. The first part was over steep and rocky ground, but after a time we came upon an ancient roadway, leading towards an opening in the mountain side between two towering rocky peaks. Following this road, which was buried in trees, and encumbered by underwood, for an hour and a half, we suddenly came upon two ancient guard-houses, almost perfect, one on either side of the way. We did not linger to trace any connecting wall, but hurried anxiously on with sanguine expectations. For nearly a mile we met with no other traces of ruins. Some sarcophagi were at length discovered among the thickets, and near them on the face of a great rock were carved in large letters the words

« ΠΛΑΤΟΝΙΚΟΣ ΦΙΛΟΣΟΦΟΣ.

"Suddenly, after crossing a low wall, we emerged from the thicket, and entered an open and flat area

between the two great rocks, and walled in by inaccessible precipices. On it ruins were profusely scattered: numerous built tombs and sarcophagi, fallen buildings of large size, and a temple, the ornamented doorway of which still stood, fronted by a goodly flight of steps. Fluted columns of large dimensions lay strewed in fragments on the ground. Unwilling to delay until we had ascertained the full extent of the city, after a hasty glance, we proceeded to the upper end of the platform. Here the valley became more contracted, and a strong and perfect wall was thrown across it. Within this, ruins of a nobler style and more perfect preservation appeared, especially a palatial building of great extent, having numerous doors and windows, and almost perfect to the roof: like the others, it was constructed of rectangular blocks of lime-stone, without intervening cement. Before us, on what appeared to be the mountain top, a third wall appeared, to which we ascended, expecting to find the acropolis. Hitherto we inscriptions; but on ascending to the last-mentioned had met with no mention of the city in any of the wall we came upon an inscribed pedestal, which assured us we were in Termessus,-a name shouted out by the finders with no small delight, and echoed by the old rocks as if in confirmation. It must have been new to them after having rested so long unspoken.

"On reaching the third wall, our surprise was great at finding that hitherto we had been wandering, as it were, only in the vestibule of the city, and that Termessus itself was yet to come, built on the mountain top, even as Arrian has recorded. It stood on a platform surrounded by a natural wall of crags, three to four hundred feet high, except on the east, where it terminated in a tremendous precipice, diving into a deep gorge, opening into the Pamphylian plain.

"After crossing the third wall, our attention was first attracted by an avenue, bordered on each side by a close row of pedestals, terminated at each end by public buildings, apparently temples. These pedestals were almost all inscribed, and the inscriptions in good preservation. One of them was of peculiar interest, confirming this site as Termessus Major."--Vol. i. p. 232.

things," and is confirmed in these volumes, for, It is an old saying that "travellers see strange in an account of the habits and actions of the stork, we are told that they invariably give the preference to the habitations of the Turks, and shun the intercourse of the Christian population. The history of the matter seems to solve itself in the fact that the one encourages their contiguity, whilst the other (the Greeks) drive them away.

This notice cannot be better concluded, than by giving the following extract of the farewell to

Xanthus.

"From the sharp and narrow summit of this lofty peak we enjoyed our last look over Lycia: below us lay the whole expanse of the Xanthian plain, and beyond we could see far into the gorges and yailahs of Massicytus, now as familiar to us as the hills and valleys of our native land. In the bird's-eye view before us, long journeys of miles and hours appeared as brief spaces asunder; and the labyrinth of hills and crags we had so lately trodden, seemed levelled into plains and gentle undulations. Such is the steepness of Cragus, that its precipices plunge from the snowy summit to the sea, and from the lofty pinnacle on which we stood we could see the waves breaking white against its base. This was a fine spot from which to bid farewell to a beautiful land, nor did we descend without sensations of regret."-Vol. i. p. 301.

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real, or assumed, of the Author,

is printed in Small Capitals, under the title; in Selections it is printed in Italies at the end.]

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow past, And all around the noon-day sun a dreamy radiance cast; No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat, beneath the orchard trees, In that fresh-budding spring of youth when all its prospects please:

And little recked they when they sang or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names, held none more dear,

than theirs;

And little e'en the loveliest thought before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent, from the ancient Stuart line; Calmly her happy days flew on, unnumbered in their flight; And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court,-the gay court of
Bourbon,-

And 'neath a thousand silver lamps a thousand courtiers throng;
And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well-pleased I ween to see
The court assemble all its wealth of and chivalry;
grace
Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has passed a storm of years,
Strong in himself, in children strong, the first among the peers.
And next the Guises, who so well Fame's steepest heights
assailed,

And walked Ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts had failed;

And higher yet their path shall be, stronger shall wax their might,
For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light.
Here, Louis, Prince of Condé, wears his all-conquering sword,
With great Coligny by his side, each name a household word!
And there walks she of Medicis-that proud Italian line-
The mother of a race of kings-the haughty Catherine.
The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine make,
A milky-way of stars, that give a comet's glittering wake.
But fairer far than all the rest who bask on Fortune's tide,
Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride;
The homage of a thousand hearts, the fond deep love of one;
The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun ;
They lighten up her hazel eyes; they mantle o'er her check;
They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak.
Oh! who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant
hours,

She thought of that quiet convent's calm,-its sunshine and its flowers ?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way;
And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay;
And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast-receding hills that dim and distant rise.
No marvel that the lady wept,-there was no land on earth
She loved like that dear land,--although she owed it not her
birth!-

It was her mother's land,--the land of childhood and of friends:
It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends;
The land where her dear husband slept; the land where she had
known

The tranquil convent's calm repose, and the splendour of a throne!

No marvel that the lady wept,-it was the land of France,-
The chosen home of chivalry,-the garden of romance:
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark;

One gaze again,-one long last gaze,-adieu, fair France to

thee!

The breeze comes forth, she is alone on the unconscious sea.

The scene was changed; it was an eve of raw and sullen mood; And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds; The touch of care had blanched her cheek-her smile was sadder

now;

The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow:
And traitors to her counsels came, and rebels to the field;
The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could
not wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes the dreams of youth's brief day

She summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years, the songs of gay Navarre; The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by the gallant Chatelar; They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils;

But, hark! the tramp of armed men the Douglas battle-cry!— They come! they come! and to the scowl of Ruthven's hollow

She staid her steed upon the hill-she saw them marching by;
She heard them shout; she read success in every flashing eye:
The tumult of the strife begins-it roars-it dies away-
And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers, where are
they?

Scattered, and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone !
O God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won!
Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part;
Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart!

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood,

And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, And breathless silence chained the lips, and touched the hearts of all;

Rich were the velvet robes she wore her white veil round her fell

And from her neck there hung the cross-the cross she loved so well!

I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom; I saw that grief had decked it out an offering for the tomb!

I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone ;

I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone;

I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living gold;
I knew that bounding grace of step, that symmetry of mould!
E'en now I see her far away, in that calm convent's aisle;
I hear her chaunt her vesper hymn-I mark her holy smile.
E'en now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn,
A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born.
Alas, the change! She placed her foot upon a triple throne,
And on a scaffold now she stands beside the block-alone!
The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd,
Who screened themselves beneath her glance, and round her
footsteps bowed.

Her neck is bare-the blow is struck-her soul has passed away!
The bright the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay.
Go- -think of this in silence, and alone-
Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne.
From an Old Manuscript.

Miscellaneous.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

MOUNTAIN SCENERY.

Ir may, at least, be doubted whether the love which the inhabitants of mountain districts bear to their father-land involves any sense of the grandeur of its scenes beyond the sanctity which the few events of their simple lives attach to the objects immediately associated with them. As far as I have been able to ascertain, a feeling of grandeur and beauty is not often expanded within them; though the semblances of it soon become affected when tourists teach them its value

in the market for the romantic. However this may be, I believe the experience of most of those whose sensibilities are awakened by the presence of material greatness will concur with my own-that the first effect is that of wonder and depression; that the spirits sink among great mountain tops almost as if beneath a weight of care, and some shivering sense of oppression comes over us like that which I have imperfectly, and perhaps extravagantly, described as chilling me in the huge Alpine solitude among the heights above Airolo at the foot of the St. Gothard. This feeling of lovely sadness arises from the susceptibility of the mind to the impression of the regions around it, with a conscious want of powers adequate to spiritualize the gigantic images, and to make them its own; and it will continue so long as there is intellectual activity enough to desire a communion which there is not force enough to realize. He who is thus subjected to the forms of matter feels like a dwarf in the homes of giants, which he is told should be his home and his inheritance, but in which he discovers nothing for him but frowning tyranny. But to an active sensibility, the recurrence not only to the same scene, but to scenes on a scale of correspondent or kindred majesty, gradually overcomes the strangeness. "The divinity that stirs within us asserts its relation to the huge shapes around us; old sensations of tranquil beauty cleave to the lower and lovelier features of the mighty scene, and the chilled waste becomes aired by the warmth of human affections. Not only do we learn to people the fastnesses of nature with "imaginary puissance," to feel in the huge breast of the mountain à sustaining power, to grasp on the verge of the black precipice a giddy joy, to recognise

| the spirit of loveliness subduing mere bleak sublimity to its uses; but the sense of other moments of precious experience heightens the present, and makes us feel at home in the wildest solitude. It is not necessary to this reduplication of sentiment and delight that the mind should be conscious of the scenes which have enriched it; the silent spirit of other days is near us unseen, and sheds an interest at once strange and familiar on objects upon which for the first time we gaze. By this cause alone can I explain the home-felt charm which always spreads delight over the mind on the view of the distant ocean, serene in some tranquil light. The object itself-cold, desolate, vast, unbounded, restless, ever-changing-can offer no material repose congenial to the world-vexed spirit; and yet to me, at least, it is never stretched out in soft blue, or flecked by clouds, or quivering in moonlight, without imparting a sense of home. This feeling, which I believe is common, can only be accounted for by the many half-forgotten hours in which the same great object has been gazed on, while a thousand serious, though idle, musings (all traced in the immortal book of memory), have attached themselves to its expanse, and are ever faintly reflected from the lovely tranquillity of the ocean-field. I cannot therefore help thinking, that whatever may be the experience of the few who are endowed with insight into the mysteries of creation beyond their fellows, it is better for the mass (among whom, I rejoice to believe, the true love of external nature is largely diffused) to have that love first expanded and nurtured in youth among quiet scenes of English beauty; to trace back its throbbings to the time when the little schoolboy, on his hard pillow, has half remembered, half dreamed, of the fields and wood-walks he had carelessly paced in free childhood, and embracing them again with his holiday vision, has first felt that sweet faintness of the heart with which a recurrence to old scenes affects us; to embrace by the light of that love the grander scenes of its own land; and, after such cultivation in his own country, to enrich it with the mightier grandeur of Switzerland, or bathe the delighted spirit among the luxuries of Italy.—Talfourd.

"

"WHEN I was a little child," said a good old man, her hand upon my head while she prayed. Ere I was my mother used to bid me kneel beside her, and place old enough to know her worth she died, and I was left too much to my own guidance. Like others, I was inclined to evil passions, but often felt myself checked, and, as it were, drawn back by a soft hand upon my head. When a young man, I travelled in foreign lands, and was exposed to many temptations; but when I would have yielded, that same hand was upon my head, and I was saved. I seemed to feel its pressure as in the with it a voice in my heart, a voice that must be days of my happy infancy; and sometimes there came obeyed, 'Oh do not this wickedness, my son, nor sin against thy God.""