Sackville may yet escape. The Major is a vulgar man of low family.

Second Visitor.-To tell the truth my memory fails me as to the particulars, but I know his conduct was such as I have just described it.

My Wife.-What kind of girl is Miss Sackville? I have seen her occasionally but am not intimate with her. I have heard that she is amiable.

Mrs. Anton-Why there is nothing positively objectionable in her nor positively pleasing-she is rather milk-and-waterish. She certainly has not shown much taste or discretion in her choice of a Lover.

Myself. She is very pretty, I think !

Mrs. Anton.-Oh! dear no-she has no pretensions to beauty. First Visitor.-Not the slightest !

Second Visitor.-I think her face if not strictly beautiful is rather pleasing.

First Visitor.-I can only say that I never saw any thing pleasing in it myself. She has no expression whatever. Her face is like her character-not actually bad but common-place and insipid. By the way I hear her friend Mrs. Trueberry is at last found out; Her husband discovered her on Friday evening to be on very familiar terms with young Mountford.

Mrs. Anton. I always thought her a very disreputable woman -I never liked her from the first day of our acquaintance. [This sentence was hardly out of the speaker's mouth when Mrs. Trueberry was announced.] Ah! my dear Mrs. Trueberry, is this you!-why you are quite a stranger I have not seen you since Sir Charles Metcalfe's last party, which is now three weeks ago.

Mrs. Trueberry.-You know my dear, I dont like stirring out much these hot mornings, and I have to scold you for your long neglect of us. This is the first time for the last three years that you have not given us a call at least twice in the month. How is it you have not been ill I hope?

Mrs. Anton. I have been out of town spending a few weeks with the Hunters and was never so tired of my company in my life. I found them perfect bores and was very glad to leave them.

[The writer had got thus far in the above article when he was interrupted by visitors, and has not since had an opportunity of resuming it. It shall be continued and concluded on a future occasion.] X.

Our correspondent must be a little more moderate and charitable or we can. not promise to give insertion to his future lucubrations.-ED.

TEARS.

I.

Tears blessed Tears!-they urge, not all in vain,

Their course thro' throbbing hearts and aching breasts ;-
Like-heaven-blest infants, born 'midst pangs of pain,
Who live on earth joy's best and blithest guests,-

They spring from agony, but, as they flow,

Peace enters the torn heart and heals its woe.

II.

Tears blessed Tears! but not those lava showers
That well from passion's hot volcanic stream ;-
Tears! holy Tears!-not such as Frenzy pours

When disappointment wakes hope from its dream ;-
Tears! trusting Tears! such as affection rains
Upon the breast that shares its joys and pains!

III.

Sole brother of my hope and heart! those dews
Upon each others' breasts have we not shed?
And can ev'n cruel time-whose touch imbues

Each earthly hope with colours from the dead-
Drench with its chilling essence the sweet light
That o'er our spirits scatters rapture bright?

IV.

Oh no! believe it not! the drowsy world

That lulls so many sluggard souls asleep,The dreams of pride, round selfish bosoms curled,— The sensual sea, in which so many steep

Their mental energies,-these all in vain

May strive to break our friendship's sacred chain!

V.

We shall not heed them,-nor the envious crew,
Whose bitter tauntings fain would rend apart

The links, that shine so brightly to our view,

Binding us strength to strength and heart to heart:

What they misunderstand they love to blame,

For ignorance hides in feigned contempt its shame.

VI.

Then, Dearest! when the cold world's heartless sneer,
Its frowns and scoffs assail us, let us turn

Each to the other, with that faith sincere

Which, like the hallowed fire in Guebre's urn
That dare not be extinguished, shall outlast
The clouds which time and fate may o'er it cast!
June 1830.

R. CALDER CAMPBELL.

THE BLEEDING HAND.

Many years ago, there was a young student, in the College of Anatomy at Leipsic, who was noted for his intense application to, and love of, the study of Surgery. Ulric Werner, for such was his name, was indeed the inheritor of an ardour so enthusiastic in the pursuit of professional knowledge as to enable him to surmount every difficulty and danger that arose in his path. He was not a native of the City, and little further was known of him than that he was reputed to be of ignoble birth, and that his circumstances were so allied to poverty as to render the practice of that profession, which was to him a passion, an absolute essential. That he was a gentleman by education, his highly accomplished mind and polished bearing amply testified; but precluded by necessity from acquiring a footing in that society, whence his supposed low birth banished him, but to which he would have been an ornament, he shunned companionship with all, excepting the few of his own sex and profession from whose scientific knowledge and intellectual acquirements he might hope to derive benefit. In his slight intercourse with his brother students, and with the few patients in the higher circles, with whom his skill had brought him acquainted, he had rendered himself both esteemed and loved; and there were not many, who had seen him more than once, that did not take an interest in the fate of a being so highly talented; yet whose history was so closely enveloped in obscurity as to impart an air of truth to the various and contradictory reports of his origin and early life-reports which, in all probability, had their rise in that perverse disposition to pry into the histories of our neighbours. which is inherent in the idle and the malicious. He had been several years at Leipsic, when his ability gained him the situa tion of an Assistant in that College where he had so long been a student; and it was shortly after his assumption of his new rank that accident made him acquainted with one of the richest, proudest, and most disagreeable men in that city. The Baron de Rosenthal was disliked by all who knew him; he had but one merit and that was his wealth which was unbounded, he had but one friend and of that one he was unworthy, for to her, to Alethea, his only child he was a harsh, and cruel parent. Alethea was one of nature's loveliest creations, and not less amiable than beautiful. Her susceptible heart soon learnt to prize, too warmly for its own peace, the man whose scientific skill had rescued her father from a painful death. Ulric Werner's heart might have been compared to a fountain whose source had been

choked up by neglect and ruin, but which cleared of the rubbish that stopped its current, resumes its original flow of strength and freshness. Circumstances of a singularly sombre complexion had arisen to check and to chill the tender and gentle feelings of his heart, but the time was come when their course was no longer to be arrested, and they now gushed forth, in all the beautiful vigour of their original freshness, to do homage to one object, and that object was the daughter of de Rosenthal. Alas! what a deceiver is love! and how artfully does it effect its mastery over the strongest minds and the most vigorous intellects! Could Ulric have pondered but a single moment on the track that lay before him, reason must have taught him that to think of Alethea was madness. He the poor unknown practitioner of an ill paid art, with a blot upon his birth, and a brand upon his name, and she, the courted heiress of thousands the daughter of Leipsic's most arrogant noble! But what has reason to do with love? the coward flies at the first sight of the Boy God's quiver !

They loved this pair, between whom rank and custom had planted such barriers, loved as if to love was all that the world. had for them to do; and their brief dream of delight was only at an end when the discovery was made that each was dearer to the other than life itself. The discovery was not fated to rest with them :-we have described de Rosenthal, as being unamiable, proud, avaricious; the selfishness of his nature had caused him for a time to forget that his able medical attendant was the almost constant companion of his child: he felt a sort of liking for him as his preserver from a lingering death, and his professional abilities were still necessary, but had the idea crossed him, of the existence of an attachment between his child and Ulric Werner, he could, with his own hands, have slain them at once, rather than that the high race of de Rosenthal should suffer contamination from a connexion with one not merely of low parentage, but of ignoble birth. His rage was therefore the more violent, since he perceived that it came too late.

Alethea was resting on the bosom of her lover, and listening to such words as but too often pave the way to a world of wretchedness, when the Baron burst in upon them, like a raving lunatic. Ulric received a violent blow! He was a tall, muscular youth, who could have flung to the other end of the room the feeble, abusive old man that had assailed him, but that abusive old man was the father of her he loved. He did nothing then, but, defend himself from further manual assault by forcing from the enraged Baron the instrument with which he repeatedly attacked him. He could not, however protect his ears from being wound

ed by the volley of coarse insult which was showered upon him; he heard himself called baseborn, ungrateful, a villain, till the words tingled through his brain like a flood of poison; and it was then, for the first time, that the relative positions, in which he and the being whom he adored, stood, rushed in upon his mind with a violence that rooted him in almost guilt-like consciousness to the ground! A pang of the bitterest self-accusation darted through his breast, as casting one impassioned look of love and agony on the insensible form of Alethea, as she lay stretched on the floor, he rushed out of the house!

For a week Ulric lay upon his bed in a strong fever. His senses had wandered, and it was not until the eighth day after the scene which has just been detailed took place, that he recovered to a recollection of the past. He found himself attended by two friends, who, to his queries regarding himself, merely replied, that he had been in a strong delirium for a week, and his life despaired of. He dared not ask for the Rosenthals,-they were indeed not known to his friends, and his mental misery was increased by his ignorance, of what had befallen her whom he loved so madly and so hopelessly. A few days saw him up again, but Werner was an altered man, a deep gloom was spread over his fine features,-his avocations, his studies, bis dress, were neglected, and the sudden change in his conduct and appearance inspired his companions and acquaintances with astonishment and curiosity. Daily, however, he regained his strength, and he began once more to resume his duties, and to revisit the Anatomical Hall; but the life, the spirit, with which he had wont to pursue his tasks, were gone, and more than once, when appealed to, on professional topics, his answers were observed to be at variance, with the questions which were put to him. He was one evening sitting in his little apartment, over a work on Surgery, and as he slowly turned over the pages, a casual observer might have deemed, that his whole thoughts were employed upon it. There was a flush upon his cheek, and occasionally his eyes lit up with somewhat of their former fire, but his once favorite study soon ceased to interest him, and closing the ponderous tome, he turned once more to the gloomy volume within his mind's eye; and occupied his thoughts in maturing a scheme, by which he might gain intelligence, if not a sight of Alethea.

At that moment the door was opened, and the lecturer of the week entered:-" Up Werner!" he cried, " do not give way to these gloomy humours,-either the result of your sudden illness, or of some private sorrow, which you have not chosen to impart to your friends, but which your own good sense will tell