you infinite discredit. It is a proof that every feeling, every care, is centred in yourself; that your ear of pity is closed alike to the tale of misery and to the pliant for mercy. Sir, there is now only one method for you to pursue, and which I must beg to dictate to you. That unfortunate is, I find, to be brought for a final examination on the 25th inst., when I expect that neither yourself, Mr. Simpson, nor your cashier, will be present to substantiate the charge against him, and that when he regains his liberty I shall also expect of you to make him a tender of a two-hundred pound cheque with which to establish himself in business, as I once did to you, and to yield all the assistance he may eventually require. Fail in this, Sir, and you will find me a stern prosecutor. I will expose you in every journal and in every town where you have dealings, so that your present prosperity and station in society will be of no avail in stemming the tide of unpopularity I will cause to flow against you, for I have proots by me of your former guilt and debauched lifeproofs that no denial or protestations on your part can refute. There is yet time to act up to my parting words after that memorable event, and by so doing you will appease the wrath of Yours, &c., &c., 'Mr. Eugene Carlovan. TIMOTHY ATKINSON.' PS. Enclosed is a ten-pound note for your clerk's mother.' and fair opportunity of wiping from his character the stain which had fallen on it. "A few more words will bring my tale to a conclusion. On the 25th inst. James received his discharge, by no person appearing to prosecute him, and after receiving a well-worded lecture from the magistrate as to his future conduct, he left the office with a breaking heart and an irregular step. On reaching the street his eye immediately rested on the person of one of his late fellow clerks, whom shame made him seek to avoid, but that clerk had been ordered by Eugene to wait for him on his dismissal, and frustrated his intentions by catching him by the arm and thrusting him into a hackney coach, which immediately started off to the counting-house. "Eugene Carlovan was awaiting their arrival, and when James stepped upon the pavement he bade him follow him into his private room, and there he read him a lesson of unequalled harshness and falsehood, pausing at times to see what effect it would have upon the unfortunate youth, and at length when he had nearly exhausted his stock of bitterness, he concluded by saying-And now, young man, having said thus much to impress upon your mind the fate your ingratitude and dishonesty deserved, and how few would act towards another "When Eugene received this epistle he was all as I am acting towards you, I will conclude by amazement, for it had never occurred to him that saying that you are dismissed from my service, an account of the examination might reach Mr. wrecked in prospects and in character. Yet, mark Atkinson's ears through the public journals, and me, I will not send you upon the world to plunge that it had done so fell upon him with the force of yourself still deeper in crime, from the want of a thunder-bolt. He dared not now proceed present means to support yourself, to end your against James, much as he wished it, for the dread days upon a scaffold, the scoff and detestation of of the exposure of his own irregularities was all around, as many masters would do; but, actgreater than the gratification he felt he should de-ing upon the dictates of a feeling heart, I will rive by following up his victim with relentless place means at your disposal to become honest, severity. Neither dared he refuse the tender of a and to lead a life henceforward without stain and cheque, which was a bitter pill for him to swal-without reproach. Here is a cheque for two hunlow-his love of money having increased, as dred pounds, out of my own pocket, earned by wealth, through his cautious and sometimes not hard labour, honesty, (which you know not) and altogether honourable dealings, flowed into his economy. Take it and do with it what you deem coffers as he already looked upon it as lost, for best; but if yon will take my advice, you will enhe placed his establishing such a large concern as list for a soldier, or enter the navy; for who can he then possessed, upon so trifling a sum, as a trust to the dealings of one, if even in business miracle, which might never again fall to the lot of on his account, who has been before a tribunal to man to experience. answer to a charge of robbery? Now go, and "By return of post, however, he wrote a long thank your God that you have met with one so letter to Mr. Atkinson, full of incorrect state- merciful and generous as myself.' And without ments and inuendoes against the general character allowing James time to express contrition, or to of James, and that in the heat of the moment he pour forth the thanks that almost choked his utterhad incautiously given him into custody-an ex-ance, he opened the door and thrust him out with citement which did not leave him time to think of his own conduct in former years--that on recovering his ordinary evenness of temper he had repented of his hastiness, and had then used every exertion to save his clerk from a public disgrace, but being a capital crime the magistrates would listen to none of his remonstrances-that cost him what it might he had never intended to appear against him on his second examinationthe press had exaggerated very much in their statements-that he had been made to say things which had never entered his mind; and he concluded by saying that since James's incarceration his mother had, by his orders, been well taken care of and wanted neither for money nor necessaries, and that when he regained his liberty he should have a full every mark of contempt. "When James again reached the street he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the events of the day were anything but a dream, so quickly had they transpired, and so fortunate in their results. The cheque, however, which he still clasped in his hand, and the throngs and bustle through which he quickly moved, after a silence and a stone cell for ten days, assured him all was real, and no workings of the imagination; and then looking around him joyously, though with a tinge of shame and sadness on his heart, he darted off headlong to his home. He found his mother able to sit up on her couch, and the smile that beamed upon her countenance as she welcomed his arrival, amply repaid him for the miseries he had endured on her account for the long time they had been separated. Her enquiries however as to the causes of his absence were numerons, but he evaded them in the best manner he was able; for in truth his blood curdled at the idea of proclaiming himself, even to her. a thief, and his spirits were damped, and their energies gone, as he thought of the indelible stain that had fallen on his character. "After the first ebullitions of joy at his re-appearance amongst his family had somewhat subsided, his mother informed him that a letter from the country had been waiting his coming the two last days. Who it could be from he could not imagine, as he had no acquaintances in the country, and but few, very few, in London. His hand trembled violently as he broke the seal, but this trembling passed away as his eye glanced over its contents, and he at last laid it aside with a smile which denoted much satisfaction. It was from Mr. Atkinson, desiring him to haste down to Liverpool immediately his affairs allowed, upon a matter he should not then explain, but which might prove of service to him, and enclosed in it was a five-pound note to pay the expenses of passage down. He read the letter to his mother, who was very much surprised at its contents, but nevertheless advised him to start without delay, as no person would be foolish enough to send him money if he did not intend to do something for his benefit; and accordingly he went out and took his place in that evening's mail for Liverpool. "I will now condense what remains for me to say into a few sentences. On reaching Liverpool James, without resting a moment, sought out Mr. Atkinson, by whom he was received with much condescension. Here he was informed, and listened with the greatest attention and surprise to the detail of Eugene Carlovan's former conduct, and in return was forced to confess what had taken place after his dismissal from confinement, which ended in Mr. Atkinson taking him there and then, at a handsome salary, into his employ, he having, during James's confinement, written up to a correspondent of his in town desiring him to make every enquiry into his former character, and the truth of what he had stated before the magistrate, and the answer being peculiarly favourable he acted as 1 have shown. "For some years James conducted himself so well, and the management of the concern with such ability, that Mr. Atkinson, feeling himself growing old, and every day less capable of the fatigue of business, took James into partnership; and finally, on the latter marrying according to his wishes, made the whole over to him, upon the annual payment of a stipulated sum; and strange as it may appear in a true history, the very day on which that event took place Eugene Carlovan's name appeared in the Gazette." The English have reflected at all times more intensely on religion than any other people in the universe, and began the earliest to examine its innovations and abuses. Delay of justice is injustice. Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee, Wait longer for thy prey. Leave the fair cheek to bloom, Arrest not manhood's dream! Which blooms before thee, Death! Worship the burning shrine thou findest there, Touch not the Poet's heart, spare The lute, the coronal. Too soon-too soon, oh Death! Call the proud soldier 'mid his glories wen, Shall gleam above his grave! Go to pale misery's door, List to the lone heart's prayer, Yet stay awhile, ob Death! Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee, February, 1841. E. H. B. MARGARET M'ALLISTER. (A TALE, FROM REAL LIFE.) Does there really exist in this cold calculating world so bright, so beautiful a being as Love? Some say not-and oh, I fear they speak somewhat truly; but there are some hearts, some few hearts, formed to love, but how few of these meet love in return! "It is," says an old writer, "only the young and unsophisticated that love; as we grow older we grow wiser, and know better than to let so mischievous an urchin into the doors of our heart." I never heard but of one instance of disinterested love-of love where self was not in cluded:-" A young peasant girl, in France, by name Pauline Delamare, loved a young man, Helier Lafont, who was, during the war with England, drawn as a conscript. This Helier was in love with a cousin of Pauline's, and they were shortly to have been married, had it not been for this unfortunate conscription-Helier not having money enough to purchase his discharge. Pauline was an heiress, and her money went to procure the exemption of Helier from the hated conscription. Helier, overwhelmed with gratitude, and considering the poverty that awaited him, should he marry as he first intended, threw himself at Pauline's feet; and though he confessed his heart was unalterably another's, he declared his intention to become a suitor for her hand. The struggle was hard but not long; Pauline replied, 'You well know my love for you-I seek your happiness not mine; my cousin is the only woman who can make you happy; marry her-let not poverty be in your way. I intend retiring into a convent-I am dead to the world. You are my heir.-Farewell.' A long life of happiness to Helier and his bride amply rewarded the generous Pauline, and she devoted herself to her God." This is true love. But the history of Pauline Delamare is not the subject of the present composition. No! it is the love the woe, the excellence of a young and beautiful Scotch lady; her history is no tale of fiction-it is from "real life"-and but too many hearts are broken under less misfortunes than those which she successfully struggled against. Margaret M'Allister was the only daughter of a rich Scotch Laird; his family were of Irish extraction, though he himself was a Scotchman, born and educated on "Caledonia's strand." Margaret possessed the open disposition and excessive good nature of the Irish, blended with the simplicity and hospitality of the Scotch. Poor Margaret! she had reached the age of seventeen before she knew what it was to love-what it was to sorrow: her mother had died when Margaret was not more than nine years old, and her brother Hector twelve, and at that age sorrow makes little or no impression; and Margaret thought only of her mother as an angel in heaven. Her family consisted of herself, her father (Sir Hector M'Allister), her brother (three years older than herself), and three little orphan nieces and nephews of Sir Hector, to whom Margaret acted as a mother. When Margaret was seventeen her father visited Edinburgh on business, and he took his family with him. Margaret was then a very pretty and elegant girl, unobtrusive and timid, but none of that awkward shyness about her that marks many girls' entrée into life. She was so simple, so unconscious of any harm, that she was perfectly at her ease; and though not formed to dazzle with beauty, startle with wit, or fascinate the beholder with her accomplishments, Margaret was a girl that would prove all that a husband could wish. Sir Hector M'Allister's house, in the most fashionable part of Edinburgh, became the resort of the gay crowd of triflers; ball after ball, dinner after dinner, filled up the dreary hours of a Scottish winter. Margaret was enchanted with the pleasures of society; but yet she looked forward with delight to the time when she should return to Lochmarlie Castle. But yet Margaret had one tie that bound her young heart to the city of Edinburgh she loved and believed she was loved again. : Lord James Argyle was a young Scottish nobleman of fortune; he was a frequent visitor at Sir Hector's; he was a great friend of Margaret's brother; and his graceful person, his polished manners, his agreeable conversation, soon excited an interest in the heart of Margaret that she tried in vain to conceal from the object of it. Margaret was lovely, accomplished, and rich, and from the first moment Lord Argyle perceived she loved him he determined to make her his bride; he proposed and was accepted. Margaret had not yet informed her father of his proposal, which she was sure curred which overwhelmed in misery the family of would meet his approbation, when an event ocSir Hector M'Allister; his only son, from his first arrival in Edinburgh, had been courted by all the vice, his mind was corrupted from the path of men of fashion, introduced by them into scenes of honour; he gambled, and as proves the case with young birds," as they are technically termed, he was "plucked;" not a farthing had he to pay his debts-he owed thousands-and at this unlucky moment a bank, in which his father's whole fortune was invested, broke! Soon the truth was known over Edinburgh-that Sir Hector M'Allister was ruined; the house was besieged by creditors-his family castle was sold to pay the debts, and Sir Hector prepared to bury himself in an obscure part of Scotland. 66 In this, her hour of utmost need, Margaret naturally looked to Lord Argyle for comfort and help; but Margaret knew not the world yet; loving as she did, with an enthusiasm and energy peculiar to her nature, she imagined herself beloved in the same way. What was her horror, her amazement, when a parcel was put into her hand only two days after the catastrophe, which contained several letters she had written to Lord Argyle during a temporary absence from Edinburgh, some small presents she had made him, and one long lock of shining hair, which Lord James himself had stolen from her? These were accompanied by the following heartless epistle :— compels him to take the painful step of resigning the "Lord James Argyle regrets much that duty band of Miss M'Allister. Lord Argyle trusts that at some future time, and under happier circumstances, he may renew his acquaintance with Miss M'Allister. He would have done himself the plea sure of waiting on Miss M'Allister, but he leaves to the simple Margaret M'Allister. When he had Scotland to-day for the Continent. "B- Castle, 4th February, 18-." The letter dropped from her hand, one bitter exclamation of misery and despair burst from her lips; it was the first-the last. She committed everything that could remind her of Lord Argyle to the flames; she buried her secret in her own bosom-devoted herself to her father, and strove to forget one so unworthy of her love. The house to which the unhappy family retired was situated in the bleakest part of Scotland; a wild heath common surrounded this desolate house, which consisted of only four rooms; not a flower, not a tree, not an habitation near it. Poor Margaret, her spirits sunk when she saw this dreary abode, but she looked in her father's face, and saw despair written in every feature. On her brother's countenance agony of mind was depicted; her three little cousins, frightened at the solitude they had never even imagined before, were weeping bitterly. "I am the mainstay of my family," thought Margaret, and she chased away her gloomy thoughts, and began to comfort in so gay a tone that surprised her father and brother. "Come Papa," said she, "do not give way to your feelings; see, there are no banks to break here-and Hector," turning to her brother, "you need not be afraid of bad society here, unless you make it out of the cows and pigs." And then she sung her little cousin to sleep, and actually put the other two into fits of laughter by recounting stories, and telling them what arduous duties would devolve on them when they were settled in their new abode. Under Margaret's superintendence matters soon assumed a gayer appearance round their cottage; evergreen shrubs were planted, a little farm established, and flowers taught to trail over the wall. Sir Hector declared he had never been happier, and her brother turned farmer, and schoolmaster to his cousins. Margaret felt a sweet content reigning in her breast-when her father blessed her as his rescuer from madness-when her brother praised her, and declared that if it had not been for her example he would have fled to America and died there-when her little cousins clung to her as to a mother, was not Margaret well repaid for any sacrifice she had made? Margaret had not reached her eighteenth year, when she was thus banished from the world; and at twentythree she was restored to it. An uncle of Sir Ilector's died, leaving him his fortune, if he would consent to take his name. Such an offer was not to be rejected, and Sir Hector M'Allister left Scotland for Italy with twelve thousand a year, and the title of Earl Darnley. Margaret M'Allister, now the Lady Margaret Darnley, was indeed altered from the blooming girl of some five years past; but she was even more beautiful, and yet so changed, that when she met Lord Argyle at Rome, he did not know her. It was a balmy summer's evening; Margaret was walking up and down a terrace, with Lord Argyle at her side. What words are those he is whispering in her ear? They are vows of love to the Lady Margaret Darnley-vows which he broke concluded a speech that recalled to Margaret's mind days long gone by, she turned to him. though her cheek was pale as death-" Lord Ar"Lord Argyle," she said with a firm voice, gyle, breathe not to me vows that are false—nay, know me? Do you not interrupt me not, perfidious man! I am Margaret M'Allister!" The guilty man turned hastily away, and Margaret never saw him more. She never married, devoted her life to acts of kindness to her fellowthough many offers were made to her; but she behind her that the poor still reverence and bless. creatures; and, when she died, she left a name In her desk was found a letter to Lord Argyle, which was forwarded to him. It found him in a coffee-room at Paris; he read it, sipping his coffee, and afterwards used it as a match to light Such is the love of lordly men! a candle, whistling an opera tune the while. LINES. META MANSFIELD. (Addressed to the Infant Sappho.) BY MRS, LEIGH CLIFFE. Art thou, love, some Nereid's child, THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. BY GEORGE W. BURCH. How she wept when I told her the sorrowing tale, The tale of that anguish our parting had given; Her cheek from the rose like the lily grew pale, And her sighs met my ear, as a whisper from heaven. I told her of battles, of suff'ring and pain, While she gazed on the wounds that disfigured my brow, And I saw with a look of affection again The soft tear of pity had ceas'd not to flow. Then I told her, with trembling, the love that I felt, Her heart heav'd with feelings she could not controul, But I read in her eye, where reflectedly dwelt THE HAUNTED GLEN. (A LEGEND.) "Not loved!-mark me maiden-there was a time when alone I had delight in arms-when I climbed with bold, adventurous step, the rugged heights of ambition; then there was no obstacle in the way but what might be removed--no danger too great, too appalling to be met. Fame was the only mistress I wooed; at her shrine I offered up every wild dream and aspiration of my burning spirit! Then no human being attracted my eye-no heart The scene was diversified, beautiful and sublime. On one hand the rugged rocks were piled on each other in magnificent confusion; the wild barren heaths, that extended for a considerable distance, gave to a part of the landscape an aspect of desolation and dreariness; while the other could beat in unison with mine: I felt alone in the almost boast the richness and luxuriance of a Tempè; with the wood-clad mountains in the dis-world: but I saw thee, and loved, and woke to a tance, that reared their majestic fronts in wild sublimity towards the rose-streaked sky, till they were lost in a purple atmosphere, or were partially concealed by the silvery clouds that floated around them; while the valleys, with their shadowy glens and sylvan groves, gushing streamlets, and flowery spangled meads, shone in the rich light of a declining sun, as the last golden rays tinged the variegated foliage of the trees, and gave to their moss-covered trunks the appearance of pillars of bronze; and sweet to the ear was the song of streams, as it mingled with the untaught melody of the feathered tribe. "He tarries long to night," said Gyld, as she looked around for her lover Alvyn ab Owen: "he promised to be here ere yon bright orb had sunk behind the distant mountain: are my dark forebodings, then, so soon realized?" A thousand anxious doubts revolved in her mind as to his delay; perhaps he had broken his plighted vow, and ceased to love her! Her spirit rose indignant at the thought, but surely it could not be. Ah! more likely he had fallen a victim to the resentment and vindictive spirit of the Baron de Breas, or perished in battle! But from this state of suspicion and perplexity she was soon relieved by the presence of the young warrior. "Gyld! my Gyld! it is long since we metmany weeks-they have been years to my heart!" "I thought some evil had befallen thee, Alvyn; I have waited some time." "Thou knowest not the dangers I have braved this night for thy sake: the pass was so guarded by the enemy, at first it seemed hopeless to attempt it." "Yet we meet but to part. Ah! I dare not conceal it-the Baron de Breas seeks thy life. Should he see us now!-then fly me for ever! It must be so; thy safety depends upon it! Trust not to his compassion.' "I trust in nothing, maiden, save in heaven in the justice of my cause." "Not so-not so. The ingratitude, the tyranny of the Prince, offer no excuse for taking up arms against him and our loved country-that cause is not a righteous one: lay down those arms, and sue for pardon." "Never, Gyld! Never shall it be said that Alvyn ab Owen crouched to friend or foe, or sued for pardon from prince or subject! The injuries I have received seem to be forgotten; revenge is sweet to a spirit like mine!" "But forgiveness should be sweeter. Hear me, dear Alvyn, for my sake! I do entreat, by all that these lips have sworn, and this heart has felt! Oh, grant me this, by all that is dear and sacred, or say not that I am loved!" seemed lost till then; and now a higher, sweeter new existence, more blest and beautiful, and life the meed I seek, more eagerly than the proudest impulse, guides, rules every action; thy smile is laurels that ever graced the victor's brow! It is thy love that makes me what I am―urges on to deeds of reckless daring, that animates-that supports through every danger. In the hour of peril in the battle's rage, thy form is with me! In the camp in the field-the festive scene, and the midnight vision! Command me--I will lay down my arms, but Lewellyn's favour and threats alike I scorn! Remember, I am bound by sacred oath of fealty to Davydd!" "That oath would be better broken than kept. What does it mean but rebellion against thy lawful Prince, and desertion of our country in these fearful times? Our sex share not the dangers of the field-it was never so intended; but we can suffer and endure. Ill should I repay thy love, and heart's wild devotion, did I not seek the preservation of thy life far above my own happinessthy safety is in flight-we meet no more!" "No more of this: I will never leave thee! I would for, or with thee die!" It was in vain that Gyld urged her lover to fly; he was deaf to her entreaties. Equally vain were his attempts to remove the dark cloud which overshadowed her spirit; and long after the last "wild farewell," she watched his noble and commanding figure until hid from her view by the distant hills, as the dusky shades of night were gathering round, with the firm belief that they should meet no more. Since the death of her father-Gwilym ab Gwynedd-Gyld had lived with her uncle, the Baron Hugh de Breas, at his old castle, which occupied a romantic site on the north of the "land of the mountain and the flood;" and scarcely could Cambria boast a fairer maiden than Gyld: her face was mild and lovely in the midst of her dark locks; her step light as the zephyr, that fans the bosom of the fragrant flower; and the trembling lustre of her eye, soft and beautiful as the radiance on the moonlit wave. The fame of Alvyn ab Owen had spread far and wide; his skill in arms and gallant exploits had won the heart of the gentle Gyld: he was mighty in battle; the sting of death followed the path of his sword, and the foe quailed and fled before his fiery glance, as before the flash that rushes through the midnight tempest. Alvyn was unfortunately the son of the Baron's most inveterate foe, and the hatred and deadly feuds which had long existed between the families, had lost nothing of their rancour by the flight of time; but, on the contrary, they appeared to gather strength, and to be cherished with increasing as H |