THE WISDOM OF THE OVER-WISE.

BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO.

O prudent act, and thought o'er-wise,
Oft have ye evil wrought;
Yet they most eagerly advise,
Whose counsel is unsought.
They gathered round the hapless girl
With words' bewildering din,

Like waters which, with ceaseless whirl,
Draw some lost vessel in.

Yet 'gainst them she had striven,
In strength of woman's heart,
For hers, alas! was given

To one fate bore apart;
And far away in distant clime

He roamed, she wist not whereShe only knew, nor space nor time Could bar him from her prayer.

But he was rich, and great, and proud-
They said, 'twas in the hour
Of boyhood's folly he had bow'd

Before her beauty's power;
That soon, in other scenes forgot,
The fleeting charm was o'er-
They bade her choose another lot,
Nor think upon him more.

Sage maxims on her wearied sense Unweariedly were cast; And, with more fatal eloquence, Her mother's tears fell fast: She had no words to answer them; At length she doubted, too"He whom all thus alike condemn, Oh, can he still be true?"

She heard him not-she saw him not-
Of him no tidings came;
It must be that she was forgot-
Why should she be the same?
Then as a leaf winds bear away,
It recks not whither cast,
Submissive in their hands she lay-
Their wisdom ruled at last!

They bound her hair with summer-flowers:
She looked on them, and sigh'd;
The tears fell from her eyes in showers-
And yet she was a bride!
Was she not free to choose?-alas!
To whatsoe'er it tends,

Who knoweth not what influence has
The wisdom of our friends?

And now 'tis done!—it were in vain
For her to murmur now;

Her tears could not dissolve the chain,
Nor sighs unsay the vow;
Howe'er regret or sorrow lurk
Around her future way-
Yet prudence smiles upon its work,
And wisdom vaunts its sway.

But ere the autumn-tints began
To wander o'er the earth,
A sadder tale in whispers ran
Around each village hearth;

Of how one from a distant land,
With heart unalter'd, came,
On plighted vow, and promis'd hand,
To urge forgotten claim.

In hope he came-in sadness went-
His future was unknown-

The flower which adverse winds had bent,
They told of her alone :

They told of how the young bride's cheek Each day grew paler still,

As griefs, of which she might not speak, Cast round her heart their chill.

And, too, alas! they told of more-
Of how, at last, they wept,
Oh, not above her tomb!-but o'er
The form where reason slept;
And how she wandered silently,

With smiles which woke their tears-
With snowy cheek and vacant eye,
A theme for childhood's fears.

The wisdom of the over-wise,

'Tis thus its triumphs close

Oh, would that they such schemes devise
Might share their victim's woes!
But hearts must break for others' deeds,
Eyes weep for others' sin,

And they who lean on broken reeds
Will feel them pierce within.

THE CAPTIVE FRIENDS.

"Je vis deux amis un d'eux etait délivré, mais qu'il celui aimait n'avait pas sa liberté. Alors le jeune Français alla vers les religieux et leur dit: Reverends pères, vous m'avez rendu ma liberté je n'en puis profiter. Reprenez le prix de ma rançon, rachetez un autre prisonnier, moi je ne quitterai pas l'ami de mon àme, mon frère d'infortune j'ai fait alliance avec lui dans le malheur notre amitie doit être plus forte que les chaines que vous brisez sur les bras des captifs. Rien ne peut delier de cette chaine la nous avous melé nôtre sanget nos larmes. Donnez ma liberté d'un autre, moi je retourne auprès de mon frère."-" Le Fratricide," par Walsh, vide p. 145.

-

Take back thy gen'rous ransom, take;
Though slavery's yoke is hard to bear,
My bosom friend I'll ne'er forsake,
His very sufferings him endear.

Take back thy gen'rous ransom, take;

'Tis true thou'st raised the captive's chain; But friendship's chain nought e'er can break Save death: its links for life remain.

Take back thy gen'rous ransom, pray,
And oh receive my thanks sincere;
Still in my prison home I'll stay

With one who shared my sorrows here.
Take back thy gen'rous ransom, take;
Yea, give that freedom to another;
For liberty I'll ne'er forsake

My bosom friend, my more than brother.
CLARA PAYNE.

In defiance of all those prejudice-devoured people, who, as this author says, "derive all their knowledge of Indian Nabobs from bad novels, and worse comedies, India must always be a subject of vast importance to every reflecting British mind. England, staggering with her own greatness, bloated with luxury, and choked with a dense population vainly clamorous for food, has no hope of vitality save in her colonies. Like the huge Banian tree of the East, the trunk would sink under its own foliage, but for the mighty arms, which, stretching round her on every side, moor her firmly to the ground. To India turn the eyes of all who have sons, and nothing to give them save the empty name of gentleman; a name, which, disabling its owner for the most certain methods of making money, involves in itself a thousand methods of spending it. To India looks the briefless barrister, the feeless surgeon, the unbeneficed clergyman. To India looks the mournful widow, whose stalwart firstborn is an incumbrance, and not a support. How many parents, now rearing their olivebranches hopefully in the great public schools, would lay down their heads in despair, but for the cheering thought of the cousin, or cousin's cousin, inthe Direction, who is sure to give Harry or Thomas a writership or cadetship, when the proper time comes for solicitation." India is the great safety-valve of hard-pressed gentility. Those who cannot work, and are ashamed to beg, go willingly to wear out health, spirits, and intellect, in the enervating_breath of a torrid furnace. It is curious how India is both unknown and also stale to English readers. The little that has been detailed has been reiterated so often, that it has long palled upon the yawning listener, and at the same time there is such a wide field left untrodden, which has peculiarities as strange to the learner as the habits and characteristics of the Esquimaux.

It is therefore with an uncommon degree of pleasure that we recognized a work at once so truthful in description, and so earnest in purpose, as this story of Indian life. It is not a

tale remarkable for invention: the incidents are few, save those which are, alas! too much a matter of history; we mean the terrible retreat from Cabul-a retreat so fraught with agonizing recollections, still fresh in the many hearts its disastrous consequences have left to mourn, that we fear these pages will be, to numerous readers, a renewal of the bitterest grief. The story is of a young couple, betrothed in England; the youth rejoins his regiment in India, and is sent to Cabul; his bride comes out to marry him, at

* Chapman and Hall.

the unexpected crisis in native intrigues, which changed the British force in that country from conquerors to captives. The relatives of the young lady, desirous to spare her anxiety, conceal the most threatening accounts received in Calcutta from the disturbed countries. She, a young, giddy, flattered thing, flirts in foolish levity with the young men, who crowd to pay homage to her beauty; and she even goes so far as to entangle herself with a showy A. D. C., whose character, or rather want of character, is so maliciously like a portrait, that we almost fancy we could point out to the author its original. Adela Balfour, forgetful of her betrothed, is intoxicated by this carpet knight from folly into sentimentality, and from sentimentality into real though wayward feeling. But a scene in which both are betraying themselves is fortunately interrupted by a summons for the aide-de-camp. The lady, left to herself, opens a newspaper, to escape from the self-reproach and misery at her heart, and in that paper sees the total annihilation of the Cabul army, and by consequence the dreadful death of her affianced. The revulsion of feeling is described as instantaneous; the old love at once returns, and with it anguish and remorse. She had forgotten him when living, she devotes herself to his memory when dead; and in the last chapter she appears in the regular style of reformed coquettes in the good-child sort of novels-namely, with poke bonnet, clothes-basket, and leathern lungs fit to recite the homilies, for the benefit of all the bed-ridden poor in the neighbourhood. This finale, though truly orthodox, seems to us rather extravagant. So giddy and heartless a girl as Adela is represented to be, the very moment before she hears of her lover's untimely end, it is not probable she would at once become sensitive, prudent, self-denying. The heart learns too truly its first lessons of either good or evil; it takes many years and many trials to impress the unthinking; it takes many years and many indulged temptations to eradicate wholly the divine seeds of a religious childhood.

The Calcutta scenes are faithfully drawn; we could fancy ourselves once again driving along the broad course, skirted by the rapid Hooghly, once again moving through the pillared halls of the City of Palaces. The society likewise is por traiture. The tone of thought prevalent among Anglo-Indians has been happily caught, and their duties are boldly pointed out, duties which, with some rare and brilliant exceptions, are grievously neglected by the generality of our expatriated countrymen. We give, as an example, the following dialogue between a young civilian and Mary Balfour, the sister of the unfortunate fiancée :

"He spoke of the landscape they had been sketch- | ing, thence of the general characteristics of Indian scenery; he observed that young people very often came out to India, with a certain preconceived notion-whence derived it was difficult to say-of the gorgeous magnificence of the East, of its beauty, of its splendour, of its luxuriance; that in consequence of these impressions, of these exaggerated expectations, the first feeling, on actual arrival in India, was generally one of disappointment. He was sorry to add that in many cases the reaction was a permanent one; that people unfortunately, most unfortunately for themselves, unfortunately for others, plunged into an opposite extreme. They become lasting sceptics,' he said, of the beauty of India; they cannot believe that there is anything interesting, anything delightful in such a country as this; they close their eyes against the picturesque altogether, because it does not greet them from the low feverish jungles of Sangor Island, or because the black town of Madras is not composed of such gorgeous palaces as they have read of in the Arabian Nights. That first cold shudder of disappointment, oh what mischief it does! How many never recover the shock! India may have been the land of their young dreams, the Canaan of their intellectual wanderings; they may have looked, in imagination, forward to a life in the East, as a life of rapturous joy, of elevated excitement; and yet, because writers' buildings and cadet barracks are not splendid palaces, commanding a view of sparkling rivers and magnificent palm groves, and wide plains studded with browsing camels and caparisoned elephants; because in coming up the river they have seen genuine mud banks where they looked for a coral strand, they become at once confirmed in the belief that India contains nothing beautiful, nothing grand, nothing, in short, of the picturesque; and then, when the opportunity of seeing some of the finest sights of nature presents itself to them, they will not take the trouble to avail themselves of it. They will not draw aside the doors of their palanquins, or throw open the Venetian blinds of their budgerows. Whether they travel by water or travel by land, they are equally blind, equally indifferent; and then they go home and tell their friends that India contains nothing worth seeing."

This Herbert Grey cannot be a portrait; for we will stake our memory that never did a young civilian speak so sensibly in the whole course of our Indian experiences, and we have heard a good many young civilians" converse in our day.

After a few more remarks on the same subject, Herbert Grey adduces the missionaries as people who have found out something worth doing, as well as something worth seeing, and Mary Balfour asks

"Is it not true that, in India, we women too often forget our duties, too often content ourselves with doing no positive harm? I do not allude to domestic duties as wives, as mothers, as daughters. I have no doubt that our countrywomen in India are as estimable as their sisters at home; but in the more

extended fields of humanity, as women, Mr. Grey, I fear they are sometimes deficient, wanting in charity, wanting in energy; doing nothing, sacrificing nothing; suffering their sympathies to dry up for lack of culture. I asked a lady, one day, in our own house, something about the success of missionary

efforts, the progress of evangelization in the East-a very simple question, I thought; and she said that all she knew about the matter was, that native Christians, as they were called, made very bad servants; and that she never admitted one into her establishment. And another lady, when I asked her opinion of a certain charity, in behalf of which I had lately read in one of the papers an animated appeal, said she believed it was one of the 'things' to which her husband subscribed in her name, but that there were so many of them that she really could not pretend to know anything of their individual merits. Am I to take these ladies as fair samples of the mass of our countrywomen in India ?"

"If I were to tell you, in reply to these questions," said Herbert Grey, "that this is the first time that they have been put to me in such a strain of genuine unaffected earnestness, they would perhaps be answered in the most effectual manner. I must admit the fact; but let our inferences be drawn, as you I am sure would be inclined to draw them, with all charity. It is true that the influence of Christian womanhood is not so extensively felt as we would wish it to be throughout the country, still we must admit that there are among us some women, active in well doing, who never sleep, are never weary, but, so long as health and strength are permitted them, continue to labour with pious zeal, and accomplish an infinity of good. I wish that I could say that there are many such, still it is a privilege to be able to say that there are some.'

"But does not the very fact that there are some, Mr. Grey, go far to render more obvious, more palpable, the failures of the rest? If there were none, it might be said that the climate acts as a preventive, that Englishwomen in India are physically incapacitated for all benevolent undertakings which require energy and activity, any amount of personal exertion. It might be said, too, that difference of language, religion, and manners, raise up an impassable barrier between the English lady and the degraded inhabitants of the country, pauper women, pauper children, who swarm around her; in short, that there is no field for practical philanthropy. But what some can do, all can do, with necessarily a few peculiar exceptions, in this country as in all others. I fear that there is an immense pile of neglected duties at the doors of our fellow-countrywomen."

"And yet we must not judge them too harshly," said Herbert Grey: "as we accord a higher measure of praise to the few who do exert themselves as Christian women, we must, in consideration of the impediments which actually do exist, the difficulties which are really to be surmounted, judge more leniently of the fallers short."

The above extracts are a fair sample of this author's style of writing-pungent and expressive, but disfigured by repetition and verbiage. One would almost fancy, from the injudicious reiterations, that he was trying to write lyrical prose, if such a thing there be. Of his sentiments, however expressed, we cannot speak too highly. It is a sad picture of human inertness and self-complacent slumber. We do believe that were the English ladies in India well and wisely to bestir themselves, the missionaries would not have to contend with such disheartening rebuffs. Did each lady endeavour to teach but one native child, many souls would be turned unto the Lord. There is no doubt that the climate is sorely against us: the delicate

female frame is peculiarly susceptible to the enervating heats; and not being obliged, like their male relatives, to work for their livelihood, the ladies think life at least innocently spent in lounging on their couches over a novel or a Berlin worsted frame. But there is still much to be done even in India, and the example alone of professing Christians is a serious responsibility among the heathen; how can they leave their gods, when they see us openly neglecting ours? Daily family prayers, and an interest in their own intellectual improvement, would lead our native servants to think; or, at the worst, it would impress them with a sense of the reality of our religion-a point on which they may well be incredulous, from the behaviour of Chris- | tians.

A young lady, full of good resolutions, began to converse with her Mussulman Ayah on the subject of the Christian faith; the Mahometan woman listened for some time, and then coolly | replied, "Both very good Gods; your God good, mine good; both keep own God!" The young lady was staggered at the rapidity of the handmaid's conclusions, and yielding to a culpable indolence, followed her advice ever after.

We sincerely hope the readers of this tale will not lay it down without some serious reflections being roused by its well meant, strongly urged reasoning; it speaks the words of truth, and the forgetful Anglo-Indian having once read it, can no longer plead want of memory in excuse for neglected duty.

The rest of the tale may be briefly dismissed; the morality throughout is of a higher calibre than in most works of fiction, and the characters are natural and free in drawing, although the limits of the work prevent their being more than outline sketches. The supernumerary love affairs of Herbert Grey and Mary Balfour are, we must acknowledge, a little hum-drum: he, with all his eloquent sense, is deeply in debt, and paying it off by heavy draughts on his salary. Having a horror of examining money accounts, he imagines himself to be more seriously involved than he really is, and therefore flies off from his lady love without " "popping ;" and it appears probable he would have gone on making himself and her wretched by his unexplained absence, but for a mutual friend, who good-naturedly overhauls the ledger, and brings back the runaway lover, by a consolatory account of the finances. This is but a sorry hinge whereon to turn all the delicate embarrassments, mutual misunderstandings, and see-sawing contretemps, which constitute a genuine love-affair, as developed, selon les règles, in the orthodox

Oh it is a thing to be grateful for, in all the anguish of mourning which the late fatal victories on the Sutlej have spread over the land, that the brave dead fell on a fair field of fight; they went down to death with unshaken hopes, with kindling valour, with unwavering heart. No dread preparation was theirs, no struggles of prisoned energies waxing weaker day by day; no hopes dying a living death amid dangers which only supernatural aid could have surmounted; no sinking of the noble hearts amid treachery, cowardice, and despair; and, finally, no spiritless retreat, with a frozen mountain track before them, and an unsparing enemy aiming ceaseless and fatal blows on the staggering and helpless sufferers. The sanguinary six weeks which have thinned our Indian army, and torn rents in the brave race of leaders which cannot easily be filled up, though replete with exposure to the climate, and fatigues of no ordinary severity, have been a summer review in comparison with the death-strewn flight from Cabul four years ago. The heroes of Ferozeshah and Sobraon died, like Marmion, with victory ringing in their ears. Far from home it was-from the fond mother, the clinging children, the earnest-eyed wife-far from the scenes of their boyhood, the long promised havens of their age; but their brothers in arms cheered them on to the death, and the roll of the cannon their last efforts had captured boomed over their Indian grave, like the distant sympathies of their grateful country.

Ye who mourn child or parent, stretched by that ghastly corse-laden river, think of their weary death who died in the flight from Cabul, and ye shall bless God through your tears that this last cup of bitterness was spared to the beloved ones whom he has taken home by a sudden and a gory path.

P. P. C.

THE SADNESS OF HAPPINESS.

BY MRS. PONSONBY.

Tell me, beloved, why these frequent sighs?
There are no clouds to dim the azure skies,
While thus our hearts, our hands together twine,
In which our perfect loves-twin stars-do burn
and shine.

The evening breeze, so busy round us now,

Flings thy light locks o'er my adoring eyes;
Thy cheek rests calmly on mine upturn'd brow;
Our hands, our hearts are met; then why these
frequent sighs?

Oh! let no thought of doubt, or change, or fear,
Mar the deep rapture of to-day's delight;
Our spring is in its dawn, our noon is clear;
Think not of winter storms, or shades of coming
night.

Ours is the sunshine that shall long remain,

Ours is the changeless summer of the heart; And age and death may come, but come in vain; Together we will die, but never, never part.

PART II.

"What means this crowd of people coming up the avenue, Mary?" enquired Hubert Spencer of his sister, as he stood in the deep recess of one of the drawing-room windows, at his paternal mansion, Spencerville, three months after their arrival in England. Mary Spencer heard not the question; far away in the room, she sat busily engaged writing a letter. One hand slightly shaded the fair brow, which had notlost a shade of its purity or faultless contour during those three years of absence. Time had neither added to nor diminished aught of her beauty: she seemed the simple girl yet, almost infantine in appearance.

Hubert waited a moment, then said, in a louder tone,

"Mary, I wish I had some one to write to me with such devotion as yours. Where is Rose?" Mary laid down her pen, and smiled like a seraph.

"You are too fastidious, brother, or you could have met many to have loved you. Rose has the very same fault; she is putting on her habit to ride with the St. John's. Will you come, Hubert ?"

"No: I do not like these people, for many reasons; and not the least is, that Rose seems to like St. John. I know him to be a desperate man, one who has never paused to reflect on any act, but made all and everything bend to his will; he has no heart, no principle, yet his very reckless gaiety, and that haggard, handsome face, has a fascination few women can resist. I wish he would go to London."

"Yet he has behaved well by Edward, and used his influence to obtain that parish, which will eventually now be his."

66

True, Mary; and that one act in favour of your lover makes a character for one who never had any. My gentle sister, you are formed for domestic happiness; Edward Montague is more than the world to you. I wish I knew what those people were about-they are going away."

"Shall I tell you, brother?" said a young, gay voice at his side; and Rose, bright as midsummer sun, rich in smiles, and equipped for riding, stood at his shoulder.

"Oh, yes, Rose-I have some curiosity on the subject," answered Hubert. "Go on."

pa

"First open the window, I pray you, Hubert. What a lovely day in July, not too scorching, but the air is delightful; secondly, Mary, I request you will close your letter, and tell Edward that you are to ride in the company of the handsomest man in the world." Now the crowd to which Hubert had referred meant simply a deputation from the town, with a party of musicians, come to solicit the tronage of the Honourable Mrs. Spencer for a concert next week. "I was with papa at the hall-door when they presented themselves," said Rose; "whether he was in a good humour, or that our neighbour, Lady Belvidare, had likewise promised her countenance, I know not; but my father said, very politely, that he should with pleasure convey their request to Mrs. Spencer. I had the curiosity to follow, wishing to see if my mother for once could assert an opinion openly; but I might have judged the result- -we found mamma dozing over a novel in her room. I wish you to put your name to this paper, Emily,' said my father, patronising this concert, with your friend Lady Belvidare; of course your family and hers will occupy the reserved seats.' Mrs. Spencer slowly traced the letters which constituted her name, saying, I think concerts very stupid.' Papa went away; and she told me then, she liked the idea, as the St. John's would have visitors.' Now you have the story. Mary has, at last, left her letter; suppose we read her effusion while she is away, she will never know it, Hubert."

66

But you would know it yourself, Rose; to betray a confidence is deceit, and all deceit ends in falsehood. Rose, my sister, never indulge in that base vice-speak the truth fearlessly. You are too much with those St. John's, who never regard truth; they will be false to you some day. Look! here are two persons riding up the approach-they must be your friends."

66

My friends, Hubert! And why mine in particular?" inquired Rose, hanging on her brother's arm, and gazing on his solemn face to read all he thought on the subject.

"Are they not your friends, Rose? Mary's they cannot be. I dislike them; and you are