will remember the incident,) froze for a time our heart's blood, so that I could say with Æneas,

"Obstrepui steteruntque comæ et vox faucibus hæsit."

To render the mystery of this dark alcove more mysterious, drapery of a deep and sanguinary hue "loomed luridly" in the far distance, red as though dyed by the victims' blood who there had fallen (when, how, or if at all, we pretend not to determine). What imaginary crime recorded in the prison calendar, did not then rise before us? What tale of allover-with-dread-shiverishness did not that drapery conjure up. As it hung in dark and heavy folds, we bethought us of the pirate flag of the roving buccaneer in the creeks of Cuba's shores. Then rang the shrieks of the captured like the yell of the Indian on his war-path, telling a dire tale of crime and bloodshed. But hark! what hear we now? The monotonous ding-dong of a tolling bell, which told rather of the peaceful hamlet than of the Pirate's haunt and Indian's prairie. But again, wafted by the evening breeze, were borne towards us the demoniacal yells, which had before disturbed our rest, now peeling with redoubled horrors. Again our dreaming thoughts reverted to the

“Black ensign of unsparing death."

There rose before us the draperied wainscot of the Danish palace. The horror-stricken Queen, the gloomy brow of the "melancholy prince," the outstretched corpse of the hoary statesman, "Dead, for a ducat, dead." But is he dead? Horrors! we heard a groan; the shock sent us on our feet, and broke loose the chains of sleep. With senses as yet confused, we rushed frantically to the curtain of that recess which forms so ornamental a portion of our state apartments. The half-snoring occupant of the sleeping apparatus therein deposited, saluted our romantically-inclined ears with the startling query "What in the world do you want here?" The matter-of-fact nature of the question made us ourselves again. After an ingenious and elaborate retracing of our evening's proceedings, we even succeeded in accounting for a few of "the strange phantasies" of our dreaming brain. We had strolled after tea into an individual's apartment; not seeing the occupant therein, we awaited his appearance in his "easy chair" (only try to get out of it: you will then find the appellation a misnomer), the fire was dimly burning, and the dark shade which pervaded the apartment accounted for our not perceiving that the worthy personage we wished to see was "packed up" for the night, with curtains tucked in. (Yes, reader, some men do thus hedge themselves in:

* Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical writings of a certain celebrated foreigner, will have no difficulty in understanding this expression.

I would as fain be in the black hole of Calcutta.)

A fit of somnolency

was induced by the easy cushion, an extensive promenade into an overpowering kidney-pie, and the soothing influence of "a mild Cabána." While gazing on the curtain, the sleeping god took us prisoner. We were awakened from our brief nap by the snore of the concealed votary of Somnus, at the comfortable hour of eleven, at the time of the tolling of our "curfew bell," which some half-dozen patriotic individuals were endeavouring to drown by Indian warwhoops, French horns, and other musical (?) instruments of a similar nature.

Q. U. O. D.

It is Lord Brougham's theory (if not, at least, started, it is advocated by him,) that the dream passes through the brain, like a flash of lightning, at the very moment of awakening. Our dream (wonderful vision that it is!) confirms strongly the discoveries of science.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

DEATH hath a minister more fatal far
Than pestilence, or famine, flood, or war;
The noonday dart, the withering midnight hour,
The rank marsh reeking in a sultry shower,

All yield in deadly sway to pale consumption's power;
Not all the force of all those messengers

Bringeth so many souls to God as her's.
She, tender traitor, in a beauteous guise,

With dainty damask cheek, and humid eyes,
Bears many a message from beyond the skies;
Whispers lone warnings of eternity,

And bids the young and yearning soul be free:
Hath she been on thy threshold? then divine
What footsteps she hath left in crossing mine.

In smiling Kent-fit theme of minstrel's tongue,
And ever lovely-when the year was young,
My kinsman, in the prime and pride of life,
Brought to his quiet parsonage a wife
Fair as an English girl alone can be,
And good as none but souls so blest as she;
Meek and affectionate, devout and mild,
In faith a seraph, and in love a child.

Her's was no sensual passion fierce and short,
Nor blue-eyed fancy more than half in sport;

* Ps. xci. 5.

NO. XI.-VOL. III.

2 R

Her love was deeper because purer, she
Loved, and knew why,—a soul of sympathy.

How happy thus a country parson's life,
Far from the world, its business, and its strife;
The gate of Heaven to wandering hearts he shews,
And in the way he points himself first goes ; *
His only care to bring his whole flock home-
His only fear the fear of losing some;

Proud of his service, labour is his joy,
And only pleasure can his peace annoy.

And yet he has his pleasures-fields and groves,

At home the company of her he loves,

His little glebe, his garden fair to see

Lulled with the murmured music of the bee,

And prankt with many a quaint parterre where blows
The faint carnation or the glowing rose,

While all about the green espaliers

Hang thick with blushing apples or with pears,
And hollyhocks stand up like warriors tall
Where costly fruitage decks the southern wall.

Such are the parson's pleasures. Or to meet

His humble friends along the village street;
To young and old his kindly influence goes,
All know the parson, all alike he knows.
The blind old man who nets at yonder gate
Hails his known step with gratitude as great
As yon proud pupil of his kindly rule,
The girl who gained the Bible at his School.
E'en the swinkt peasant from his weary task,
Passing the Parson's gate, will pause to ask :—
"How fare the master's kine? or is there aught
My lad or I can do?"

Thus Herbert taught,

Sweet Chaucer thus the Parson's picture drew;
Ah! happy life, ah! wise and holy few!

Were such a lot, so almost wholly pure

On Earth, in long continuance to endure,

* Vide the character of the Parson (supposed to have been meant for Wycliffe) in the Canterbury Tales

The love of Christ and his Apostles twelve
He taught, but first he followed it himselve.

+ Vide the character of the Parson, ut supra.

Men would say, looking on such real bliss,

"What joys has Heaven to be compared to this?"
This, or some unknown reason, who can say,
Was His who drew the spirit from its clay.

The year, I said, was young when home he brought
His wife that year was old when he was not.
Not many weeks had Autumn's lavish hand
Spread smiling plenty o'er that fertile land,
And just touched chesnut bough and aspen spray
With the first tender tints of sad decay
When he lay down-and ere the last leaf fell
They tolled for him, his own loved church's bell.

In that church-yard where oft himself had stood
White clothed, bare headed, and in holy mood.
In Heaven's own words, and Heaven-inspired voice,
Bade the wan mourner's inmost soul rejoice;
Telling the father, or the weeping wife,

WHO is "The Resurrection and the Life."

In that churchyard his honoured dust shall sleep
Within its narrow cell so dark and deep,

Till the archangel's trumpet in the sky
Shall wake him to a blest eternity.

Not surer shall the flowery spring return,

And renovated Nature cease to mourn;
Not surer shall the oak that, stript of leaves,
But half a tree through the long winter grieves,
Again at God's command a vesture find

Like-not the same-what fell in Autumn's wind;
Than his pure soul in Heaven's eternal spring
Resume its glorious work of worshipping,

Wear a more perfect garb of faith and love,

And sing for ever in the world above.

MY FIRST LOVE.

"Molle meum levibusque cor est violabile telis."

̓Αγαπη.

OVID. HEROID. EPIST. XV. 79.

"Cupid's light darts my tender bosom move."—

РОРЕ.

START not, gentle reader! at the idea of being inflicted with some dull tale of common-place love. Almost every man, were he to expose the secrets of his breast, could relate the manner in which his heart was first captivated by the laughing eyes of some charming damsel, and how, perhaps, his first affections were cruelly blighted; but mine is a story of

no common interest, for though it may not be so romantic in its details, or so fatal in its results as many an one, yet, the peculiar manner in which all my visions of enchanting bliss were in a moment dissipated, renders my tale at once sorrowful, and deserving of your sympathy. Listen then to the tale of my first love.

It was in summer, just after I had left one of the first public schools of England that I accepted an invitation from an old school-fellow, to go down and pay him a visit in the north of Scotland. With a light heart I set out from home, and took my place on the top of the coach, on a beautiful morning; and eagerly did I count the moments as they seemed to fly heavily on their wings, and longed for the time when I should arrive at the mansion of which I had heard so much in our social talk at school.

What stories had I listened to of that spot. What scenes had I conjured up in my mind. What ideas had I formed of the beauty of the place, and they were all now to be realized. I arrived late, and after receiving the welcome greetings of my kind friend, I had only time to perform a hasty toilet before dinner was ready. The family were alone and I was hurriedly introduced to the different members of it. Our party consisted of the father and mother, my friend and his sister. Often had I heard of the charms of the latter at school, for A-, seemed to take a pride in talking to me of her; but the half had not been told me. To the most regular features and lovely blue eyes, there was added an expression of countenance, which for sweetness, could not be surpassed by an angel, and a figure which though delicate and fragile, was graceful in the extreme. It is hardly to be wondered at therefore, that I, who was already prepossessed in her favour from the stories I had heard at school, should now be completely fascinated. I thought of nothing but her, it was in vain that I attempted to carry on conversation with any of the other members of the family, unless she took part; my mind was sure to wander to the spot where my eye continually rested. She played and sang most exquisitely, and long before I laid my head on the pillow that night, my heart had been completely taken possession of. Yet, I would not allow to myself, that I was in love. No, such is not the plan of Cupid where he endeavours to entrap his victims. Frightened, lest they should be scared away by the sight of his darts, he gently leads them on to indulge their passion under the false name of affection, until watching a favourable opportunity, he transfixes their heart with an arrow of love. But to my story. It were tedious to describe the various contrivances of a lover to receive some encouraging glance, some tender pressure of the hand, or some other silent token of the progress of his suit, and I will not tire my reader by a long account of the numerous devices I hit upon to find out whether I might venture to express openly what my every move