putting Benny in mind, as we came along, of Law. rence's dying speech out of the almanac, Don't give up the ship,' you know. You can guess well enough what we were talking about, Miss;-I see that by your face. Never mind; it's no use to blush about it! he has let me into a good many of your secrets. No wonder I was in the fidgets to get a sight of you. It was as much that as the picture, I assure you."

Mr. Sanderson frowned, and looked searchingly at Cecelia, who was now ready to cry with mortification. "Come on, Benny; its time for me to be going. Mind and come to see me, Miss; you will find me at the Cross Keys. Ben wanted me to put up at his boarding place because it's more genteel like, but, as I always say what's the use to think about such things? The landlord of the Cross Keys always stops at our house, and one good turn deserves another. May be, when you come, you won't like to go through the bar-room alone; I know some of you town girls is particular, but when you want to come, just let Benny know, and he'll jump to bring you, I'll warrant him!"

The other visiters also immediately took leave, after having heightened Cecelia's confusion by cautiously refraining from a single remark, though it was apparent how much they had all been amused; and Miss Susan reading her feelings in her countenance, compassionately forbore comment.

The next morning, Cato, Miss Susan's coloured man, went, according to appointment, for the portrait, which Cecelia now trembled to see. He soon returned, and, with a great many consequential flourishes and smiles, leaned it against a chair, while the ladies gathered around.

Cecelia glanced at the bill, which thus appeared: "Miss Johnson To Painting Her Pourtrate seventyfive Dollars."

At that moment there was a knock, and Cato went to the door. Cecelia snatched up the portrait and was hurrying to put it out of sight, but before she had succeeded, Gerald Sanderson made his appearance. He had called with a message from his sister, determined to be as politely indifferent as possible.

"I perceive your portrait has come home at last, Miss Cecelia," said he, glancing at the back of the canvass which was towards him; "I hope you will allow your friends a sight of it?”

At first she was about to refuse, but, on second thought, she turned it round to his view, though her eyes fell, and her hand trembled as she did so.

"That!-nonsense!-you are quizzing me!" he exclaimed, startled out of his formality.

"It has, indeed, been sent as Cecelia's portrait ;" returned Miss Susan, seriously.

"Absurd!—that for you!—that abominable daub! how did he dare-the ignoramus-the impostor!" continued the gentleman, quite forgetting himself in a burst of lover-like indignation.

A glance at the ludicrous scene before her, the unnatural picture and the group around it-Miss Nancy with her expression of indeterminate wonder, Miss Susan looking grave vexation, Mr. Sanderson in his wrathful attitude, and Cato staring and grinning with curiosity behind them, decided Cecelia's feelings at once, and she burst into a long and violent laugh, in which, at length, all the others joined.

"How could I have been ridiculous enough to have been so egregiously taken in!" said she, when she had a little recovered herself. "I shall be ashamed

There was not the slightest vestige of any thing in it by which it could have been recognized-not even in the costume. It exhibited an attempt at classic drapery; a sheet of white, stiff and shadowless as writing paper, rolled round the bust, with slits at the sides through which the arms stuck straight down like pieces of turned timber. The neck had the same wooden look, resembling nothing so much as the pyramidal lid of an old fashioned pump, the round knob on top of it resembling the head. The features were executed pretty much in accordance with queen Elizabeth's idea, without shade; being lines out of all symmetry, with little or no perceptible relief; and the hair presented streaks of a numberless variety of hues. In short, it would have been difficult to contrive a more lamentable and witless caricature.

"Dear me, Cicy! you never let the young man see you with your arms and neck that bare!" exclaimed Miss Nancy, indignantly.

There certainly must be some mistake," said Miss Susan positively. "Cato, are you certain that this is what the gentleman directed you to bring?"

"Sartain, ma'am, he gin it to me hisself; an' he said I should 'form you, Miss Celiar, he would n't be so ill-mannerly as to send his bill, only as his landlord craved him for money, an' he was out of pocket."

Cecelia was standing in front of the picture, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, and as she made no move towards the bill, Miss Susan took it from Cato and opened it.

for having allowed my own imagination to have so imposed upon me!"

"The painter gen'leman 'sired me to tell you, Miss," interrupted Cato, "that he'd call presently to hear your 'pinion of the picture."

"For pity's sake, dear Miss Susan, don't let him come into the house!" implored Cecelia earnestly; "nothing could ever induce me to see him again."

"But about his bill? seventy-five dollars is surely too much to throw away upon him;" returned Miss Susan.

"He has certainly not had the impudence to ask it!" said Mr. Sanderson, laughing.

"Oh, yes, Miss Susan! pray give it to him; any thing to get rid of him; I think I have that much up stairs;" and she was running out for her pocket book.

Mr. Sanderson stopped her. "If you will commission me," said he, "I shall go immediately and attend to the matter, and guarantee to arrange every thing to your satisfaction."

"Pray do! I shall be for ever obliged to you! only do prevent him from coming into my sight again!" answered Cecelia, gratefully.

Mr. Sanderson left the house with renovated hopes, and as soon as he had gone, Cecelia took a pen-knife, and cut the canvass into inch strips from top to bottom, and gave them to Cato to carry to the fire.

Her commission was executed so effectually that the artist took leave of the village the next day with his affectionate relative, and was lost sight of entirely,

Cecelia remained with her two old friends for

better than a year, and proved, on every occasion that presented itself, that the memory of her portrait was of the greatest benefit to her judgment. Her father then came for her, and, after travelling with her a season, took her home with him. Some months after, Gerald Sanderson followed her, and succeeded in bringing her back as a bride.

While on their return, in stopping to refresh their horses at a very small village, Mr. Sanderson directed

Cecelia's attention to a house across the road. There was a slatternly looking young woman ironing in it, and a young man without coat or shoes lounging on a gate before it. His face struck her as familiar, and on turning her eyes for a second look, she caught a view of a sign above the door, and laughed a little, and blushed a good deal to read its inscription— Benjamin Meredith, HOUSE, SIGN, and PORTRAIT PAINTER.

AT last have I found thee, thou dark rolling sea!
I Igaze on thy face, and I listen to thee,
With a spirit o'erawed by the sight and the sound,
While mountain and desert frown gloomy around.
And thee, mighty deep, from afar I behold,
Which God swept apart for his people of old,
That Egypt's proud army, unstained by their blood,
Received on thy bed to entomb in thy flood.

I cast my eye out, where the cohorts went down:
A throng of pale spectres no waters can drown,
With banner and blades seem surmounting the waves,
As Pharaoh's bold hosts sunk in arms to their graves.
But quick from the light of the skies they withdraw,
At silent Omnipotence shrinking with awe;

And each sinks away in his billowy shroud,

From Him who walked here, clothed in fire and a cloud.

I stand by the pass the freed Hebrews then trod,
Sustained by the hand of Jehovah, dry-shod;
And think how the song of salvation they sang,
With praise to His name, through the wilderness rang.

Our Father, who then didst thine Israel guide,
Rebuke, and console in their wanderings wide,
From these gloomy waters, through this desert drear,
O, still in life's maze to thy pilgrim be near.
Whilst thou, day by day, wilt thy manna bestow,
And make, for my thirst, the rock-fountain to flow,
Refreshed by the way, will I speed to the clime
Of rest for the weary, beyond earth and time.

DON'T you, my readers, love on a rainy day, to have the privilege of rummaging some old bureau of antiquities, or cabinet of curiosities; tumbling over the wedding finery, and love-letters of your great grandmother, and bringing around yourself, like a shadow, the realization of all the heart-beatings, the imaginings, the mirth or mournfulness, of those long since departed. How like a dream does life appear, when you see that the same desires possessed, the same hopes deluded the now insensible dead, that are at this moment animating you. How like a ghostly visitation, like music from a haunted dwelling, come back the echoes of the dreaminess, the loves, the joys and sorrows of those who have passed away as a cloud, and whose place knoweth them no more.

Such in substance, if not in essence, were my reflections one day when I was helping my Aunt Mary to put to rights a certain old-fashioned mahogany cabinet, full of most delightful crypts, and crannies, and pigeon-holes, where materials enough to furnish out a dozen romances might have been stowed away, and nobody have been a whit the wiser for them. My Aunt Mary was on the shady side of forty, a single gentlewoman, but not one of those who are afraid of the middle leaf in the family Bible, or who feel constrained to let every body know that "there was a time," &c. Indeed, no one could look in her face, or be in her presence, without feeling that

it was choice, and not necessity, that kept her single. It was plain enough in every glance of her clear hazle eye, and in the untroubled fairness of her brow, which time had only pencilled and not furrowed; in the quick and brilliant flow of conversation; and above all, in the unfading verdure of heart and fancy, more akin to fourteen than to forty, that Aunt Mary was one who had failed in being pleased, rather than in pleasing, and remained single only because it is by a rare conjunction of planetary powers, that a very superior and fastidious woman ever can be exactly suited. Be this as it may, Aunt Mary's room was my standing resort in wet weather or dry, when I wanted my wits rubbed up, and my internal machinery set in motion. Had I a fit of the blues, had I some interminable strip of ruffling to hem, or some long dull turnpike of a seam to sew, away I went to Aunt Mary's room, and matters speedily assumed quite a favourable appearance; my hands did their business lightly, without my giving myself much trouble in the matter.

"And, pray, what is this," said I, as I drew out of one of the drawers an old worsted case, on which was worked two marvellously ill favoured doves, emblema. tically roosted upon a heart. "Pray, what is this?"

"Oh, that!" said my Aunt; "that is my reliquary. You may examine it for yourself."

So I began, and after tumbling out profiles, scraps of poetry, dried bunches of flowers, and divers letters

directed in long tailed and precise characters; at length I opened a paper from which dropped a beautiful curl of pale auburn hair.

ber full well the hush that has pervaded crowded rooms, when that delicate and peculiar voice has been heard ascending through the busy hum of conversa

"Oh, that!" said my Aunt, "that is my poor little Eliza's—my poor little singing bird-one of the sweetest little tunes that ever was played in this good. for-nothing world."

"Who was she?" said I.

“She was a cousin of mine," replied my Aunt, "in my younger, not exactly my young days. She grew up to my eye when I had very nearly done thinking myself much of an actor in life, and was rather taking my place among the observers and she was as perfect a verification of what generally seems to us the unreal pictures of romance and poetry, as could have existed. You know it is generally the case, that upon acquaintance you get used to a handsome girl, so that she no longer looks to you like an angel or a sylph, but as the real, substantial, creditable specimen of beauty; the handsome Miss Stibbs, or Dobbs, and no more; but in the case of Eliza, I felt a constant sense of the picturesque, a sort of poetical excitement and admiration, which grew upon me the more I was with her."

"Pray, tell me how she looked," said I.

“Well, let me see. Think of a small delicate form, as round and as plump as that of a little child, a hand and foot as fair as any romance writer ever required; a little quick moving head, a profusion of pale auburn hair, slightly waving, and inclining to curl around the face, a small dimpled mouth, and eyes of the clearest and softest hazle, eyes that were never the same, but animated by a fluttering spirituelle expression peculiar to themselves, and you may form some idea of her." "She must have been perfectly beautiful," said I. "It was a look of perfect loveliness, rather than of perfect beauty," said my Aunt. "A sculptor could not have found a model in her small child-like features; but for the rich bloom of colouring, for every thing that gave an idea of brilliancy, united with the most ethereal delicacy and frailty, the painter or the poet need have looked no further."

"And what was her character?" said I. "Just in coincidence with her person; a combina. tion of all the faculties that result from perfect nicety of physical development, with all the impulses that belong to a delicate moral conformation.

was

She not one of your strong-minded reasoning people, but one whose perceptions are like electricity, and whose knowledge of good and evil appeared to come by a sort of internal pulsation: one who felt out what she knew, rather than reasoned it out. But in the world of music, she found a kind of knowledge for which her mind and ear were as naturally strung as is the harp or the lute; it was her passion, her genius, she poured her whole soul into it, with engrossing devotion. She became early familiar with the best specimen's of the best composers, and she did not merely learn, she embodied and reproduced them. Her voice was of that peculiar ærial quality which you may have heard from the musical glasses, but which so seldom characterizes voices of much strength or compass. There was nothing heavy or harsh about it, but it rose and swelled, and ascended over the highest notes of the musical scale, with an airy and delicate clearness, a pathetic softness, that almost made one tremble, it seemed so spiritual. I remem

ber the wonder with which I have seen strangers turn and look on the fairy-like musician, as entirely absorbed in the music she was executing. She would warble through the most intricate passages with the graceful and gliding ease of a canary bird. When the subject was elevated or pathetic, she would throw into it a vividness, an earnestness, an almost agony of expression, whose effect was irresistible. I have heard her sing Eve's Lamentation, with such a pierc ing, impassioned utterance, such a deep reality of sorrow, that, with her sweet flowery look, and the fair child-like tenderness of her face, she seemed to me a picture of the first and fairest of our race, mourning for her native paradise. Indeed, I always thought that she would make a beautiful personification of some sweet echo-some bright, airy, fanciful being, fit to glance on one's eye in some woodland haunt, and then vanish again."

66

But, pray, had she no mortal feelings; no friendships or loves?" said I.

"Oh, yes, to be sure-for she had a heart as glowing, as tender as her face was beautiful, and she loved with that whole hearted, simple, uncalculating fervour, which is woman's blessing or curse, according to its object. Her friends never forgot her, and no one was ever long conversant with her without having her beautiful image stamped deeply among the uneffaceable impressions of their lives."

"But you have not told me of her love," said I; "surely―"

"Of course," replied my Aunt; "you are not mistaken in supposing that such a being must have been often sought, and that among many wooers one should have absorbed and concentrated her affections. She was, for many years, the betrothed of one who at length proved himself unworthy of her love-one whom even the love of so lovely a being could not restrain from the lowest excesses. At first the story of his unworthiness reached her only as an idle tale, and of course she did not believe it, and would not believe it, till undeniable evidence convinced her. Then did it appear that the delicate and airy creature had strength of mind sufficient to free herself from the chains of a misplaced attachment. Nothing but deep religious feeling, and sensitive purity of mind, could have enabled her to do this. She felt that light could have no communion with darkness; and although beset by the pleadings and the promises of reformation which have beguiled many a poor girl to ruin, she steadily persisted in her determination."

"That is strange," said I; "such tender loving beings very seldom have strength to resist the promises and the entreaties of a lover in such cases."

66

Yes," said my Aunt," and that is why there are so many broken hearted wives. In the case of Eliza this firmness was the result of deep and just religious principle-a principle which dignified and gave force to what might have else been deemed a too gentle and yielding a character."

"And was she never married?"

"She did at length become the wife of one who had enthusiasm and fancy enough to realize her delicate and peculiar loveliness; but her course was a short one. Before the enthusiasm of first love had begun to cool, her health began to droop, and her

husband was assured by a physician of eminence, that insidious and fatal disease had made her its victim; that the very brightness of eye, and cheek, and loveliness of expression which rendered her so charming, were its too sure indications; and one year after Eliza had bidden farewell to the home of her fathers, the fatal prediction was verified. I was with her much during the declining months of her life. The belief that her course was a short one, shed a pensive charm about her, and her religious feelings became increasingly fervent. I remember how sweetly she used to look leaning over her guitar, her unearthly voice breathing itself in her favourite hymns-how touching the simplicity and earnestness with which she would press the truths of religion on the minds of her attendants."

"And were you with her at the last ?" said I. "Yes, and there were many little incidents, which seemed to shed an even mysterious interest around her last hours. Notwithstanding the predictions of physicians and friends, her husband could not realize that the time of her departure was near. He still dreamed that she might be raised again to comparative health, and be spared a while longer; and to her earnest and solemn predictions that the parting hour was near, he still replied in the language of hope and assurance. On the afternoon before her death, her husband and myself were watching on either side of

her; her thin shadowy hand clasped in his, and the room so hushed that you might have heard her weakest breathing; when suddenly, the deepest chord of her favourite guitar burst with a loud and tremulous vibration. She started with a wild, fluttered expression, clasped the hand of her husband, and looked in his face with a melancholy listening intensity; and immediately another string gave way. You have heard of the legends of minstrels, whose harps gave mysterious intimations of the approaching death or calamity of their masters. These stories rushed upon my mind; and I saw in the solemn pathetic expression of those beautiful eyes, that my friend so interpreted the omen. She sunk rapidly that night; and broken expressions of rapture, or of holy trust, showed that the spirit felt its affinity to the world of purity and peace she was approaching. As the morning dawned she seemed to lie in a sort of stupor, when suddenly a bird perched on the seat of the open window and broke into a clear delicious burst of song. That was a heavenly bird,' said she, opening her eyes, a momentary smile giving a solemn brightness to her face; and in a few moments the lovely one was departed. The shattered instrument remained below, but the invisible spirit that gave music and beauty, was ascended to a world of harmony and love."

་

.

WE ne'er forget our childhood's home, its closely woven ties, The sunlit spots that first in life attracted our young eyes, The flowery haunts we used to tread with little faltering feet,

Chasing the painted butterfly sipping the dew drops sweet.

We ne'er forget the early prayer breath'd at the mother's knee,

The gentle accents, soft and low, of lisping infancy,
The purity and singleness of heart and purpose then,
We ne'er forget, altho' on earth we feel them not again.

We ne'er forget the early tasks by that fond mother's side, The mild reproof that hurt her most, whose duty 'twas to chide,

The smile, that could a thousand fold, our little griefs repay, The tenderness of tone to which our heart-strings loved to play.

We ne'er forget the sweet good night, breath'd o'er our cradle bed,

The calling of a blessing down upon our baby head,

The kiss, the fond, the earnest kiss, it seems to linger now
In all its gentleness, and truth, upon my time-worn brow.

We ne'er forget the voices sweet, that filled our happy home,

The welcome sounds that morn and eve, in music used to

come,

The gathering at the household hearth, at twilight's stilly time,

The chanting of a vesper song, in many a silvery chime.

The child who takes no note of these, in childhood's sunniest hours,

Whose heart is careless as the bird, whose days are bright as flowers,

Will see in long, long after years, as if by magic art,
That picture in undying tints, painted upon the heart.

We ne'er forget our childhood's home, tho' we perchance have roved

Thro' a bleak wilderness of woes, unloving, and unloved; Have met with eyes that mirror'd back the joyance of our own,

And lived to find no heart light there, thro' the glad brightness shown.

We've learn'd to look distrustfully upon a sunny smile,

And closed our hearts to gentle tones, that seem'd to whisper guile,

And yet, the fragrance of a flower, the carol of a bird, Unlocks that ice-bound heart, and bids each pulse be fondly stirr'd.

Yes, when the earth hath cover'd those that made our childhood dear,

And we have wept o'er kindred graves, the sad and bitter tear,

How many an old remembrance wakes, those long departed hours,

When we have chased the butterflies o'er beds of blooming flowers.

"Tis then we hear the lisping prayer, we feel the kiss once

more,

The blessing, and the sweet good night, we used to hear of yore; And the hot tears come rushing on, founts that we thought were dry,

Dim the soft shadowy picture then, before our mental eye.

We ne'er forget our childhood's home, our mother's gentle tone,

The joys, that seem'd in after years, like meteors to have flown,

They come to us like sunny gleams, to glad our lonely way, And Age's night is happy, when it thinks on Childhood's

day.