vain. "You have given him every encouragement," said my father; "what else led you to study dry and most unfeminine works?" He could not understand my female vacillation, but my mother did, and pitied me; and to her advocacy was I indebted that I was not married "out of hand" to my scientific suitor.

Poor child," said my mother, "she tells me she has never got beyond the Asses' Bridge,' so I am sure she will make no fitting wife for so great a genius."

tant relation, and my mother and I were therefore forced to strike our tents, and march out upon the world.

We established ourselves in the next house to my sister's in the Isle of Wight, and I became by mutual consent governess to her increasing family. She has now ten children, and I have my time so completely occupied that it is only by midnight writing I have been able to trace this record of my youthful follies.

I am forty-five, and they say very plain and

plump, rosy, matronly sister. However, that does not matter, I have no time to gape in the mirror, and the children kiss and hug me as fondly as if I were the Venus de Medicis. My mother does tell some apocryphal stories, "how Sibyl neglected the most splendid offers;" but all I remember of my youth is, that I loved truly and in vain; that I was loved truly, and also in vain. I firmly believe that in the loneliness of a single woman's unshared decline the ecstasies of pure, unselfish love purify and soften the heart; that it is well for her to have suffered; that, however unworthy the object may have been, distance sheds on him a sanctifying light; she thinks only of the idol she glorified with every imaginary virtue, and not of the man who proved himself cold and forgetful.

My father was not to be appeased; he had" wizened," and much older-looking than my always been proud of my talents, and this was a triumph beyond his highest aspirations. Mr. Donnithorpe's name was already high in the scientific orbits; his fame was spreading daily. What an honour to be father-in-law to such a man! And all to be lost for a girl's silly fancies; a girl too who had already loved out her first love, and therefore had no romantic excuses to offer. I was so very much frightened by his anger that, by my mother's advice, I hastily accepted Lady Tresham's former invitation, and spent with her a most uncomfortable three months; she had many anecdotes regarding Henrietta Talbot and Rodney Herbert, and showed the localities of her stories with all the gist of a professional guide. These remembrances, together with the re-action of feeling which often follows any great excitement, carried me back unresistingly to the days of my first love; I recalled, with unavailing regret, the fervent raptures of that intoxicating delirium, the passionate idolatry with which I regarded one who had faded from his pristine glory in my eyes. I lamented the bursting of youth's prismatic bubbles; I wrote songs innumerable to melancholy airs; in fact, I indulged in ener-no; Tennyson speaks truthvating sentimentalities which I would have indignantly repudiated in my first disappointment, and I grew very weak and foolish.

During my stay at Lady Tresham's Mr. Donnithorpe began to rail against female genius; he discovered that clever women were generally heartless; 66 man does not require in his wife an equal companion, but a downy rest for his soul wearied with higher flights." So in the third month of my absence he suddenly announced that he had that morning espoused a fair, rose-cheeked, young damsel, barely fifteen, who had read nothing but her bible, and who brought eggs and cream from her father's farm to Eagleshurst. This piece of news revived me beyond measure. I wrote to my mother to ask if I might return home. I did not receive an answer for some weeks, and when I did was horror-struck to hear that my father was dying of a heart-complaint.

I hastened back, and found him in great suffering. I was thankful to be able to lighten the cares of my dear mother; and the poor invalid seemed grateful for our attentions. After some months lingering under the rapid increase of dropsy, he died suddenly one Sunday afternoon while my mother was reading to him from the scriptures.

I saw Sir Rodney Herbert yesterday in Pall Mall; he had on a hideous scratch wig; he had contracted a most ungainly stoop, and his voice was mumbling from the loss of his teeth; for I heard him speak to the waiter as he entered his club. But can I think of him under any disguise but as the gay and ever-valued, graceful youth, whose words were honey to my ears. Oh

"Love is love for evermore."

THE MAID OF ATHENS.*

BY WILLIAM HENRY FISK.

We read of thee, we deem thee bright and young,
We gaze on thee with fancy's eye,

We picture thee as fair as when he sung,

As though Time's pinions since had cease to fly-
Where'er we turn the page, still, maiden, thou
art nigh,

Still thou art present to enchant the mind,
A spell-born being, a remembered dream,
something lingering all else behind-

A

'Tis ecstacy to see thee, and to deem

We trace the breathing form that charmed the poet's theme.

And to us thou art one eternal spring,

Verdant with loveliness and joy;
As if the ice of age could never cling,
Nor with its coldness spread alloy
Through damask cheeks, sweet lips, eyes breathing
hope.

ron's poem was written, and a recent traveller has
*Four-and-twenty years have passed since By-
assured us that he saw Theresa Macri last year with-
out a vestige of her former beauty, struggling with
poverty; but striving, in the sacred character of wife
and mother, to obtain a scanty subsistence for her
children."--New Monthly Belle Assemblée, Octo-

Eagleshurst, being entailed, passed to a dis-ber, 1844.

LITERATURE.

"Sweet the night-bird singeth
'Neath the twilight dim,
Little heeds the maiden

Of his vesper hymn:

Spare the chalice, Time-it sparkleth to the brim.
"Time! again she greets thee;
But around her stand
Forms of life and beauty,

ANGEL VISITS; Poems by Miss Anna Savage. (Longman.)-To observers of the stars, which rise from time to time above the literary horizon, the name of Anna Savage must be already familiar as that of a young poetess whose effusions, if not quite mounting to the power and vigour of those of Felicia Hemans, recall in no slight degree the spirit of that writer; not that she is ever so poor of thought or servile of manner as to be a copyist, imbued though she may be to a certain extent with the tone both of" Mrs. Hemans and that of Alfred Tennyson. A strange mingling this may seem, and yet does she alternately, or even at the same moment sometimes, remind us of each.

Link'd in household band;

Yet more swiftly turnest thou the glittering sand. Time passed; lo! they faded,

As in autumn fall

Leaves by cold winds carried;
Sad her accents call

On the lost he whispers, 'Time restoreth all.'"Wildly wept the mother;

Yet the tears were dried,
While his wing waved o'er her;

'On!' the mourner cried;
Then the cold destroyer linger'd by her side.
Soon that hearth was lonely-

One by one the grave
Hath closed upon the sleepers,

Where the yew-trees wave;

Little heeds the foe that tears his footsteps lave. "Time pass'd slow and sadly,

We are half inclined to quarrel with two points about the present volume. In the first place, we think the title anything but a happy one; and in the next the publishers have done their part so more than well, that the elegant, tasteful "getting up," the drawing-table-book" effect of its outward appearance, might incline hearty book lovers and keen relishers of true poesy to doubt if the veritable thing would be found within the delicate binding of white and gold; and, so far, that which may be a merit with many will be a disservice with a few. The longest poem, "Wharton Hall-the Lady's Rest," is a legendary tale, connected with the residence of the celebrated Duke of Wharton and his beautiful wife, whom he banished to this place in consequence of her disobeying his commands to keep his child, an only son, to whom he was fondly attached, at the Hall. In this poem the very depths of woman's heart are sounded; but one of the shorter pieces will be more fit for extract. To choose among so many that are deep and beautiful is the difficult matter. The following best suits our space :—

And she chid in vain ;

'Weep not, I will lead thee
To the loved again;'

Thus spake the comforter in deep and solemn
strain.

"Though Time's heavy pinion

O'er the future cast
Shadows, lengthening onwards
From the mournful past,

Gladly now she hails him, for his sand ebbs fast.
"Still she chides his footsteps,
As in girlhood's prime;

Fond hearts droop and wither
In this alien clime.

Peace! the grave thou bring'st-oh! who
would stay thee, Time?"

DOUGLAS JERROLD'S SHILLING MAGAZINE. (Punch Office.)-Some two or three months have passed since the popular and humanizing writer whose name appears above relinquished the editorship of the "Illuminated Magazine," and now with the new year we have to congratulate him on the appearance of a work we may call "his own." There is something of an experiment in the low price and unusual size-small octavo-which has been adopted; but we have no doubt that it will prove a most successful one. The size and style, in fact, precisely fit it to be bound up as an elegant and portable volume; the type is beautiful, and it must really contain as much matter, or very nearly so, as the halfcrown periodicals. So much for externals and quantity. And few will doubt the quality offered in the present number and promised for the future ones, who remember that Douglas

illus

"In our review, we have all the beauties, the picturesqueness, of the real field. The curling smoke if a mass of iron had sped through its folds; the wreathes as gracefully from the cannon's mouth, as charge is as beautiful to behold, sweeping past-a tempest of men and horses, flags and steel-as if an opposing line were awaiting it, and slaughter and wide-spread death and desolation were the inevitable results of the meeting.

Jerrold is himself a liberal contributor, and colours than peace; make its ministers resplendent presides in the editorial chair to give the direct-in their robes of sacrifice; let the steel which cuts, ing fiat. The January number contains the glitter like valued gems; the evolutions which destroy, opening chapters of "The History of St. Giles be graceful as the motions of dancing girls! and St. James," from his powerful pen, trated by Leech; and these promise a work to rival "The Story of a Feather" in heart-reaching pathos, and truthful delineation of human character and human emotion. Douglas Jerrold is no dreamer; he boldly strikes at the root of social evils, however, wherever they arise, and is essentially one of the authors who is influencing his age. "Shadows of Coming Events" is a powerful paper: we think we recognize the hand, but shielded by initials we have no right to name it. "Recollections of Hazlitt" are deeply interesting; and "The Hedgehog Letters," certainly savouring of the editor's style, if not by him, are deep, keen, and clever. We shall make a few extracts, however, from an article called "The Finery of War:"

"And the spectacle takes: it does its duty; it throws dust in our eyes; and we are not unwilling to be thus temporarily blinded. Did we see truly, we should see too well for our own mental comfort. We must have the glossy skin stretched over the bony men glossed over with the fairest appliances.” skeleton; we must have the art and science of killing

*

*

"But we are wandering from our review; from its noisy glory, its gaudy appurtenances, its mockery of "And then the loud melody of martial music comes the picturesque side of war, its omission of war's ringing through the air, a spirit-moving strain! A horrors. In the front of the crowd, facing the march, a triumphal march, in all its cadences, all its marching regiments, not one hundred paces from that bursts of rich harmony; talking of glory, of pomp-battery of cannon, we see a carriage stationed. It is and lying while it talks!

66

Why not interpret martial music aright? It might be done. An ear morally tuned might hear, amid the breath of its melody, mournful wailing, shrieks, such as surgeons shrink from, when the scalpel is deep in the flesh-the lamentations of despairing men and women muttered lowly-a roaring as of burning homes; and anon, when the strain ceased, a silence, like the silence of deserted hearths. "So do we interpret martial music. But so do not all. The crowd around are exulting in the harmony-beating unconscious time to its rhythm, and shouting in their full-heartedness of admiration, when the charge of the horsemen sweeps past; and the rush of the foot-soldiers, with levelled bayonets, bids the mind deem that an opposing rank would be but an opposing cobweb."

Well, as it is so, we must have red coats, and muskets, and sabres; but seeing that the duty of their bearers squares neither with our innate good sense nor our notions of what ought to be-we are fain to gild the matter over-to try to conceal from ourselves the butchering nature of the business we

filled with delicate, fashionable females. There has been a little startling; a little pretty screaming at first, when the guns began to pour forth their thunder; but that is all over, and the crash of a fortyeight pounder seems no more to excite their nerves, than the flying of a champagne cork. With what interest, and looks, and exclamations of delight, they watch the rushing charge; the quick evolution of infantry which is to check it; the sudden wheel right and left in the line of foot-soldiers, which discloses a battery of field-pieces, arrayed against their mimic enemies!

their bright eyes flash, and their pale cheeks flush, They enjoy this playing at slaughter; with enthusiasm; they murmur, "What a noble sight!"

"The rehearsal of a battle-"a noble sight." Are these timid nervous women-or brazen-faced and stone-hearted viragoes? Surely the formernot one of them but would skip upon a chair with a faint scream at the sight of the smallest monstrous mouse that crosses the floor." Yet here they are gazing with rapture upon bloodshed in mimicry-upon evolutions which, the closer they represent bloodshed in reality, the more perfect they are considered. Strange riddle! See! One of the youngest and fairest claps her hands in delight at the flashing of the bright sun upon drawn sabres and lance-heads. Yet her eye would become dim, and her hand would tremble, at a glimpse of a lancet; an armoury of guns and swords would excite her delight-a doctor's chest of instruments her horror. She loves to look upon the semblance of slaughter-she would almost turn sick riddle-a passing strange anomaly--created by the at the real blood of a cut finger. Again, a strange art with which men have disguised the foul thing war-by the skill with which they have decked the obscene creature in the plumage of the bird of para

are sometimes forced to undertake, and so spring up military spectacle-military finery-military music. Nothing could be more awkward if, when we looked at a regiment, we saw only a body of slaves-vowed to perform any killing work which might be demanded of them-if the sight merely called up thoughts of unjust wars, silly wars, men and women dead and dying-cities burned and pillaged-com--(Punch Office.)-A book for Christmas, with a

dise!"

PUNCH'S SNAPDRAGONS FOR CHRISTMAS.

merce, manufactures checked-civilisation itself retarded. This would never do. The system would happily chosen title, prepared by the Punch wits not be tolerated. We must deck it in borrowed for their grateful and admiring readers; it is, in plumes. Fine feathers make fine birds-the eye must fact, a rich little volume in prose and verse, of entrap the mind. Clothe war therefore in gayer | seasonable stories, songs, jests, reminiscences,

"Some people love best to walk in green lanes and "Glance along the street-great is the glory of country paths; we prefer-and we don't care who shops devoted to the sale of Christmas cheer, adknows it-the streets-those very kaleidoscopes of miring the groups who cluster round their windows. humanity, which at every turn, and at every move-Holly, too, and evergreens and misletoe, wreathed ment, give us new combinations of forms, features, upon the walls, overshading the dainties, embowering and expressions. A little too noisy they may some-quarters of oxen, and the trussed-up forms of fatted times be-a little too dirty-a little too smoky; but ducks and geese. The evergreen plants are vegetable never unamusing-never uninstructive-never mo- -Nature's Christmas gifts-hale and sturdy shoots, notonous; always, too, presenting you with some- with sound hearts and good constitutions. None thing to think about, or something to keep you from of the pampered aristocracy of plants are they, fosthinking-two great advantages to be used with tered in thermometer-regulated hothouses, whilst pleasure. their less favoured brethren are drooping on the frosty ground, cut through by the nipping cold as by a knife. No; they are of the stout-hearted commonalty, laughing in the teeth of Johnny Frost, caring neither for snow or ice, fresh and green through it all!"