and though he asks you first, one or two duets | Helen, whose generous temper was at once are always enough; but he never seems willing subdued by her tormentor's acknowledgment to let her stop. Then he tells her of little graces of error; "but remember, Sophy, there is a and flourishes that those great singers give, and point at which forbearance becomes no longer makes her go over passages, to teach her their a virtue-exceed it, and there commences a style. Now, this shows he cares more about struggle for power between us which you well how she sings. But I should not have thought know must terminate in my favour. I have anything of this if it had not been for what vainly hoped to win your regard by a voluntary Rachel tells me. She says that Fred Ormsby surrender of many of my rights; the time apsometimes comes here when we are out in the pears to have come when I must demand your evening, and Pop and Mrs. Marshall are alone respect by assuming them. I therefore request in her little sitting-room. Instead of going you will at once dismiss Rachel from the away when he finds we are not at home, my house; and lest she may circulate this slander gentleman walks up there, and as Pop always among her compeers, first show her this mifalls asleep over the newspapers, they can have a niature, which she will recognise as the one on fine time. Rachel often passes the door to see which she has built her miserable falsehood. It what they are at, and says she has always is that of my mother-my angel mother," said seemed quite gay and animated-very different Helen, bursting into tears as she unclasped from what she is when other people are here, the case and displayed the beloved lineaments. until last-night-but I forgot I promised I" Ah! little did she ever dream of the insults to would not breathe it to a soul."

"Go on, Matilda; I insist upon your telling

me."

"Well, if you wont let on to Rachel: she says that last-night she went in on some errand, and found Pop asleep in one of the big armchairs; Fred. Ormsby was at the table, sitting beside Mrs. Marshall, with her miniature in his hand. All she heard him say was- How very lovely!' and she was wiping her eyes, and seemed to have been crying. Rachel says she is sure she married my father for money, and now she has fallen in love with Fred Ormsby! Ain't it wicked? and he your beau !”

Words cannot express the anger of Sophy while listening to this communication, to the horrid insinuations of which she gave implicit confidence, though they had originated with the housemaid. She fairly raved; and after first threatening to tell her father, then to write to her brother, who was still at college, and make him come and shoot Mr. Ormsby, she finally rushed to Helen's room, and there upbraided her with her treachery in the coarsest terms.

At first Helen could not understand her, but when from amidst the mass of incoherent words, a perception of their meaning dawned upon her mind, she remained for a few moments like one paralyzed, and then gave way to a burst of indignant grief that terrified her accuser. All the wrongs that had been smothered within her bosom, since she had left a home of love to be an unwelcome inmate here, now rushed like a burning torrent from her lips, while tears of bitterness fell scalding upon cheeks that glowed with outraged feeling; until, at length, Sophy, like the witch of old, stood trembling before the spirit she had herself invoked. She felt, too, that she had accused Helen falsely, and fearing her influence with her husband, who, though a good-tempered man, was capable of strong excitement, Sophy dropped the lofty tone she had assumed, and confessing she had been misled by Rachel, apologized for her hastiness, requesting the matter might go no further.

which its possession would expose her child."

one

But had self-reproach no share in the agony which seemed as though it would rive the very frame from whence it proceeded, and caused even Sophy to endeavour to soothe the sufferer? The energy of passion had passed away, and Helen, motioning Sophy from her presence, now threw herself upon the richly-curtained bed, writhing in all the torment of a crushed and wounded spirit. The taunts that had just met her ear were false; but conscience whispered that her own free choice had placed her in a position that might ever leave her open to them. Had she wedded one she loved, or even with tastes congenial to her own, no tongue would have dared to whisper a reproach on intercourse so casual as hers with Frederick Ormsby-no imagination would even have conceived it, for she had never seen him but in the presence of her husband and his children. Now, she had been spied upon by her own household; they had seen she was an unloving wife, and knowing she was false at heart, believed her capable of being so in conduct. Helen before had experienced the folly of her mercenary marriage, but now she felt its guilt and the magnitude of the dangers to which it exposed her.

Her dread of causing a disturbance in the family, as well as a natural reluctance to let her husband know the nature of the provocation she had received, induced her to conceal it from him. She took good care, however, to be out of the way when Mr. Ormsby paid his visits, which soon dininished in frequency, to Sophy's evident chagrin and mortification.

The rencontre we have related between this young lady and her stepmother by no means diminished the distance between them, while its effect upon the latter was to engender morbid feeling which began to have a serious effect upon her temper. Helen had now been married eighteen months, and had never yet been allowed to pay a visit home, her husband constantly saying it was impossible he could "You have taxed my forbearance so far, that accompany her on the journey, and his selfish ou well know you may trust it now," replied | fondness would not permit her to undertake it

ness. Now she felt it in all its intensity, and as each moment seemed to develop some fresh charm in the object of her idolatry, she would not be a single hour parted from it. The little Harry was, indeed, most lovely; well might any mother be proud of such a child-how much more one who, like Helen, had a well-spring of

without him. His reply to her entreaties always was that he could not think of parting with her for so long a time, and from this determination no tears or prayers could make him waver. Charlotte, too, must remain with her father, whose duties at home were equally imperative, so that Helen, left with scarcely a hope of seeing these only objects of her affection, became cap-tenderness congealed within her heart, now tious, morose, and more than ever dissatisfied with herself and all around her.

In vain did Charlotte's letters breathe the very spirit of religion and sound philosophy; in vain did she urge her to rouse herself to the duties of self-improvement and of active interest in the welfare of those about her, whose sorrows and privations her sympathy and her wealth might so readily alleviate, and point out the pure source of happiness that were still within her reach. Helen's replies were filled with nothing but repinings; and Charlotte saw with grief that her own trials so absorbed her sister, that she seemed to think those of others of no importance that she was living in the daily neglect of the highest duties of existence, and fast sinking into the depths of a selfish, hopeless apathy.

melted by the warmth of maternal love, and pouring forth its full, deep torrent upon this one object! In this feeling, too, her husband could sympathize, though his daughters took as little notice of the child as decency would permit. To their father, however, Helen never looked more lovely than when busied with her infant. Her bloom now heightened by the effort of tossing it in its laughing, crowing glee; her sweet voice now lulling it with gentle songs upon her bosom, and then bending over it in unutterable gladness while she expatiated on all its opening beauties. The time that was not spent in nursing him was devoted to his wardrobe, and the most exquisite garments her taste could devise or her wealth procure aided in his adornment; and while thus engaged, many a picture of his future brilliant and distinguished career was woven in the glowing web of Helen's fancy. Her boy would certainly be very talentedhandsome and witty he already was in an eminent degree: he should be educated with the utmost care; she would herself impart to his manners an exquisite refinement, and with talents, education, and wealth, what might he not become? Ah, fond mother, you have omitted the only basis on which a noble and enduring structure can be raised: you would build for this world alone, and the wise Masterbuilder will finish the work in His own way-in mercy, doubtless, to yourself and to him whom your fond indulgence might too probably rear

From this state, however, Helen was aroused by an event which awakened all the tender feelings of her nature, and directed them with intense and absorbing interest on one object. This was the birth of a son-a blessing ardently desired, though unfortunately bestowed at a time when, of all others, she most wished to be with her own family. Charlotte was married soon after her infant's birth, to a gentleman to whom she had long been attached, though prudence had till now delayed their union. It was an attachment founded upon mutual worth, and Helen sighed as she acknowledged their marriage would surely be a happy one, though offering but little prospect of worldly wealth—to misery and ruin. an advantage she had long since learned to think might be too dearly purchased.

But now Helen's domestic trials were all forgotten as she gazed on the tiny mortal, whose entrance on this troubled scene had produced a total revulsion in its mother's thoughts and feelings. Her nursery soon became her world; she performed every office for her child with her own hands, and while pressing his velvet cheek to hers, or watching his gentle slumbers, or soothing his infant woes, she tasted a fulness of delight such as till now she had never known. How beautiful this provision of our nature! From the kingly palace to the lowly hut, here is a source of holy happiness prepared for all; and whether the new-born creature be the heir of untold thousands, or whether it adds but another burden to that already pressing sorely on a poor man's daily earnings, its smiles and winning ways spread joy around the hearth, and cares and sorrows vanish in the sunshine of its presence. Helen had never before acknowledged the existence of this widely-diffused pleasure; indeed, she had often listened with contempt to the raptures of fond mothers, aunts, or sisters, while dilating on an infant's loveli

A worm was in the bud Helen was cherishing with such idolatrous devotion, and after sixteen months of uninterrupted health, her child was suddenly stricken with alarming illness. In vain did learned doctors strive to check its progress; vainly did the frantic mother beseech them to save her child. "Am I in God's stead, madam?" said one of them, in reply to her wild entreaties; and Helen then as wildly implored a higher help, that she had well nigh forgotten in her happier hours. It was all in vain-the child breathed out his spirit in his mother's arms; and as Helen closed the lovely eyes that long had been fixed on heaven, as if seeking the home he was struggling to reach, she bowed her head upon them, and seemed like one congealed to stone.

It was long before they could disengage her from that fixed embrace, but to the surprise of those about her she arose from it desperately calm, and went about the sad task of preparing the loved form for its last resting place, as quietly as she had been wont when disrobing him for his nightly couch beside her. The nurse would fain have shared the duty, but a look from Helen forbade it. When she had completed her

A MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.*

BY MRS. S. C. HALL.

antee that something was to follow-racy and fanciful. His wit, rather genial than caustic, and so abounding that it brightened everything it played about, was checked only by a sensitive desire to avoid giving pain; even where to censure became a duty, this tenderness in his nature was apparent in his writings: he frequently stopped short of his object less he might inflict a wound. Of late, few articles bore his name in periodical works; and those who are unacquainted with the mighty mechanism that scatters "leaders," "criticisms," and "reviews,”— opinions" of all kinds on all subjects to guide the multitude,-little imagine what volumes have passed down the stream of time-written for "the day," by this man of many labours, but upon which the power of the throbbing brain had been lavishly expended.

The past winter has been one of dismal heaviness to us, for it has been so to many dear friends; a cold bleak "season"-each month surpassing its predecessor in the number of its bereavements, until we have asked each other, "Is the cup of sorrow yet unfilled?" All through February and March the dull boom of the deathbell mingled with the snow-wreath and rose above the storm, while the frost-bound earth echoed the clank of the mattock and the spade. We do not speak of the simple hearts, near and dear, whom death found as fittest for immortality-ripest for the sickle-but of others," known to the world about us, who have been taken "home" in the flower of their days; and more especially of one, just gone, whose gentle spirit past away while nature was recruiting,resuming her leaves and flowers, and wearing once again a happy look of plenteousness and peace.

Sixteen years ago we knew him; ever as a poet, buoyant with youth and hope-his purpose fixed, his independence unflinching—with the dreamy, ardent temperament of a genuine "child of song," yet turning himself to the direst and hardest duty work, and labouring at everything that did not compromise the principles with which he set out in life,-fighting his way with a brave heart and a bright eye, known only to be loved, and imparting as much pleasure to, as he received from, literary society. Many are the happy and profitable hours we have passed together; his ready sympathy attracting confidence that was never betrayed. Alas! his wife became the victim of a distressing malady; and his sensitive nerves were ill able to endure long midnight watchings, relieved only by midnight labour-the coin with which genius purchases bread. She died some months ago, and to all but him her death seemed a mercy. From that time, however, his light of life either blazed or flickered, as it was excited. He rose up, and went about, and wrote, when he could, but fancied, and perhaps truly, that he could not write as he had done. fact was, his mind required repose a total absence from labour-it craved rest; but how is the producer of periodical literature to find rest? People tell you "not to be excited," "not to overwork yourself." Ah! they cannot see underneath the gay draperies that society folds around the form-they cannot see the chains that bind us to the galley. A terror that he should be unable to provide for his children took hold of our poor friend-seized him by the brain through the heart; his eyes became affectedto all appearance they were as bright as ever, but he could not endure the light, and continued to suffer intensely; his imagination appeared to retain its power after his reason had given His name was a pleasant watchword, a guar-way; and thus was the fountain of life ex

First, from over the sea, came news of the death of one who, if longer spared, would have achieved a much higher reputation than she had yet won-for her mind was evidently gaining strength, and her views of life and knowledge of literature were expanding. One of our contemporaries has said, that Mary Anne Browne was "spoiled at first by over-praise:" overpraised the girl-poet might have been, but none who have read what she has written as Mrs. James Gray could have deemed her "spoiled"for all her later works evince care and thought, and much genuine refinement; and her last small volume of poems-" Sketches from the Antique"-supply evidence of higher hopes and holier aspirations than belong to the "spoiled" children of the Muses. Her short life, though uneventful, was chequered and of uneven course -as literary lives always are in England-but she was a loving and a beloved wife, esteemed by those who knew her as a kind and amiable woman, and one of rare industry. I found it hard to believe that death had taken her from the new-born infant that nestled in her bosom; that the grave had closed over the laughing girl I had seen but as yesterday-her rich brown curls clustering round her throat, and her eyes luminous with mirth.

But heavier sorrows followed. There are few, indeed, who are acquainted with the light and graceful literature of our country-who cull the simple and natural flowers so plentifully scattered in their paths-to whom the name of Laman Blanchard is unknown: his ready and eloquent pen could indite a sonnet, point an epigram, tell a story, or lend interest to an essay, while slower spirits were wondering and pondering what they had to write about.

* "Art Union," June, 1845.

The

hausted at one-and-forty! The eloquent and tender poet-the man with many real friends,

And, after he was laid in his grave, the bells tolled on; another and another passed awaynames highly honoured in Art-Calcott, Smirke, Phillips, the gentle and highly-gifted Duncan; and now one whose name has long been a household word, but whose death has been anti-constitution. The sea suited him not. I can cipated for months, nay, for years-the noble poet-yet, strange to say, better known as the annual "jester"-THOMAS HOOD! Truly, the man who, year after year, furnished abundant food for mirth, and yet could imagine "The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," "The Dream of Eugene Aram," and depict such realities as "The Song of the Shirt" and "The Bridge of Sighs," must have been formed in no common mould! He, too, is gone "home!"