keep up their spoiling system after the darlings. have got into their first tail-coats, so they do not require the lessons of Colonel and Mrs. Dermonts blind devotion; and young men, nowa-days, do not marry in such haste as to hear nothing of their betrothed's former adventures in the tender passion. The book is false as a picture of life; it is useless as a warning or example. No coquette but has her better awakenings of conscience; no lover but feels purer and better from his love.

But Alfred's passion makes him captious, ungenerous, selfish; and Julia's is unlike a woman's, for it is created out of nothing, and lives upon less than nothing. Woman's love is rarely born from total vacancy; it is founded on gratitude for some preference on the man's side, whether real or feigned. That preference may change or die, while the love evoked from it lives on immortally; but there must have been a preference to begin upon, else is it not truly woman's first young love, but a pert and forward fancy.

It is a glorious dream-that "Young Love!" It says, like Napoleon, "Impossible!—it is a word for fools." It reconciles all absurdities, it makes parallels meet, hopes all, tries all, and too often fails in all! Yes, it is a dream; and as dreamers do, we are astonished at nothing we see before us; all obstacles fall down, all angry passions hear the voice of the charmer, and we believe in the perfectibility of our fellow creatures. Then it is that all mean, and sordid, and selfish impulses are trodden under foot. We are capable of any self-sacrifice, and the noblest deeds the world ever saw had their source in the highest and most spiritual degrees of that mighty passion.

The awakening may come, but we thank heaven it is a trial that strengthens and purifies more hearts than it enervates and embitters. He who hath loved truly and deeply, will never think those precious feelings wasted, even though he found himself deceived. He will reflect with gratitude that he has for a brief season been permitted to taste the purest and most disinterested happiness this life can give. He will feel that the exercise of generous sentiments and exalted passions has elevated and enlarged his mind; that the experience of disappointment, however grievous and heart-rending at the time, has given him a large benevolence towards his fellow creatures, as Talfourd says :-"Thy heart enlarged by its new sympathy with one yields bountiful to all."

Yes; he will deal gently with stricken spirits, he will comfort others from remembering how he himself needed comfort; and finally, though he has wakened from sleeping, and is, perchance, sobered by the real collision of every-day troubles and cares, he will, for the sake of its glory and its heavenliness, look kindly on the rashness and waywardness, the eddies and torrents of that much-talked-of, little-understood thing, "Young Love."

P. P. C.

WINTER.

BY ELIZA LESLIE.

Ha! Winter-chilling, cheerless, weary-
Whose scant locks are sadly crown'd
With icicles all cold and dreary,
Dropping into rain around;

The penthouse of whose eye-brows scatter
Feathery snow-flakes dazzling white;
The snow-balls from whose fingers clatter
Into hail-stones in their flight;

Whose breath's a storm, whose whispers even
Sound like serpents' hiss among
The leafless trees, that up to heaven
Cast their wild arms all along!

Sad emblems of misfortune's children,
Shivering at the wintry blast,
Who, penury's sad cares bewild'ring,
Spread to heaven their arms at last;
Imploring thither to be taken,

As no hope remains below;
By sister, brother, man forsaken.
Christians! say-shall it be so ?

Anticipate the dark December

With the light and warmth of loveKindle the bright and glowing ember; Heaven shall bless thee from above!

The houseless feed, and clothe, and cover, And for one little season try To throw fair Charity's cloak over Former sins of crimson dye; Then shall the angel, Comfort, hover O'er the low pillow and the high ! Nov., 1844.

STANZAS.

She died!-but on no day of gloom;
The air was faint with scent and bloom;
Upon the mellow uplands lay
The scents and bloom of May;
The sky was blue-the sea was bright-
The streams ran laughing in the light.

She died!—and sudden night came down :
For me there bloom'd no flowery crown;
No glory rose o'er land or sea;
For eve was closing over me-
The azure of that loving eye,
That was to me both sun and sky.

She sleeps in such a quiet grave,
And at her head the wild flowers wave,
And mighty yews, their shades profound
Shed ever on the ground:
And through those dark and stately trees,
For ever moans the murm'ring breeze.

And on that place of holy sleep
The dews of evening love to weep,
And morning's purple light is shed
Most gently o'er her head;
And there I linger-but in vain-
I ne'er shall hear her voice again!

*

One of the most touching and interesting establishments that a stranger to London can visit, is the Indigent Blind Asylum; at least I thought so when I was fortunate enough to be present at a concert, given by its inmates on the 16th of October.

I had not been seated many minutes in the chapel when the singers, of both sexes, entered, and took their respective seats as easily as if they had possessed the organs of vision.

The females were dressed with the most Quaker-like neatness; small round-eared caps, with plaited borders, dark brown stuff gowns and white aprons, fawn-coloured shawls and mittens, being the costume of the establishment; nothing could be less picturesque than this combination of colours; yet there were two girls looking so lovely that they attracted the attention of the whole company; the one, about nineteen, had her eyes cast down, as in perfect repose, the long dark eyelashes resting upon a cheek as soft and pale as one of Correggio's Madonnas; there was the same pure and tranquil expression, the impress of thought free from the stain of earth; and as I gazed, with an artist's love of the beautiful, upon her high and expanded forehead, I ceased to regret she was blind, for in all stations of life woman's beauty is a fearful dowry, and perhaps the Almighty in mercy sent this affliction to that gentle creature to save her from years of sin and sorrow. Next to her sat a bright sunny being, not more than twelve or fourteen years of age; her golden hair was smoothly parted upon a brow which rivalled in whiteness the cap which shaded it; smiles were constantly playing in the roses of her cheek, and her closed eyes seemed more shut in joy and frolic than from actual blindness; I looked at her Madonna companion almost with reverence, but I longed to throw my arms round the neck of this child of adversity, and weep for the lot which shut her out from the blessed light of day.

But all reflections were soon chased away by the solemn peal of the organ; and when the voluntary concluded, we might have heard a pin drop on the ground, so deep was the silence of the audience as they listened to one of the women who repeated the anthem previously to its being sung; her voice was sweet and low, every word falling distinctly on the ear; and as the speaker, in the earnestness of her heart, raised her sightless eyes to heaven, those of the beholders were filled with tears; and when the

last verse was finished, there burst forth such a gush of melody as few have heard excelled in our Royal Academy of Music.

The next person who stood up to repeat a hymn was a young man, whose pronunciation and proper emphasis might have put to the blush many a pupil in our aristocratic schools.

At length it came to the turn of the bright little being I have before mentioned; every eye was fixed upon her innocent countenance, of which she seemed instinctively conscious, for a rich colour mounted to her cheeks and forehead, and she looked timid and distressed, until a kind old man, a Dr. S―, we were told, one of the patrons, gave her an encouraging word as he placed himself by her side; the girl's joyous expression soon returned, and as she repeated those beautiful words of " Blessed be thy power," which are arranged by the immortal Handel, her voice sounded like the voice of an angel calling us to our God.

After the entertainment was finished, we visited the wards, where those who had not joined in the concert were still employed at their respective trades of shoe-making, mat-making, and basket-making, &c., &c., which were carried on with wonderful accuracy and dexterity. It was wonderful to see mere children handling knives, and other sharp-edged tools, as fearfully as if they could have seen precisely when and how to use them.

In the shoe-makers' room, under one of the windows, through which poured a flood of light, sat a little boy closing the seams of a boot, and as he felt the warmth of the sun's rays he for a moment lifted up his head; his pale, wan face wore a look of care and weariness. But just then a canary bird, which was caged above him, warbled forth its song of gladness; the child listened attentively, the shadow passed from his brow, and smiling and chirping to his feathered companion he resumed his employment, as if no affliction had set him apart from his fellow creatures.

It was curious to observe the pleasure the rug-makers appeared to take in the ornamental parts of their work: one almost fancied they could really see the bright hues of the wool which formed the borders of the rugs.

The female apartments were yet of more interest, the large room looking somewhat like a bazaar; for on different stalls were deposited for sale bags, purses, braces, babies' hoods, watch-pockets, &c., &c.; in fact, every ingenious

variety of netting and knitting was to be obtained at a moderate price.

After bestowing much admiration on these pretty things, we looked at the groups around us; some of the busy inmates were recognizing friends or patrons amongst the numerous visitors, and many a soft voice of the sightless uttered the welcome expression of, How glad I am to see you," and "When shall I see you again?"

At a small table, in loving fellowship with three other girls, sat my beautiful Madonna, using her tongue as glibly as her fingers, which moved the knitting-needles with extraordinary rapidity: all her pensiveness had vanished, and with it much of that peculiar style of beauty which had so forcibly struck me whilst she was singing in the chapel.

"You seem all very happy," said I, addressing myself particularly to her.

"We are comfortable, which is all we can expect," was the reply; and as a tear-drop glistened in her dark eyelashes, I fancied a volume of suffering and privation was contained in that short speech.

The answers we received from others, to various questions put to them, all reiterated the same word "comfortable;" and I am sure the exquisite regulations of the house, so well carried on by Miss Grove, the matron, might well

merit the term.

Although the weather was far from cold, there were fires in many of the rooms; round a very bright one was gathered a cosy crowd of the middle-aged and elderly females, who, having finished their daily allotment of labour, were merrily discussing the visitors whom they could not see, but whose touch or voice instantly conveyed to the blind the characters and ages of those who addressed them.

How merciful are the ways of the Almighty, who if he takes away one of our senses makes the others doubly acute!

I remember hearing of a little blind girl who was most anxious to be at the window of her London home, whenever any procession or show passed through the street. "But you can see nothing," said a lady, one of the guests who was there on a " Lord Mayor's day."

66

I know that," replied the child; "but I shall dream of it at night, and mamma tells me the sights I see in my sleep are far more beautiful than what is passing before you now,

After all, perhaps, the blind are less objects of pity than of envy. How often do we, blessed with the light and life of day, grope about in mental darkness; whilst those afflicted ones, seeing all things with the eye of faith, penetrate far beyond us, to the regions of eternal bliss. The careful religious education which is imparted to those who are fortunate enough to find shelter in this asylum, combined with the exclusion of all external objects, must necessarily raise the thoughts to that world where the weary are at rest.

THE VOICE OF THE COMING YEAR.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON.

I lift the veil from my hidden form,
As I follow the year gone by;
Like the dying wail of a passing storm
It hath breathed its farewell sigh:
And now pile high the festive cheer,
And haste ye to welcome the Coming Year!
Hail me with gladness, though many a brow,

Will be bowed to the earth ere I vanish again,

And the eyes that shall smile on my presence now,
Yet hope! for ye know not what good may be near,
May weep for the ill that I bear in my train:
To lighten each heart in the Coming Year!
Welcome me, ye who are pining to sleep

Where the blasts ye have felt in this life shall be o'er,

Where the lov'd ones long lost, for whom sadly ye

weep,

May meet ye in bliss that shall darken no more. Welcome me now-stay each sorrowing tearYe may find your calm rest in the Coming Year! Hail me, fond parents! who yearn to behold

Your bright opening buds into flowers expand; Ere the last parting knell of my course hath been told What beauties may rise 'neath my fostering hand; Ye may bless the proud work of the Coming Year! And gazing with joy on the forms ye hold dear, Perchance to the blighted in heart I may bring

A smile that shall lighten each care-wasted face

Some bright, gleaming flashes of joy on my wing,

To blot out the vestige of misery's trace; Mistrust me not yet, ye may have naught to fear In threading the maze of the Coming Year. Then grudge not my welcome-bring holly so green, To twine round my brow, when my presence ye

It was night, in the most dreary part of that district of Scotland which religious persecution had rendered the scene of many a foul and many an heroic deed; and night in all the horrors of a winter storm.

The road wound at the foot of a range of high rude rocks, and, always rough from being covered with stones and shingle, was now rendered slippery by the rain that fell in torrents. The lightning alone broke the heavy darkness that otherwise prevailed, and, darting along the rocky crags and battlements, or diving as it were into their chasms and abysses, or again spreading such a vivid glance over the heavens as for a moment to resemble a fiery sunset, gave, when combined with the rolling, often-echoed thunder, a character of infernal grandeur to the whole scene. The wind, even more than either the lightning or thunder, seemed to triumph as the spirit of the storm, and superstition might have imagined every cry of horror in its blast, from the howl of the prisoned fiend to the shriek of the drowning mariner. It was one of those nights that seem an anticipation of the time when the elements shall dissolve, and when the sea and its waves roaring, and men's hearts failing them for fear, heaven and earth shall pass away with a great noise, to be looked for and found no more. It is well known, that when the Covenanters were under the displeasure of the English government, or rather, when all who had no religion had licence to persecute all who had any, the proscribed sufferers were accustomed to choose the most tempestuous nights for assembling, in remote and almost inaccessible places, "for spiritual exercises." The storm was to them a friend; for it often shrouded their meetings from discovery, and enabled them (which man would not do) to worship God in peace. To an assembly of this nature, three individuals were, on the night in question, making their way with extreme difficulty, although each was provided with a strong staff and an iron lantern. Two of the party evidently depended on the guidance of the third -a stalwart, stately man, who, wrapped in a shepherd's plaid, preceded them like one perfectly secure in his knowledge of the way, and occupied with far other thoughts than concerned the storm.

in its fellow, when ye showed Strahan's dragoons the way to Willie's Crag, and would have tied the pastor under your horse's belly, but that even a red coat--may his soul find mercy-cried shame upon ye.'

"I was not in that fray, shepherd," said the. other serving-man.

"No, Jock!" replied the individual addressed; "ye say right, man: ye were too busy following the Baron to Air's Moss; there was better and bloodier work there than at Willie's Crag. Was it Thomas Weir's head or hands that were cut off by thee, Jock, after he was shot?"

"I only did my lord's bidding," replied the fellow sulkily; "and if he were over his sickness and his fit of fear, where may thy head and hands be, master shepherd, now it is known the Lady Isabel walked so often to thy hut, and listened to thy old tales to such bonny purpose? Ha! ha! ye may well pray for the baron's sound conversion, or for his death better-like."

"Whist, Jock!" exclaimed his fellow-servant; "don't talk so freely about death on such a night as this-mercy! mercy! but it's worth something to be as stedfast as that carle before us; why, he minds the storm no more than the rocks do: save us, if he is not leading us to a precipice! I saw it by that last flash of lightning. Jock! Jock! I say, stand still, and let him go to his people by himself. They'll kill us when we're once fairly among them-they won't believe his errand. Jock, my man, strike up a prayer, or a song, or something to keep the spirit in one. Hist! hark! that's a voice from the world above or below us, I don't know which."

The more timorous and the more hardy companion of his journey were now alike commanded by the shepherd to remain where they were, and abide his return.

The sound which had climaxed Davie's fears was produced by no supernatural agency: it was a sound that the shepherd knew well, which he had often assisted to raise, and which now assured him that he was near his journey's end. It was a hymn of praise uplifted by his brethren in the faith, now congregated in a cave hard by; and its melody floated forth on the wings of the wind, "smoothing the raven down of darkness. His practised ear even discerned the words sung, and he took up the strain with a bold, triumphant voice, as he proceeded to join the assembled band. Their place of rendezvous was admirably adapted as a place of concealment, and, under existing circumstances, even of comfort. It was a natural cave; the entrance to which was not level with the ground, but

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placed about ten or fifteen feet above it: on the outside the ascent was easy to mountaineers; and in the inside the descent was managed by means of a ladder, concealed when not in immediate use. This cave, accidentally discovered by one of the persecuted, had sometimes been occupied as a secure retreat, and at others as a place of religious assembly. The aperture in the side of the rock seemed, to the glance of a casual observer, no more than a long accidental fissure; but, to prevent surprise, a watcher was in general stationed on a high point of the rock outside, as he could thence command the road for a considerable distance. On the present occasion, however, relying on the inclemency of the weather, no watcher was at his post, and the shepherd climbed to the opening, and shouted lustily to his brethren below, before they were aware that any one approached them. As soon as they recognized his voice to be that of a friend bound on urgent business, they interrupted their worship, and placing the ladder, permitted him to descend.

The scene in the interior was too familiar to the shepherd to excite more than ordinary interest in a mind fully occupied with its errand, and with the devotional feeling that formed its habit but a stranger, surveying the scene more imaginatively, and forgetting the lapse of time, might have supposed himself in the midst of a band of primitive Christians, gathered round their presbyter in one of the grottoes of Upper Egypt. The company consisted of from twenty to thirty persons, of both sexes, varying in years, from extreme youth to advanced age. All seemed nearly of equal rank; none, except the minister, independent of the labour of their hands; homely, hardy individuals, who, seen at the plough or in the ingle nook, might have excited no remark, but who now appeared endued with mind and power, consequent on familiarity with those grave and lofty subjects-religion and danger. Something of human pride there might be in their conceiving themselves followers of those, who had of old been "persecuted, afflicted, tormented;" but it was only a shade upon feelings, the substance of which was holy. Had the poet of our own day stood in the midst of them, and beheld the gravity that had tamed down the play of youthful features, and the resolution, almost settling into sternness, stamped upon the aged ones, he might have said

"It is not quiet, is not ease,

But something deeper far than these;
The separation that is here

Is of the grave, and of austere And happy feelings of the dead." And such expression harmonized well with the place and circumstances, with their oratory hewn in the dark and rugged rock, and with the midnight storm howling around it with wild but ineffectual fury, fit emblem of the wrath of man when directed against religious truth. The shepherd had disturbed the assembly as the members were kneeling down to their concluding prayer, and there was just that degree of con

fusion induced by his entrance which rendered the grouping more picturesque. Some remained on their knees, some advanced to meet the new comer; whilst the women, with an instinct divided between timidity and affection, gathered round the pastor, who stood calmly waiting an explanation of the whole. A projecting ledge of rock, from its convenience as a reading desk, had naturally suggested his choice of station. By some rude workmanship, two huge flambeaux had been appended thereto, and cast a fitful glare both on his own figure and the Bible that lay open before him. He was not an old, but he was a worn man; one, whom it was evident had been in " perils often, in watchings and in fastings often, in labours more abundant;" a fair specimen of that calumniated band, of whom, with all their alloy, "the world was not worthy." His countenance expressed what we remark in most of the divines who lived in the troubled days of strife and controversy; a habit of mind subtle, searching, acute, watchful, uncompromising. Ascetic in his habits, bold in his bearing, considering men's souls that were to be saved, and the truth that was to save them, as the only realities; living, too, at a period when a profession of religion did in very deed oftentimes subject a man to the "loss of all things," it might be that the meek and lowly graces of the gospel were not always evidenced in his manner. But he was a noble and a valiant spirit; terrible to the profane, hateful to the worldly, but to the sheep of his fold a patient and wise shepherd, binding up the torn, healing the sick, and carrying the weak in his bosom.

The messenger advanced towards him with a reverent manner, that sat with peculiar grace on one so habitually independent, and declared his errand. Surprise, amounting to astonishment, flushed the cheek of the auditor. The remainder of the assembly heard likewise, kept silence for a moment, when, their feelings as men overpowering their principles as Christians, the cavern rang with a shout of triumph.

"In the fulness of his sufficiency he shall be in straits-a fire not blown shall consume him," exclaimed Robin Hawickshaw.

"His eyes shall see his destruction, and he shall drink of the wrath of the Almighty," responded Stephen Wishart.

Their pastor interposed with a loud stern voice "If thy brother sin against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day shall turn to thee, saying, I repent, thou shalt forgive him."

"I can hardly reckon Kildinning a brother yet, though," said the shepherd, dryly.

"Ah! God forgive us all!" exclaimed old Mabel Scott: "this is a cutting off the skirt of Saul's robe."

"And a saying vengeance is mine," observed her daughter.

"Ye are right," said the manly Hawickshaw, a farmer who had suffered much worldly damage for conscience sake; "but I thought of my burnt barns and helpless little ones, when I spoke."