88 is dark!" the hour He leans from the opened window, and the moon comes forth in light, And the stars are shining on the sea, where the moon's long wake is bright; exist without it. His eyes wander mechanically | The old man rises from his seat-" My son, over a long line of figures, but there is something wrong, and referring back to a heap of musty- He leans from the casement, opened wide-“Ah! homeward steer thy bark." looking parchments tied with red tape, there suddenly falls out an old crumpled letter-a valentine we would almost venture to swear! The merchant sees it too, and a change comes over him. Oh! little does the world dream of tears shed in secret for apparently so simple a thing; but she who wrote it might have died young, or jilted him; for women, we grieve to say, have been known to do such things. God forgive her, in the latter case, for the blight which her falsehood has cast over the whole lifetime of another. No more toil to-day; the papers are replaced in the desk, the letter consigned to his bosom, and he has gone home in a gentler mood than is unfortunately the case with him in general. There gliding through the dusk it comes, with sails so white and free, A ship! with all her canvas set, ploughing the deep The His blue sea. old man stands with folded hands, the breeze flings back his hair, pale lips move to sounds of love, a faintly murmured prayer; But forward bounds a gallant ship, the gallant bark flies on "Oh! here is haven, here is home, return, return, my son!" St. Valentine's day is often an epoch in young lives; an anniversary at which we are merry one year, and sad the next; a delightful mystery, which we would fain believe none can solve but ourselves; a season when the aged dream, and But with all her canvas standing, the gallant ship be, their children laugh or sigh, as the case may goes by, and telleth its own tale of hope, and joy, and change to the silent chronicler. May the utilito sweep it tarian spirit of the age have no power out from the brief catalogue of gentle superstitions which yet remain, to whisper of the The ship sails fast, the ship sails past—my son, thy simple and beautiful faith of our forefathers! And long upon the soft night air is heard that mournful cry "Ah! whither dost thou go, my son? the night is always drear; home is here! ""Tis true I drove thee from my house, with angry word and blow; But wrath with love abides not-I forgave thee long THE POST- O F F ICE. (An Irish Sketch.) BY MISS POWER. It is, I believe, a peculiarity of almost all Irish towns, that the tourist who strolls through them, with his eyes and ears open, can hardly fail to return to his inn with materials for a pen or pencil sketch, furnished by the lower classes of its inhabitants, more especially the beggars: their picturesque faces and costumes are well worthy the attention of the artist, while he who wields the quill (a goose-quill is ineligible for the service) will find many occasions to use it in noting down the scraps of conversation that are carried on, for the benefit of the public around him. During a visit of some weeks at the town of N-, in the north of Ireland, I strolled down "the big street," according to my daily custom, to inquire at the post-office for my letters; and finding there were none, I stopped to regale my eyes and ears at the expense of the various querists who came on the same errand. Among the rest was one who particularly attracted my attention, by the eagerness with which he pushed his way through the other applicants and advanced to the window, where, behind the half lowered blind, sat ensconced the pretty daughter of the postmaster, whose duty it was to give out the letters when her father was away. No sooner arrived at the goal than, pulling off his hat with the instinctive good breeding which an Irishman displays towards the beau sexe, he demanded with a rich brogue:— "If ye plase, Miss O'Brady, have ye ever a letther for me?" "Who are you?" inquired the damsel, sorting over the heap. "Is it who am I? Sure and thruth I'm a dacent boy as e'er a wan (one) in the parish, tho' it's meself says it; and Misther Fleenan, that I last sarved, 'ill give me a right good crackther any day-faicks an' he will." Yes, but I must know y'r name." My name? an welcome! Sure it's no sacret! There's not a man, woman, or child in the town that does n't know it; and in throth I've no raison to be ashamed of it." "Well, but I don't know it; can't you tell me who you are at once?" "Arrah now, Miss Honey, if ye havn't got a letther for me, it 'ud be a dale kinder in ye to tell me so; an' not be divartin' yerself axin me questions." "Diverting myself! It isn't to divert myself I ask you. Sure I must know y'r name to know who the letter is to be directed to." "To me. Who else wou'd poor Thady, that's far away, write to but me?-me that's his own brother." "Once for all, will you tell me y'r name?" "Wid all the playsure in life! I said before, and I say again, I never done nothin' to make me ashamed of it; an' if it war a sacret even, sure would n't ye see it on the letther?" "But don't you understand that I must know your name, to see if there is a letter directed to that same name?" "In coorse it 'ud be directed to that same name; that is, to my name. D'ye think Thady 'ud be afther directing it to Father Mathew or Dan O'Connell ?" The unfortunate Miss O'Brady was nearly driven to her wit's end, and she paused to think of some expedient to insinse" the obtuse inquirer into the necessity of giving his name. At length a thought struck her: "Where is y'r brother?" she inquired. "In throth an' he's in Philadelphy this two year come Michaelmas." "Oh, in Philadelphia?" she said, turning over the letters, and at last selecting one of which the postmark led her to hope she had finally hit the mark. 666 Mr. Jimmy Nowlan.' Is this it?" she inquired. "Throth an' it is jest itself. Ah! I thought it was makin' game of me ye war all the time!" said the fellow; his broad face distending into a good-humoured smile. And putting the letter into his pocket, he walked off, probably in search of some one who, more learned than himself, could decipher what was about as intelligible as Arabic to him. I WILL! BY T. S. "Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what are you discouraged?" "I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy and found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months. I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. Because, William and I have quarrelled-that's the reason,' she said, with some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips with a kind of defiance. I was shocked-so much so, that I could not speak. 'The fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives are a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence. But I did not yield the point in dispute; and what is more, have no idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she continued, have to be taught this. There never was a husband who did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a passive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at first with unlinching perseverance."" ARTHUR. "To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked me. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere, but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she seemed dull, "Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy there, you see, enjoys himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company-apart from their wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment palliative of her husband; as that, in company, a man very naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day they do not appear to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn-married only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or three others who have been married, some a shorter and some a longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds. "It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet the relation that Alice and Frances hold to their husbands troubles me whenever I think of it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong points in his character. From a right course of actionor, from a course of action that he thinks right— no consideration, I am sure, would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat similar. There is, likewise, about me a leaven of stubbornness. I tremble when the thought of opposition between us upon any subject crosses my mind: I would rather die—so I feel about it— than ever have a misunderstanding with my husband." Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland, always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle ? An hour afterwards, and while she still sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said, smiling faintly, as her niece came in, my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous occasions, say anything very decided, contenting myself with parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a less forbearing mood. I wish you would not make that woman your friend,' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his observation. And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite steadily. For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but firmly. There are reports in circulation touching her character that I fear are They are false!' I interrupted him; I know they are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement; my voice trembled, my cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild light. They are true, I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said, sternly, but apparently unruffled. I don't believe it,' I retorted. I know her far better; she is an injured woman.' "Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, you are my wife. As such, your reputation is dear to me as the apple of my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion I have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate with her-if you are seen walking with her, your fair fame will receive a taint. This I cannot permit.' "What you said this morning, Laura," she | best judge of my female associates, and that for began, after a few moments, "recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal-that is, to you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go back to the past in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my bosom when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day. Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour; proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed; a man with whom I might have been supremely happy; a man whose faults I might have corrected, not by open opposition to them, not by seeming to notice them, but by leading him to see them himself. But this course I did not pursue; I was proud, I was self-willed, I was unyielding. Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married; oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was very fond: handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order, there was everything about him to make the heart of a young wife proud; tenderly we loved each other; like days in Elysium passed the first few months of our wedded life; our thoughts and wishes were one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my husband; he deferred less readily to my wishes; his own will was more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me; but it did not occur to me that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as strange to him as did his to me; it did not occur to me that there would be a propriety in my deferring to him, at least so far as to give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud, firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my rights as an equal assailed; and from that point of view saw his conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set himself against me, as was far too frequently the case. "One day-we had then been married about six months-he said to me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, Jane, did not I see you in the street this morning?" "You did,' I replied. And with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this: Mrs. Corbin, a recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit associate for me. This rather touched my pride; it occurred to me that I ought to be the "There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence, a threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire. "Cannot permit,' I said, drawing myself up, 'What do you mean, Mr. Cleaveland?' "The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a resolute, meaning tone "Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.' "I WILL!' was my indignant reply. "His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled as if some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietly arose, and without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply did I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken! But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes pride struggled with affection and duty: at the end of that time the latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his forgiveness for what I had said; but he was not in the parlours; he was not in the house. I asked a servant if she had seen him, and received for reply that he had gone out. "Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as it gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My husband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond his accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife, he was staying away because that young wife had thrown off the attractions of love, and presented to him features harsh and repulsive. How |