In the evenings, by the dying sunlight or the winter fire, she would climb to my knee, claiming a story; and, while I related some remembered history, or improvised some original one, there she sat, with raptured face, gazing on mine, those eyes so full of wondering interest, those ruby lips apart, showing the glistening teeth; putting in now and then some earnest question, pausing long at the close of the narrative to muse over it and fully digest certain points that had made a deeper impression than the rest of the tale. Then, as the light fell and the stillness of evening deepened into night, the head drooped on my breast, and, like a folded flower, the blossom that brightened and perfumed my lonely life, slept quietly, while I, sad and silent, wandered mournfully over the past.

I look back now to that period of my life, and again it is not I whom I see sitting there before me. It is one I knew, whose affections, cares, and troubles were as my own to me; but whose thoughts, opinions, and aspirations were quite other than those I now hold, and on which I now act. The child seems hardly real, distinctly as I remember every -the slightest-detail concerning her; she comes before me in my lonely hours like the remembrance of some vivid dream dreamed long ago; some vision sent to cheer and

We know so little what we can live through and over, till the present is merged in the things that have been! till the pages on which are inscribed in black letter the great griefs of our lives are turned, and those that contain pleasanter passages are laid over them!

Mabel had achieved her tenth year before I had reached my thirtieth birthday; and all that time we had never been a day separated; had never lived any other life than the life I have been describing.

I had taught her to read and write, Nannie had taught her to sew; but other accomplishments she had none. Partly that strange jealousy of other interference, partly a horror I could not control of subjecting my fairy to the drudgery of learning, made me shrink from calling in other aid to advance her education. It was better that it should be so. I am always glad now to think that I did as I had done.

My child had been lent me, not given. For ten years her blessed and soothing, purifying and holy influence was granted to tame and save me. For ten years God spared one of his angels to lead me through the first stages to Heaven!

The task accomplished, He saw fit to recall the loan.

It is thirty years and upwards now, since Mabel died.

I have buried another wife since then, and two fair children; and four more yet remain

to me.

They are good, dear children to me, none better; and handsome boys and girls too. But they are none of them like my Mab, my little fairy queen: and I am not sorry; it is as well as it is.

The Englishman [a military newspaper published in Calcutta] states that there is a gentleman in Calcutta, who possesses an original document, the publication of which would for ever set at rest the vexata quæstio as to the authorship of the Letters of Junius.' The document, which we have seen, is what our cotemporary describes it to be, and bears three signa

Wilmot, and J. Dunning, afterwards Lord Ashburton. The paper, the ink, and the writing all induce us to believe that the document is genuine; and we understand that the gentleman, in whose possession it is, has other documentary evidence corroborative of this, which still farther tends to clear up the riddle which so many have attempted to read with small success."Notes and Queries.

BERS.

THF LAY OF THE "BRIEF."-IN CHAM

By the side of a blazing fire,

With the Times upon his knees, A Barrister sat upon Quarter day, Mending a pen at his ease.

Nib!-Nib!-Nib !—

In loneliness, want, and grief,

In a voice whose misery couldn't be hid, He sang the "Song of the Brief."

"Wait, wait, wait,

In the spring when violets blow,
And wait, wait, wait,

In December's frost and snow.
It's Oh! to be a snob,

From gentility's cares afar,

To rise and fall with the ill-bred mob, If this is to be at the bar!

"Wait, wait, wait,

From nine o'clock till five;
And wait, wait, wait,

For clients, who never arrive;
HALE and BLACKSTONE and COKE,

COKE and BLACKSTONE and HALE,

Till I fall asleep and dream from the bar, I'm a prisoner sent to gaol!

"Oh! men, with sisters rich!

Oh! men, with daughters and gold!
It isn't only in Pagan lands

That women are bought and sold!
Wait, wait, wait,

In loneliness, want, and grief,
Hoping in vain for a double good-
A Wife as well as a Brief!

"Why dream I of married bliss?
That phantom of Syren wiles;

I have no right to a woman's kiss,
No title to her smiles-

No title to her smiles,

Because I've an empty purse:

Oh! why should money a blessing earn, And Poverty-a curse!

"Wait, wait, wait, My patience is all in vain ;

And what are its wages? nothing to do,
And nothing at all to gain.

This dingy gown, this barbarous wig,
That only disfigures one's hair;

A gentleman's rank and as to the bank,
A minus for balance there!

'Wait, wait, wait,

As they wait in a calm at sea;
And wait, wait, wait,

But nobody comes to me!

COKE and BLACKSTONE and HALE,

HALE and BLACKSTONE and COKE, Till tired of law, I smile no more, At Punch's very best joke.

"Wait, wait, wait,

In the summer when roses blow,

And wait, wait, wait,
When chrysanthemums ope below;
When down by the river side

Those pretty young maidens walk,
As if to show us their sunny locks,
And tempt us to 'come and talk.'
"Oh! but to breathe the air

By their side under summer skies!
To watch the blush on their cheeks,
The light in their liquid eyes.
Oh! but for one short hour,

To whisper a word of love;

To forget for a moment my wretched fate, And the dreary prison above!

"Oh! for a single hour!

A respite however short! Only a walk on the grass below,

Or a friendly chat in the Court!

A walk by the river would ease my heart,
But in my lonely grief

Here must I stay, lest the world should say, 'That fellow has never a Brief!'”

By the side of the blazing fire,

With the Times upon his knees,

A Barrister sat on St. Valentine's day,
Mending a pen at his ease.
Nib!-Nib!-Nib!-

In loneliness, want, and grief,

And still bewailing his wretched fate, (Oh! would he could find him a wealthy

mate!)

He sang this "Song of the Brief!"

ONE of the worthies of olden time-Arthur Warwick-possessed and improved many more spare minutes" in his days of quiet contemplation than it is possible for us to secure, if even we had the disposition, in these stirring times. As an incentive in this direction, the following gleanings from the old fields of sacred literature and learning have been garnered up. Old books, like old wines, have often been found the better for their age; so the lover of good books, when in quest of choice literary aliment, usually consults the oracles of yore-the masters of our English prose and poesy. A quiet corner in a library, or some sequestered by-path, free from the turmoil of city life, and the strife of tongues, are the fitting places for the companionship of a volume like the present. Thus to con over these piquant and quaint passages of patient thought, and pious meditation, one can scarcely fail of deriving pleasure and profit by communing with such philosophic minds.

Of the multitudes who willingly surrender themselves to the sweet enchantment of the "world's great dramatist," few, comparatively, delight to pore over the majestic pages of our Shakspeare in theology-to catch the inspiration of his "thought sublime," or seek to be instructed by his profound and sagacious teaching, or soothed by his divine philosophy. Sacred learning is among the most elevating and pure of intellectual pursuits,-it qualifies us for both worlds; and these thoughts, maxims,

and aphorisms, are among its spoils. Many a suggestive thought, long buried in the dusty folios of the schoolmen, is thus exhumed, and rendered fertile of interest to many appreciative minds. Our "pearls" have been collected from the writings of such authors as Jeremy Collier, Owen Feltham, Bishop Hall, Thomas Fuller, Sir Thomas Browne, John Donne, Francis Quarles, Pascal, Fenelon, Jeremy Taylor, &c.

To meditative minds, these "Pearls of Thought" will supply material for reflection, and all such will reverently and lovingly cherish these relics of the past with grateful regard. Odd intervals of time cannot be devoted to better purpose than to these suggestive passageswhile their variety constitutes them an epitome of good things-a library in miniature. Those who can appreciate the gift, will be inclined to adopt the words of good old Bishop Hall: "Blessed be God, who hath set up so many clear lamps in his church; none but the wilfully blind can plead darkness and blessed be the memory of those, his faithful servants, who have left their blood, their spirits, their lives in these precious pages, and have willingly wasted themselves into these enduring monuments to give light to others." F. S.

ANNUAL OF SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY: or Year

Book of Facts in Science and Art for 1858. Exhibiting the most important discoveries and improvements; together with a list of recent Scientific Publications, &c., &c. Edited by David A. Wells, A. M. Gould & Lincoln, Boston.

DOUGLAS JERROLD'S WIT. Specimens of Douglas Jerrold's Wit: together with Seleetions, chiefly from his Contributions to Jour nals, intended to illustrate his Opinions. Arranged by his son, Blanchard Jerrold. Ticknor & Fields, Boston.