WORDS.

"Wherefore doth this word lay hold upon me thus ?"

STRANGE things are words, and mighty is their power for evil

have seen their brightest and How many have been driven

or for good! How many hearts fondest hopes withered by a word! by a harsh word into a course of sin and misery that has led them to ruin! How often would a life of sorrow and trouble be saved, if one light word could be recalled! One idle word, idly spoken, may chill the heart, and break the bond that should have been one of love and kindness! One angry word may arouse the fellest passions, and urge their fury, till they lead men to murder and the scaffold! A word misunderstood or wrongly written, may give the oppressor power, and take from the orphan all that was his own. And who has not felt the power of a word in season, a word of encouragement, when we are inclined to despair of success, how it has given us vigour to pursue our course, till we have at last arrived at the desired goal?

Mighty and spirit-stirring are the words the warrior addresses to his soldiers on the eve of battle. Country, home, children, -these are words which thrill to the hearts of all who hear them, change the craven to the hero, and lead men on with eagerness to victory or to death. When the poor outcast, whose misery of heart is for the time drowned by the pressing want of bread, supplicates relief, how often is the paltry alms accompanied by a harsh word, that takes away all its blessing, when a single word of kindness and compassion would have fallen as balm upon the wounded spirit, and have sent the poor beggar away with a lighter and better heart. How often has a word, thoughtlessly spoken, called up in the heart sad memories that had almost died, brought back bright and glad hours, when the soul was filled with holy thoughts that had not yet been poisoned, with warm affections that had not yet been chilled; when all nature had seemed too beautiful for the blight of sin and sorrow ever to fall upon it; the sky too clear and deep ever to be clouded. And then the change, the awakening from a dream the heart had fondly fancied would last for ever; when, perhaps, one word had destroyed the foundation on which the hopes of years had rested, on which a superstructure

of fairy-like beauty had been raised. The spirit might have been calmed by time, the heart have become almost as cold as the cold world around it; but one word hath opened all the wounds, and made them bleed again.

And that last word, scarcely heard, hovering on the lips that death is closing for ever, the word of warning, how does it not haunt our memories through all our lives; when we are beset with temptations to sin, until we almost yield, and enter the path that may lead us we know not how far from the right way, that word comes to our minds as a guardian angel, bringing with it thoughts of our childhood and our innocence, and we are saved, perhaps for ever.

If these words have such power, if a word can sow the seeds of a whole life of misery, if a word can add another drop of bitterness to the cup that is already overflowing, or, on the other hand, can lighten the burden of affliction, how careful should we not be how we use them heedlessly! Let us always remember, that by a kind word we may have it in our power to give consolation to a breaking heart; we may arrest a guilty wretch in his course of sin before it be too late.

PUCK.

THE SNOW-DROP.

THOU Comest, as our earliest pleasures come,
In thy white lovely robe of purity,
Bringing us many a bright and blooming hope
Of joy and gladness in futurity!

Thou comest with the sunshine's earliest beam,
While yet the wintry earth is cold and drear;
And on thy pale cheek is the rain-drop seen,
Like childhood smiling through a childhood's tear.

The summer cometh soon with all its hues
Of gaiety and brightness ;—but its sun
Shines with a ray too hot and feverish;

It withers thee, thou frail and gentle one!

The summer comes with many gorgeous flowers,
But they have not thy lowly, humble sweetness.
Our life may bring us many brilliant hours,

But they have naught like childhood but its fleetness.

PUCK.

ELLERTON CASTLE;

A Romance.

BY "FITZROY PIKE."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

A SHORT Season of prosperity in the life of Heringford preceded his last and most distressing trials. To dwell upon this we have less space than inclination; gladly would we, and easily could we, fill up chapter after chapter with the records of delight, but space forbids, and so we don't intend it.

At the church-yard gate Edward and Mat Maybird parted:--let us follow Edward home, where Willie Bats was awaiting his arrival. Willie is supremely happy. He is performing an impromptu dance with active gesticulation, in which frequent clapping of the hands performs the task assigned now to the castinets. There is but one thing can make Willie happy; we need not tell his errand. Cicely was found, and Kate was found,nay more, he would convey Edward to them. Edward was (let some lover fill the blank!)

!

Mat Maybird's errand-not so immediately delightful-led ultimately to his own delectation. He went to Spenton's hovel, where, as usual, had arisen in his absence, from a recollection of his strange conduct on various occasions, suspicions by the score, which it required his utmost ingenuity to still. The results of his visit are all we shall detail:-Simon Byre acted towards Curts in a manner most mystifying to behold. Sir Richard Ellerton had been unlike himself, and reserved towards the conspirators, softened since Esther's death, and since the burial had not been seen; but the said conspirators were not greatly troubled thereat, since they knew their duties, and had lately been seized with a desire for their speedy and extemporaneous fulfilment. Old Jessamine they had not seen; she must have been starved; there was no alternative: at all events, she could not bear witness against them, save with the halter round her neck. Spenton had intelligence of importance to communicate, and they invited Mat Maybird to join them on the

following morning in a visit to that gentleman at Ellerton Cave. Of the cave, now for the first time mentioned, more hereafter. Mat accepted the invitation. The following morning-(our history travels now at a good pace; not so Edward and Willie Bats, for Prento was in company, when)-on the following morning Edward and Willie, the latter acting as guide, set forth in search of-shall we say, Cicely? Their road was through Ellerton, and since Mat Maybird and his companions would follow the same path that day, it was arranged that Mat should go first, in order that Prento might have time for amusing himself on the journey without fear of being overtaken.

Before starting, Mat was invited to breakfast with his comrades, but, for a marvel, he declined.

"No," said he, "I have breakfasted.-Moreover, that pie of yours appeareth deficient in respect of cleanliness it must have been made a fortnight since by old Jessamine, and concealed under a dust heap;—for the liquids," he added, examining with curious scrutiny the interior of a tin mug; "drink out of dirty vessels grates my teeth."

It is night, and in the cottage of Mat's father at Ellerton sits the hopeful son, with Heringford and Willie ;-the father and mother sleep, while a wondering sister does the honours of the house. It is night. Edward and Willie have but just arrived, for Prento was in good spirits to-day. Mat Maybird has been to Ellerton Cave, and for the following reasons has returned excited:-Spenton is as wise as Heringford concerning the place of Kate's concealmenthe obtained his information from the same person who told Willie. Mat Maybird's conduct, especially his constant refusal at the cave, repeated after a whole day of fasting, to break bread with the conspirators, had gone so far to confirm Andrew Westrill's suspicion against him, that he found himself compelled to save his credit by giving information of the intentions of Edward and Willie Bats. It was then resolved, in consultation, to waylay the travellers on the morrow; Mat Maybird being with them in disguise as a friend, would with Andrew Westrill be sufficient. Now, Mat knew that he was suspected, and was also very well aware of the object of Andrew Westrill, in leading him to believe that while he went with Heringford, there would be but one enemy to combat; therefore he was in excitement; for to-morrow Curts, and Westrill, and Spenton, and Simon Byre would openly-or at least with tolerable openness

-attack him, and he should then be enabled to break all their heads.

Over this, as at supper he compensated for his unusual fast, Mat Maybird sat exulting.

"But-but-" said Willie Bats, who listened in astonishment to these warlike thoughts-" but I cannot fight!"

"Tush, Willie! hast thou not beaten Spenton? What will Cicely say?"

"Yes-ah-no-yes-that is to say I am not in the least afraid." The conversation became general; but Willie still brooded over the unpleasant topic.

"I think," said he, "I had better not go to-morrow, because Cicely-"

"Will think you coward if you stay, and disbelieve the story of your former valour."

"Of course," said Willie, " if you need my assistance, of course I'll go-but Prento-"

"Is a mettlesome steed, and when he scents a fight, is sure to rush into the thickest."

"No!" groaned poor Willie, " do'st think so? Well! Heaven help us!"

All things necessary having been arranged, and things eatable consumed, Mat's sister stole back to the sleep from which she had been awakened. Heringford thought not of the coming contest, but of once more, so shortly too, beholding Kate, until fatigue brought sleep and happy dreams. Willie Bats felt such a peculiar vacancy in that part of his chest in which the heart usually is seated, that he could not sleep for wondering whither that organ might have fled; the conduct too of Mat Maybird disturbed him; for that restless individual rose from his seat every three or four minutes to pace the room, to kick the leg of the table, examine his cudgel, and then take a draught of ale ere he returned, in the hope that by that means he might compose himself to sleep.

In good time the morning came. To a sleepless man never did night fly so fast as this night did to Willie. A vision of breakfast and a gay hum of voices were about his eyes and ears; but he was scarcely conscious until the rough shaking Prento gave him reminded him that they were already on the road.

"Rouse thyself, Willie," exclaimed Heringford; "look around thee this fine morning; is it not bracing, invigorating?"