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My little Bernard," said my mother, "he will not move again; he is dead; we must bury him."

"What is that, mother? what is being dead? And what will you do to the little bird? Do make him fly!"

"You will hurt the robin, mamma, by putting it under the cold ground."

My father's house was indeed a home, a quiet, well-regulated English home, where the several gradations of parents, children, and servants, were properly distinguished; and yet, the line of dif- My mother took my hand in silence, and led me ference was not so harshly drawn as to give pain to a flower-bed, where I stood by her side and to any one. As well might the human frame ex-watched her bury the poor bird. When the last ist without a head, as a family without a ruler. bright feather disappeared under the brown soil, My father was in truth the supreme guide and I began to weep. arbiter in his own household. He was gentle, but he could be firm at times; and if now and then his will was a little arbitrary, it was better than no authority at all. My mother was the sunshine"he is as if he were asleep, only that he will not of our little garden of love; though not gifted with commanding talents, or with energy to enable her to steer through life alone, yet, united to a man like my father, she was all that is lovable in the character of woman as wife and mother. Without him as her guide and support, she might have been nothing; with him she was everything.

"He does not feel it, Bernard," she answered;

wake again."

"Not wake again, nor sing, nor fly? Is that being dead?"

"Yes, my darling," said my mother, sadly. "He will never feel tired or hungry again, or cold, as in that bitter frost not long ago. So do not weep for the robin, Bernard, and some day I will tell you more."

I look back with my mind's eye on that dear old place, were I grew from infancy to boyhood, I asked many questions, but my mother did not and from boyhood to youth. It was a large old answer them; she judged rightly that it is vain, rambling house on the slope of a hill: not a bleak, almost wrong, to let young children hear of death. picturesque mountain, but a green undulation, high Their minds can only comprehend its fearfulness, enough to overlook several miles of our level coun- not its calm, and hope, and holiness. Therefore try, and smooth enough, with its soft grassy car- it was long after that day when I learned what pet, to tempt many a gay troop of children to roll death really was; but still I could not forget the down from the summit to the foot of the bank. poor bird, and came day after day to the flowerAt the back of our house rose this hill; in the bed, vainly expecting to see it lift up the brown spring time it was studded with lazy, happy-look-mould and fly away, and thinking how strange it ing cows, and all summer long it was vocal with must feel to lie thus with the flowers growing the melodies of birds that built their nests in safety above it. among the tall trees of a tiny grove half way up Except this one memory, my early childhood is the acclivity. Then, too, we had the music of a a blank, until one day when they told me that I pebbly stream, that ran through our orchard, and was going to have a sister, and my baby heart the distant and not unpleasant hum of my father's danced with joy at the thought. What a sister cotton-mill, which brought us in our daily bread, was, I hardly knew, but I saw they all looked and within whose mysterious and dangerous pre- happy, and when my father took me on his knee cincts our anxious mother never allowed us to and told me I must love my little sister, for that I venture alone. There was something awful and had one now, I clapped my hands with delight, strange in that old mill, with its ever-dinning and flew over the house shouting to every one, sound and its ever-moving wheels, like living" Sister is come! oh, sister is come!" creatures, near whose devouring jaws we never Thus joyfully did I unconsciously hail my best, dared approach. My father, as he walked among my dearest companion, the sharer of all my cares, his machinery, seemed like some superior being, the brightener of all my pleasures, my gentle, whom these fearful creatures were forced to obey. affectionate, true-hearted sister Kate. I was the eldest child-for a few years, the only one. It is a long effort of memory to look back sixty years, but I will strive to do so. In early infancy, our life seems a kind of sleep, in which appear a few vivid points, like portions of a dream. It is strange that my first recollection of existence, at least the existence of thought, is one of death. I remember playing one sunny morning in the garden, when, peering into rosebushes higher than myself, I found a robin lying stiff and cold. I wondered much the beautiful bird did not fly away, as I had watched others do, but lay still in my hand. I brought it to my mother.

Years past on, and one after another, brothers and sisters were added to our household. After Kate, came the twins Margaret and Herbert; then a sturdy, frank, merry-hearted boy, Miles, and last of all the youngest darling, bright-haired, blue-eyed Dora. We had a happy childhood: our station in the world was high enough to enable us to have all harmless pleasures, and studies such as the young require; and yet we were unchained by the forms to which a rich man's children are subjected. We had no costly dresses to spoil; we were suffered to run out to play in the green fields without a domestic's eye always upon us; the sun was free to

kiss our sister's fair cheeks if he liked, and the clear, shallow stream might invite us boys to a pleasant summer bath, without fear of drowning. Our learning consisted of what was useful and necessary to our station, but without idle accomplishments my father wisely thought that it was better in early youth not to force his boys to hard study, and my mother loved better to see Kate and Margaret using their active fingers in fabricating garments than in playing the harp. Yet never was a sweeter voice or a clearer tone than our Margaret's when she enlivened the winter evenings with her music; and long before Kate grew to womanhood, she possessed acquirements in literature of a sound and sterling nature, above most of her sex.

In a large family, many are the diversities of character that produce discord; and varieties of mood and temper will always bring passing clouds. Thus even in our little Eden of innocence there were storms now and then. Many a care did wild, headstrong Miles give to our parents from his very babyhood, and beautiful Margaret was often wilful and vain. Then there was another sore grief. For five years the twins had grown up together, the same in beauty and health; but there came a change. An accident befell Herbert, and the child rose up from his bed of sickness, a pale and crippled being, the shadow of his former self. His twin sister grew up tall and blooming, but except in poor Herbert's gentle face the resemblance between them was gone. Not so the love which is ever so strong between twins; Herbert and Margaret were all in all to each other, and it was a touching sight to see the diminutive and deformed boy cherished, tended and protected by his beautiful sister, whose care he returned with an intense love that amounted almost to worship. To him she was all-perfect, and she, on her part, would leave us all, in the midst of our plays, to sit beside the frail, delicate boy, who could no longer share them.

We had our yearly festivals-our cowslipgatherings, our blackberry huntings, our haymakings, all those delights so precious to country children. Our five birthdays, too, were each a little epoch in the years, to be signalized by simple presents, and evening merry-makings in the garden, or the house, as the season permitted. Herbert's and Margaret's birthday was the grand era, for it was in the sunny time of May, and there were double rejoicings to be made. The twins were exalted in our laburnum bower, set upon chairs decorated with flowers, and crowned with wreaths. I fancy I see them now-Margaret in her girlish beauty, smiling under her brilliant garland, and poor Herbert looking up to her with his pale sweet face.

your rosy cheeks and your brown hair, but I—” and Herbert glanced at his own shrunken and meagre limbs, and the tears came into his eyes.

Margaret's smiling face became mournful; "Herbert dear, if you talk thus, I shall be very unhappy. Do you think I am any better or prettier than you, because I am strong and you are not, or that my cheeks are red and yours pale?"

"Ah! but if I could only run and leap like Miles, there! See how he is carrying little Dora over the stepping-stones at the brook. Oh! Margaret, I am very helpless."

"I love you twenty times better than I do those great, strong, rough boys!" cried Margaret passionately. "Don't say another word, Herbert ; I had rather have you just as you are. You are handsomer than Bernard with his ugly brown face, and better than Miles, with his rude temper; and you are my own twin brother, and I will love you and take care of you all my life."

Margaret said these words with energy that almost amounted to impetuosity, embracing Herbert with strong affection. The thick lilac-bushes did not reveal that this little conversation had been overheard, and though the allusion to "great rough boys" was anything but palatable, yet I felt glad to see that poor Herbert was consoled, and that his quiet, pensive smile had returned. My grave and gentle sister Kate consoled my wounded vanity.

"Bernard," she said, "you, in your health and strength, can hardly feel tenderly enough for that poor boy. He has no pleasures like you; his only comfort is in Margaret's love. Let us be happy, that she does feel thus strongly for him, even if it takes away somewhat of her love for us."

I assented to all Kate said, but still I often wondered if that young and beautiful girl would continue to devote herself for life to her sick brother. But there seemed to come no change in her affection, and Herbert passed from childhood to youth, with the shadow of death ever hanging over him, yet still kept away by untiring love. No two could be more opposite in character than the twins, for Herbert, with the natural tendency of a sensitive mind united to a frail body, loved all intellectual pursuits, while Margaret, gay, buoyant, and energetic, preferred active employment, and only loved books for his sake, that she might amuse and converse with him on the studies which were his delight.

Thus we all grew up associated as suited our individual tastes-the twins, Miles and Dora, Kate and I. Christmas after Christmas we met around our father's table, for he would never break through the good old rule; and after short school absences, or passing visits, the flock were always "How beautiful you are to-day, Margaret!" gathered together on Christmas-day. It was a I heard him once say to her, when we had all happy festival, begun with devotion, and ended gone away, to pluck more flowers; "I cannot with fitting mirth; we talked over the past year; believe what they tell me, that you and I were we pictured the coming one; year by year bringonce so much alike, they could hardly distinguishing over our hearts and thoughts the change which one from the other. You are so pretty, with is cast by approaching maturity. Our childish

games became imperceptibly merged into thoughtful talk; we no longer danced gleefully round the Christmas pudding, but began—at least we elder ones-gravely to discuss our childish frolics, and call them follies. I have learned since, that there is more foolishness in the pleasures of after life than in the innocent sports of youth.

Let me then bid adieu to childhood with my heart full of those dear old times, those merry Christmas days.

CHAPTER II.-THE FIRST MARRIAGE IN THE
FAMILY.

THERE is always something a little sad in the first wedding in a family. It shows that they are no longer one household—that their childhood and its united pleasures are passed away forever, and each now may begin to think of a separate home, and other and dearer ties. One link is broken in the family chain; even though in the midst of rejoicings and hope, still it is broken-and for

ever.

The first who left us was Margaret. How love stole into her heart, so full as it had been of the strongest sisterly devotion, is more than I can tell; but it did. Her betrothed was welcome to us all, even to Herbert, who had ever received from him that sympathy and attention, which, coming from a man of talent and goodness like Mr. Worthington, was sure to gain regard. It was his best way to win Margaret, and perhaps it was for this that she first loved him; but she did love him, and so fondly that not even the pain of leaving Herbert could prevent her from becoming his wife. Not one word of regret did that affectionate brother breathe, to sully Margaret's happiness in her young love. He told her that he never thought to keep her always by his side; that he was quite content and happy; that Kate and Dora would take care of him, and that she should see him grown a merry old bachelor when she returned to England; for Margaret's intended husband was a soldier, and they were going abroad.

she said softly; "shall I move your chair nearer to the fire?"

It was a common question, such as any one might have asked; but it brought with it to both sister and brother such a tide of recollections-of trifling but tender offices discharged for years, accepted and fulfilled with equal love, which would be no more bestowed or received that neither could maintain their calmness any longer. Herbert looked up in his sister's face with an expression of deepest sorrow, while he held her hand without a word. Margaret knelt beside his chair and wept aloud.

"I will not leave you, Herbert; not even for him. I will stay and take care of you."

"Hush, Margaret," whispered Herbert, "you must go and be happy; you have another to think of besides me;" and he stooped over her, and talked to her for a long time in a low tone, so that no one else could hear. The consolation he gave was known only to his own self-denying heart and to hers; but, after a time, Margaret dried her tears, and her beautiful face looked again happy. Never was the contrast between the twins more striking than now, as Margaret knelt beside her brother, with his arm thrown round her neck, and his countenance bending over her, as he talked in low, earnest tones. They were so much alike—the same features, hair and eyes; but the one was all blooming health, the other, pale, thin, and wasted. Herbert's eighteen years might have been double that number, there was such a look of premature age on his features. And yet there was beauty in that poor, wan face, the majesty of intellect, the loveliness of a mild and tender nature and of a noble heart.

"Now, Margaret," said Herbert cheerfully, "wheel my chair near the piano, and sing me a song like a dear good girl-the song which is my favorite, and Edmund's too."

A bright smile illumined the face of the betrothed bride; Herbert knew well how to make her sadness pass away. And the whole of that evening, Margaret wept no more, until the hour of rest came. It was long past the invalid's time of retiring, but when his mother had spoken to him, Herbert had answered with a whisper,

I well remember the evening before my sister's wedding. We were all at home, and alone; for that last night not even Margaret's lover was admitted in the family party. Kate and the bride" Not to-night, mother, it is the last night.” sat at work on the adornments for to-morrow; but now and then a large tear fell from Margaret's eyes on the white silk that lay on her knee. Dora read in silence at my mother's feet, and even Miles was quieter than usual. I glanced at Herbert as he sat in the shadow of the curtains, in his easy-chair; he looked calm, and not sorrowful; but every now and then his eye rested on Margaret with an intense love, as if every idea was swallowed up in the idea of losing her.

But now, when the last good-night must be said, we all felt the reality of the parting. My mother strained Margaret to her bosom, while my father blessed her in broken words.

We talked little, and then only in broken observations and on indifferent matters; there was a constraint over us all. At last the bright sunset faded into twilight, and the girls put away their work. Margaret came beside Herbert.

"These autumn evenings are getting cold,"

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"My children," said he, we may never meet as a family on earth again, but we have been and shall ever be a family in love. Margaret, you have been a good daughter, and will be a good wife; take your father's blessing unto your husband's home. You love Edmund as your mother loved me; you are right to follow him wheresoever he may go, even leaving home and kindred. Go, my child, and may you live to bring up sons and daughters, and to see them around you as your mother and I do this day. Yet, oh! Margaret ;" and my father's voice faltered, while two large

tears stole down his aged cheeks,“ Margaret, handsome and happy bridegroom. We all left you are the first who leaves us-do not forget us, the room, and Edmund too. What passed bewherever you may be." tween the twins I never knew; but Margaret came out of the room pale, calm, and tearless, and in a few minutes the carriage had swept away, and the bride was gone from her home forever.

He kissed her solemnly, and we all did the same; and then her mother took Margaret away. It was a glorious autumn morning on Margaret's wedding day. We were all assembled when she came down stairs in her marriage dress; the sun never shone upon a lovelier bride than Margaret Orgreve. The same words that he had spoken on that birthday long ago, "How beautiful you look!" came to Herbert's lips, but he could not utter them. Perhaps he thought on what she too had said on the same day. But he checked the sigh, and received her tender greeting without one seeming pang.

Kate and I watched the whirling wheels disappear, and then turned silently, and by a natural impulse, to where poor Herbert sat alone. His head was bowed upon his hands, and his whole attitude indicated the deepest dejection. Kate laid her hand softly on his shoulder; he started, and looked up.

"What do you want?" he said fretfully, "are they gone?"

"Yes, dear Herbert, and so Bernard and I have

"I wish you would go away. I had rather be alone."

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The tears stood in Kate's eyes. Indeed, Herbert, I love you almost as well as she could. Do not send me away."

Herbert could not withstand her sweetness.

None of us had time for much emotion, for ere we could believe it was really our sister's mar-come to you." riage day, she returned from the church, a bride. A few hours more, and we had to say farewell. One after another, Margaret parted from her brothers and sisters; she had a gift, a few words of remembrance for each. I believe we loved as well as most brothers and sisters do; and all of us, even stout-hearted Miles, when the time came," Forgive me, Kate, I will try to be content," he were grieved to part with our gay, beautiful Mar- said gently. "You are very good, Bernard; you garet, the pride of the family. But she and her were always kind to me, though you are so strong, twin-brother had been so engrossed by each other, and I so helpless." He took a hand of each as that it was with Herbert that she felt the full bit- we stood beside him, and thus was formed a silent terness of separation. compact of affection, which was never broken while Herbert lived.

"Let me say one word to my sister before she goes, Edmund," said Herbert imploringly to the

From the Examiner.

THE HEROINES OF ENGLAND.
HEREDITARY honors who confers?
God; God alone. Not Marlboro's heir enjoys
A Marlboro's glory. Ye may paste on walls,
Through city after city, rubric bills,

Large-lettered, but ere long they all peel off,
And others take their places. T is not thus
Where genius stands; no monarch here bestows,
No monarch takes away; above his reach
Are these dotations, yea, above his sight.
Despise I then the great? no; witness Heaven!
None better knows or venerates them higher,
Or lives among them more familiarly.
Am I a sycophant, and boaster too?
A little of a boaster, I confess,

No sycophant. Now let me teach my lore.
Those are the great, who purify the hearts,
Raise lofty aspirations from the breasts,
And shower down wisdom on the heads of men.
Children can give, exchange, and break their toys,
But giants cannot wrench away the gifts
The wise, however humble, may impart.

I have seen princes, but among them all
None I would own my equal; I have seen
Laborious men, and patient, Virtue's sons,
Men beyond Want, yet not beyond the call
Of strict Frugality from embered hearth,

And inly cried, "O were I one of these!"
How many verses, verses not inept,
But stampt for lawful weight and sterling ore,
Are worth one struggle to exalt our kind!

Here let me back my coursers, and turn round.
Hereditary honors! few, indeed,

Are those they fall to. Norton! Dufferin !
Rich was your grandsire in the mines of wit,
Strong in the fields of eloquence, but poor
And feeble was he when compared with you.

O glorious England! never shone the hour
With half so many lights; and most of these
In female hands are holden. Gone is she
Who shrouded Casa-Bianca,* she who cast
The iron mould of Ivan, yet whose song
Was soft and varied as the nightingale's,
And heard above all others. Few are they
Who well weigh gems: instead of them we see
Flat noses, cheek by jowl, not over-nice,
Nuzzle weak wash in one long shallow trough.
Let me away from them! fresh air for me!
I must to higher ground.

What glorious forms
Advance! No man so lofty, so august.
In troops descend brightbelted Amazons
But where is Thesus in the field to-day.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Felicia Hemans.

1. Account of the Skerryvore Lighthouse,
2. Maiden and Married Life of Mary Powell (2d Part,) - Sharpe's Magazine,

3. Visits to Monasteries in the Levant,

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Quarterly Review,

49

58

Quarterly Review, Examiner,

64

82

83

84

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POETRY. A Christian's Life, 57.-The Heroines of England, 95.

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