A CASTLE IN THE AIR. WE have often wished there were some quiet region -some half-way house between earth and heavenwhere people might retire for a time, and with eyes purged with "euphrasy and rue" see this world as it really is, sce both its naked nothingness and its real worth. Doubtless some, without ascending to such an elevated position, may be able to see things commonly hidden from mortals. So the old and blind Milton heard the songs of angels and the voices of heaven; so the martyrs to truth have cheered each other, even at the stake, and chaunted holy hymns while surrounded by flames of fire. Happy souls were they! instruments tuned by the hand of heaven! choice spirits of God's own moulding! But, for the most part, the prophetic eye is wanting; a dark, thick cloud broods over us, "the weight of all this unintelligible world" presses us down, and there are very few indeed who can "sit in the centre and enjoy bright day." But why this desperate dimness of soul? why this inability to look beyond that which is passing and in itself meaningless? why is the mind of man thus cabined and confined?-capable in some directions of almost limitless exertion, helpless, childishly helpless, when attempting to move in other paths which might lead him to infinitely higher results? We can but ask the question here, to answer it would require time, space, and ability, all of which are at present lacking For our own satisfaction, and we trust also for thy satisfaction, dear reader, let us withdraw awhile from the "smoke and stir of this dim spot, which men call earth," and find "a castle in the air," a castle which may afford some of the facilities for observation we have been desiring. A few minutes, and the journey may be effected; already with the swiftness of the electric fluid we are there; let us fortify our position, remove all noisy intruders, free ourselves from incumbrance, and look around us. to us. The past and present are before us, the future we may even see darkly. For many long, long eras the world has been heaving to and fro like a troubled ship upon the waters-years of calin have been followed by centuries of desolation; convulsive movements, moral volcanoes, have marred the fair beauty of its surface; but with the angel of death, a Spirit of light and life may also have been seen, striving with all pertinacity to purify the atmosphere, and free it from its pestilential taint. A beautiful face and most holy features had this latter visitant, but men seldom lifted up their faces to gaze on her; she passed unheeded, and strewed flowers on her way, but they were trampled under foot. Sometimes she wept; and her tears, like the joyous showers of spring, fell on some cold and dreary hearts, and lo! like Aaron's rod, they budded and brought forth blossoms. But though loving and gentle and full of kindliness, she stood solitary and alone, and felt comparatively feeble when the cruel and raging Spirit swept the earth with his powerful arm. Then did men's blood boil, and war, with its outward and false splendour, spread bitterness and sorrow through the world. But a star arose in the east-a single star, unobserved and unheeded; but anon its light grew more brilliant, far and wide it shed warmth and beauty, and men's hearts felt calmed, and many who had before been at variance embraced as brethren. Still, a dreary time was to be passed; truth mat with but a few poor and weak disciples; little had they to say, and unskilled for the most part were they in argument; but when the wise men of the world hated them and destroyed them, they could die in silence and peace. Blessed, thrice blessed were those deaths--the whole universe were spectators, and every drop of blood shed gave fresh energy and life to the world. And the two Spirits witnessed the struggle. And so in the course of time both had a field of blood for their own; but from one arose a glorious harvest, the other brought plague and famine in its train. And as the days passed away, those who, like ourselves at present, retired to their castle, looked upon the men of blood with a curious and sorrowful eye; they were puzzled and troubled, so strange did warriors appear to them. "How awful," said they, " that God's green, fresh, glad earth should be thus disturbed! how terrible that young and bright faces should be smeared with blood!" And some would-be philosophers laughed at this, and said the world was a farce, life a jest, and war a pastime; and the men in the castle thought that to say this was more wonderous still. Through these dark ages there were some quaint spirits, heedless of the busy stir of the world, men who spent their lives in deciphering strange emblems and unknown hieroglyphics, or in reading or transcribing musty parchments; and so doing they ate, and slept, and died. Others sought to please their Maker, not by injuring their fellows, but themselves, and strove, by making themselves miserable on God's earth, to be better fitted for his heaven; and so for them the openeyed and laughing flowers smiled in vain, the song of woodland birds was a bitter mockery of joy; all the thousand sights and smells with which our senses are greeted proved no delight, but with slow and leaden pace they passed through man's heritage. Another class lived for hunting and debauchery; "Why," said they, "should we exist if not to enjoy ourselves? Let us take the present as we find it, the future may not be ours." Some again, the light spirits of the world, conned old romances, sung love ditties, wooed and fought for fair maidens, and found what they deemed a paradise on earth, and they also died. Still, as the world grows older, the prospect grows brighter; the angel-spirit treads with more firmness on its surface; it is like an April sky, now darkened by heavy-vapoured clouds, now smiling brightly as an infant in the fond arms of its mother. And now many things of startling significance appear; kings are deposed, others who retain their thrones sit uncomfortably on them; war, the ancient enemy, sheds still its baleful influence; and, to come nearer home, in our own land men still, as of yore, "jostle one another in the throng," the love of gold and of glitter makes some harshi and cold as March winds among the mountains, and many weary workers spend their whole lives in toilsome labour, and are called "hands"-reckoned mere beasts of drudgery, machines formed for the convenience of the higher members of the body politic; they are crowded, too, into dark, dingy burrows where all humanliness is lost and all vice is encouraged. Much there is which throws a gloom over all classes, much want, much crime, many strange mistakes which have led to terrible results. But daily and hourly the cruel Spirit of former days is becoming weaker, and the loving one more powerful. Now, as she moves onward, she beats the air with "the strength of an archangel's wing," and the clouds disperse before her. Her voice, which was faint and low, though gentle still, is full of power, and men of stern, robust mould are taken captive by it and weep like children; once it was a single sound, and called forth no response; now it is echoed far and wide, and the universal harmony, though injured by the whirl and crush of life, sounds to us in our castle as Eve's voice must have sounded to our common father when her first words fell upon his ear. "There is joy," she says, "and hope for all; the world is still God's world, and shall even yet be good; let none shrink from the contest which must yet be maintained; let none quit the field till the victory be accomplished." We can hear no more at present; but with these words still fresh we would descend from our position with more energy for work, however insignificant it may be, with more of quiet hope, with more power of endurance; in our own allotted path we would walk like men, strong for suffering, strong also for serving; and so, as life passes away, and we also pass with it, we may leave "footprints on the sands of time" for the wise of all ages to follow in. CHILDREN.* Our children are those better angels, that Rippling down a woodland hill, Downy dimpled cushions clinging, Till the heart now warm and swollen, All its secrets quickly stolen, All its treasures we can see O the heart is full of music Where the children's voices dwell- Visioned now a form and face When its mossy sides between Softly glides a streamlet slow, • From a beautiful poem called "Life," by an American. THE FIRST LESSON. No teaching like a mother's!-no lessons sink into the virgin soil of childhood so deeply as those learnt at a loving mother's knee: the seed sown thus and then may be hidden for years, but it still lives, and influences the life and actions of the learner ever thereafter. Ill fares it with the man who has no remembrance of kneeling as a child beside his mother's knee, and learning his first lessons from her lips-he knows nothing of one of life's holiest memories; and great is the responsibility of that mother who confides her child's first teachings to another-who allows a stranger to write on the tablets of her child's mind that which will bias its whole life-career, and be as indestructible as the mind itself. The lives of the great men of history, most of them-and when we say great men, we understand good men-prove this; they have looked back to the time when their teacher was their mother, and thence have traced a silent influence that ever about them-a "still small voice" heard amidst the loud turmoil of busy life; and though was Chances mock'd and changes fill'd the cup of alternation, that chiefly led them onward, and set them in high places in the sight of their fellows. And all great men have loved the memory of those mothers: other loves may have possessed them-the love of honour, of fame, of woman-but the love of her who framed their childish accents, and formed their minds, has transcended allset as a star apart, and worshipped when they looked | to heaven. Other loves may fall "into the sere, the yellow leaf"-may have been mingled with suffering, and have left regret and disappointment behind; but this, beginning with the first breath of being, ends only with its last. Years will steal beauty from the mother's brow, light from her eye, and leave whitened hair and feeble footsteps, but, what of that?-when the threescore years and ten attended, it may be, with sorrow and trouble manifold, are ended, and poorly chequered with scanty joys, and the boy who knelt at her knee has grown into a man experienced in the world's many ways, her love for him is fresh as ever; and his for her will have but grown warmer, deeper: then looking on that countenance, in which still lingers the early beauty that had clothed it as with a glorious garment, he may feel as did one* whose filial love found such words as these to picture his mother in her matron solitude"Hail to thee, my parent! as thou sittest there, in thy widow's weeds, in the dusky parlour in the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, the solitary house at the end of the retired court, shaded by lofty poplars. Hail to thee! dame of the oval face, olive complexion, and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated, with the mighty volume of the good bishop Hopkins spread out before thee; there is peace | on thy countenance, the true peace peace around thee, too, in thy solitary dwelling. No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother! Yes, one. Why dost thou raise thy dark and still brilliant eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What noise is that in the distant street? Merely the noise of a hoof; a sound common enough: it draws nearernearer, and now it stops before thy gate. Singular! And now there is a pausee-a long pause. Ha! thou hearest something a footstep, a swift but heavy footstep!-thou risest, thou tremblest: there is a hand on the pin of the outer door, there is some one in the vestibule; and now the door of thy apartment opens; there is a reflection on the mirror behind thee-a travelling-cap, a grey head, and a sun-burnt face- My dearest son!'My darling mother!"" Yes, the mother recognised in the distant street the tramp of her son-wanderer's horse. George Borrow. THE TICKET-TAKER. BY MISS H. M. RATHBONE. ONE sweet evening in the month of May, and in the heart of London, Mrs. Churchill sat by the sick couch of her eldest son-a fine young man, who was the pride and delight of his parents, and whose high wages had contributed not a little to their comfortable maintenance. But this latter source of support had been for some time withdrawn, in consequence of a brain fever which had confined him to his bed for a fortnight, and from which only his mother still dared to hope that he would recover. The crisis, when life or death should be decided, was, she knew, near at hand; and she watched the long-continued heavy sleep from which her child must soon awake or die, in breathless silence, which was only interrupted by the entrance of her husband. I suppose you are going, love?" she said. "Yes, it is quite time, and for our dear sufferer's sake I must fulfil my appointed duties, or else heaven knows nothing else should take me from his side at this moment;" so saying, Churchill pressed a kiss on the burning brow of his son, embraced his wife, and quitted the room. As he passed down stairs he met his second daughter, Lizzie, and greeted her with exclamations of pleased surprise; which were quickly checked when he heard that she had only returned home in consequence of being obliged to leave her situation as governess because of her late employer's bankruptcy. Churchill then gloomily pursued his way to the opera-house, and even the sight of the many groups of young children gaily enjoying that calm pleasant hour just before sunset seemed to jar upon the bitter sorrow which filled his heart. He thought on his son's danger, until the idea that he might even then be dying almost maddened him; and the return of his daughter, deprived of arrears of salary, which had been long due, and out of employment, gave additional sadness to his reflections. But such thoughts had to be put aside when he entered her Majesty's Theatre, and was forced to attend to the usual miscellaneous offices of its tickettaker. How endless and uninteresting seemed to him the various customary disputes about boxes, seats, dress, prices, and all the wishy-washy flow of talk between different parties who stood in the ante-room waiting the arrival of friends. Calmly and patiently, as was his wont, Churchill answered every importunate question, comforting himself, like a man on the rack, by the remembrance that he would be released some time, if he could only hold out long enough. The first thing that arrested his languid attention was the peculiarly melancholy countenance of a young lady, whom he overheard whisper to her companion "How very thankful I shall be, when the next few hours are over!" "Lady Blanche Castlemaine! So she too has her troubles," he thought; and then he remembered what consolation it should be to him, under his present circumstances, that by Lizzie's return, though unfortunate in some respects, Mrs. Churchill would have a companion through these long trying hours of suspense, which must otherwise have been passed alone. Presently the outer passages became quieter, as the opera advanced; only a few late comers from time to time kept dropping in; and the hon. Arthur St. Clair and colonel Harrison entered as the clock struck ten, evidently hoping to be invited into the box of the earl of Stamford, who arrived soon afterwards, upon the arm of whose countess leant the lady Emma Berkeley, one of the fairest who had ever entered those doors. The brilliancy of this party, in rank, number, and appearance, caused Churchill to notice them particularly, and he mused for a moment on the on dits of the fashionable world, which he knew had sometimes coupled together the names of Arthur St. Clair and lady Emma Berkeley. A few minutes later a little sharp-eyed, poorly-dressed girl stole up to him, and gave him a much-desired note from his wife, which, however, only contained these words:"Our Joseph still sleeps. There is no change since you left us, except, I fear, the breathing is becoming more oppressed." Churchill groaned, and pressed his hands to his head, as if to shut out the triumphant sounds of the celebrated duct between Grisi and Lablache in I Puritani, which at that instant filled the house, and appeared to defy his anguish, while he murmured "My Joseph, my Joseph! would I were beside thee, and had never left thee! Merciful Father, preserve to us, if it be Thy will, this dear, good son!" Just then he felt a light touch on his arm, upon which his head rested, and starting up, perceived Mr. St. Clair and colonel Harrison. The former looked deadly pale, and with difficulty managed to articulate a request to the ticket-taker, that he would give a camelia, round whose stalk was wrapped a bit of paper, and on which he hastily wrote a few words in pencil, to lady Emma Berkeley when she passed out. Churchill promised to do so, and as the two gentlemen left the theatre, he heard colonel Harrison say something about a vessel sailing the next day to India. The sight of this young man's evident distress made him feel that he was not singled out as the only victim of misfortune as he had been tempted to suppose, and partly relieved the crushing sense of loneliness which had been so oppressive when contrasted solely with excessive gaiety. Another hour wore on, and his impatience to be released was becoming almost uncontrollable, when the entrance of the earl of Stamford's party roused him, and he hastened to give lady Emma the camelia which he perceived was one that she had been wearing in the front of her dress in the earlier part of the evening. In spite of her proud attempt to suppress all manifestation of feeling, she grew very pale as she received it in silence, and had proceeded no further than the crush-room, when a cry arose that a lady had fainted; and Churchill, when called upon for a glass of water, saw the lady Enma. extended on one of the sofas, unconscious of everything around her. As soon as she recovered, the earl's carriage drove off, and a short time afterwards the loud music ceased; the lights were extinguished, the house emptied rapidly, and the different tired officials returned to their various homes, and to circumstances as unlike each other as were the characters of each individual. Churchill ran along the streets, and was passing down H-square, when he saw the earl of Stamford's carriage standing at the door of his lordship's town residence; and then he perceived on the opposide side of the road, and leaning for support against the iron railings of the square garden, Mr. St. Clair and his friend colonel Harrison. So much had he pitied the former, that even in that trying hour of miserable suspense about his son's life, he stopped to speak to the two gentlemen, because various small occurrences had made him think he could perhaps afford St. Clair some comfort. His own grief had made him totally unmindful of the common etiquette of society, or else he would hardly have ventured upon so unusual a proceeding; and, to the young man's astonishment, but very evident delight, Churchill related the incident of lady Emma's fainting fit, and then watched St. Clair spring across the road, and heard him knock at the earl's door as he again hastened homewards. "I have no friend to help me!" was his first bitter reflection; checked, however, when he looked up at the bright stars overhead, and remembered who guided their course and also ordained the issues of life and death. Z |