affianced bride," exclaimed poor Clarence bitterly, glancing at the same time toward his astonished mistress. What further reproaches he might have uttered it is not for me to say, for a burst, almost a shout of laughter from Miss Howard interrupted him, and snatching up the letter, she advanced to him with an air of comic but most provoking dignity. "You are right, sir; you have a rival in the affections of Louisa Somerset ; a rival, sir, who dearly loves her, and whose attachment is as ardently returned, and one who will not give her up, though Clarence Evelyn were Field-marshal Wellington instead of Major in the Hussars. I am that favoured rival-am I not, Louisa? I, Harriet Howard-Miss Howard with Mr. Templeton and Major Evelyn, Miss Harriet with Sir Richard Meadows, and Harry, dearest Harry' with my own Louisa." She threw her arms around her friend, and looking archly at poor Evelyn, continued in an undertone, "his only fault is a little, very little jealousy; Ah! Louisa, keep your word, my love, and don't, I beg of you, forget poor Harry. Heyday! what's here to do?" she added, as Clarence threw himself on his kness, and covered the hands of his fair mistress with tears and kisses-"flirting with Miss Somerset before my face! On pain of my displeasure, sir, withdraw your claim. What, no reply! and you, Louisa, silent, blushing, and in tears!—nay, then my case is hopeless. Sir Richard Meadows! Mr. Templeton! that hand and heart were mine for years before they were sought by Major Clarence Evelyn-I am, alas, forsaken! I was jealous of my betrothed, and she has bestowed her love upon another! I will at least, however, be a generous rival; I will give you up her hand, sir, on one condition-if ever you in future be inclined to jealousy, check the feeling in the outset, as you would preserve the love of Louisa Somerset, and escape the fate of her discarded Harry!" Clarence promised, and he kept his word. A few days afterwards, Louisa was attended to the altar by the fascinating Harriet Howard, who herself, within the twelvemonth, became the bride of TRAVERS TEMPLETON. TO MRS. ON THE DEATH OF HER INFANT. "Banges Stöhnen, wie vor'm nahen Sturme, Young Mother, weep! To chide thy tears Home to its Father's shelt'ring breastHome to the tearless land Where thorns will never pierce its feet, Nor "broken reeds" its hand! Yet, oh young Mother, well I feel That thoughts like these were slow To soothe the crash of human hopes The gush of human woe When thou, thy thankful heart all fill'd That cry which thrill'd through ev'ry vein, That cry which gave a Mother words When that dear cry was hush'd, and thou When thou upon love's tender breast And heard those falter'd words" Be calm, My heart of hearts doth feel for thee, How sorrowful my soul should be My heart of hearts could weep with thee→ As, with a trembling love I clasp OIDA. Aug., 1849. ALICIA JANE O'NEILL OUR CONSERVATOR Y. A TRUE ESTIMATE OF OUR OLD ACTORS.The play was Coriolanus. The chief actors were Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kemble. She had few opportunities of coming forward, but showed herself a great and impressive performer, and noble in the expression of heightened heroical sentiment. I was electrified at the drawing out of the dagger, "to die while Rome was free." Kemble disgusted me at first; heavy and formal in the movement of his arms, and not able to drop the stateliness of his manner on trivial and unimportant occasions. He is too formal, artificial, and affected; but is more than tolerableis great and admirable on those grand occasions when nature overpowers art, and the feelings are carried along by the strong, the vehement, and the resistless.-Dr. Chalmers. NIAGARA RATTLE-SNAKES.-My respectable old friend, T. M'Connell, the trapper, told me, that he was in the habit of visiting Niagara for the purpose of killing the rattle-snakes for the sake of their fat, and that he has sometimes killed three hundred in a season, and thus:-he watched beside a ledge of rocks where their holes were, and stood behind a tree, club in hand, and with his legs cased in sheepskins with the wool on, to guard against bites. The snakes would come out cautiously to seek on account of food or to sun themselves, fearing to go far for their enemies, the pigs. The trapper would then rush forward and lay about him with his club; those which escaped to their holes he seized by the tail, and if they turned round and bit him in the hand, he would spit some snakeroot (which he kept chewing in his mouth) on the wound; it frothed up, and danger would cease. The dead snakes were then roasted, hung up by the tail over a slow fire, and their fat collected, taking care there was no blood in it. The fat would sell for twelve dollars a bottle, and was considered of great value by the country people in cases of rheumatism and stiff joints. From L'Acadie, by Sir James Alexander. FEMININE OCCUPATIONS. Les femmes qui dédaignent les ouvrages de leur sexe ne savent pas de quel contentment elles se privent, et même de quel moyen de plaire ou d'attacher; l'habitude de l'application et le spectacle du bon ordre domestique rendent un interieur agréable. Il y a, dans le travail à l'aiguille un calme qui influe sur la disposition de l'âme; on y trouve aussi l'exemple de l'occupation donne à toute une famille, de l'economie du temps et du bon goût dans les petites choses; la maitresse de la maison gagne plus qu'on ne pense à tous ces moyens accessoires d'exercer son autorité morale; l'apparente immobilité d'une femme qui brode serait à elle seule un moyen de gouvernement. Les beaux siècles pour les femmes, ceux où l'autorité de la mère de famille se confondait avec la dignité de l'épouse, ont été les siècles où elles s'appliquaient particulièrement à la tenue de leur maison et aux travaux interieurs du ménage.-From M. de Custine's work, "Romuald, où La Vocation." THE SONG OF STEAM. [From an American Paper.] Harness me down with your iron bands; When I saw an army upon the land, Or waiting the wayward breeze- When I measur'd the panting courser's speed, As they bore the law a King decreed, I could not but think how the world would feel, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Ha ha ha! they found me at last : They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with thunder blast, And I laughed in my iron strength. Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide. Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er The mountain's steep decline; Time, space, have yielded to my powerThe world! the world is mine! The rivers the sun hath earliest blest Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly west, Or the orient floods divine. The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, I bring earth's glittering jewels up And I make the fountain's granite cup I blow the bellows, I forge the steel I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made; I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, LITERATUR E. dered every one concerned in the progress of the story. The tale terminates as happily as can be expected, after the concoction and exposure of so much iniquity. 66 find in this narrative a great deal about the swarthy people-their haunts, plots, adventures, and picturesque eventful career. Nothing of the kind. Mrs. Hervey, with better taste, but perhaps a less keen eye to I thrilling interest" and "popularity," has elevated her subject into the regions of poetical sentiment, romantic emotion, and respectable society. The following is the scene in which the gentle and real Margaret is repulsed by her own mother, who is under the impression that she has already found her lost child in the person of the passionate young gipsy, and that the new-comer must be a deceiver. THE DOUBLE CLAIM. A Tale of Real Life. By Mrs. T. K. Hervey. (Hall, Virtue and Co., London.)-This is rather an uncommon story, treated in a very pleasing manner. Its chief incidents are certainly rather improbable, but The allusion to "a tribe of gipsies" may perwe are assured by the able authoress in her pre-haps lead our readers to imagine that they will face, that they are founded upon fact. This appeal to our faith is effectual, especially as we are always disposed to allow great latitude to story-makers. We read and believe. The main features of the story are the following: A gang of gipsies, who it appears were in the habit of committing such atrocities, steal at intervals two children one gentle and resigned; the other dark, eager, plotting, and passionate. Of course, in the lapse of years, the relations lose all knowledge of the persons of these damsels, and upon their inability to recognise them hangs the plot. The turbulent semigipsy falls violently in love with a good youth named Claude Maraud, who was in his early days betrothed to the more meek and amiable of Two figures stood within the door-way: one an the two heroines. This sincere boy and affec-aged man, with thin white hair; the other a fair tionate girl preserve the memory of their early girl: he with a brow, solemn and serene, like one attachment, which the other daring damsel whose fate is yet unread, the folded page lying bedetermines to turn to her own advantage, by fore him; she with trembling limbs, that almost bore representing herself to be Claude's former her sinking to the ground. idol. The personation is successful as far as the relations are concerned; but Claude cannot see in the human lioness any trace of the soft and tender nature which had gained his young heart, and which still existed in his devoted imagination. He will have nothing to do with the impostor, and therefore the whole purpose of her wily stratagem is entirely frustrated. She accordingly repents of her subtle design, and makes a confession, which in the end is the means of explaining the mysteries that bewil There was a moment's pause, for neither had power to speak. The widow's mind misgave her of her guests; but she awaited their lagging speech, and her eye lighted on the girl. Drawn to her side by some strong internal impulse, of which she could not divine the cause, the widow took her gently by the hand, and would have given her support. But Margaret fell at her feet— breathless-sobbing! "Father! father! speak for me!" The old man lifted the hat from his reverend 66 Go, go; I will not hear thee more!" "You must, you will-oh that my father lived!" "Oh that my François lived! His dying blessing went with his true child, not with thee. By his will half-she weds this Claude thou dared'st to call thine "How shall we tell thee what we feel and know! Margaret, my child, stand up; look in thy mother's face. Nature will speak to her heart better than I can for thee." Still no word-no sign. Margaret rose, and putting back the hair from her now death-pale cheek, gazed full in the face before her. But already her heart was chilled. So quick to hope, so sudden to despair, she could but gasp one word-" Mother-mother!" own!" "In wedding him I do my father's will." Her arms relaxed their hold. Home and love shut against her both! She felt that all was over; and her eyes wandered back to their resting-place of years. Baptiste stood there before her, with clasped hands and head bowed down. Oh! she felt how cruel she had been to him; giving all to the new affections, and nothing to the old! His love and tenderness-how she prized them now! A quick, wild sob broke from her lips. As she faltered, and staggered towards him, he caught and Oh! thou art abused! Sweet child, what brings clasped her in his arms. It was a silent welcome thee here?" One word of kindness, and the gushing springs were loosed, the full, full heart spoke out. "Love-love to thee, my mother!-love to thee! 'Tis thou that art abused. I only am thy child -thy Margaret! Look on me! am I not thine own? One word-oh, mother, speak to me! I did not look for this;-my heart will break. One word-a sign-a touch-only to say you do not cast me from you." Still not a word. But Margaret fell upon her neck. back. The faults of the story appear to us to be too great a discursiveness in the construction and characters. The parts are not firmly held together in a powerful and commanding grasp. The Pegasean team which the authoress drives have too much their own way sometimes. Now and then we catch them nibbling too long at some poetical bank, or taking their repose on the borders of a quiet stream, instead of bound The book is full of womanly feeling and rightmindedness, and we heartily wish it success. "Here, on your breast, I throw myself; rounding forward to their journey's end. your neck I clasp my arms till you shall answer me. François was my father; you were his wife. You loved me both. A thousand times I have nestled in this breast; that face looked down like We have a bone to pick with Mr. Weir, the heaven upon me once. Oh, look upon me now! artist, who has contributed an illustration. He Why do I plead in vain? Alas! you ask for proofs; has apparently been so puzzled between fact and and I have none to bring-none, save Nature's in- fiction, that his picture partakes of the same stinct in my heart, and memories sweet-how sweet! epicene character. He has stuck a large millof thee, my mother-of our cottage home, this val-wheel to the outer wall of a pretty little cottage; ley with its stream, and yonder mill; the tall, the silver aspen trees-I know-I know them all: the spot, too-there, yonder; look, mother, through the lattice, where the alders bend above the brook: that spot, too, well I know, where my loved playmate once was rescued from the waters. You start -you know me now? It was Claude-my Claude; my betrothed-my love! He is my own, and I am his." With cruel hands the mother strove to undo that fervent clasp of love that held her bound so close. "Mother, mother; you put me from you! Hear me yet!" "I have heard enough!-so young-so cunning!" Oh! rather kill me with a frown than wear that dreadful smile. What means she, father?" "Alas! my child, I know not ;" answered Baptiste, thus appealed to: "but my mind misgives me that her ear must have been poisoned against us ere we came hither. Surely the dear instincts of her woman and mother breast would else have spoken out." Once more she turned to the face that met her own so coldly. 66 Bring me to them whose tongues have dealt so falsely-dear mother-still I call you so, and I will plead once more for justice at their feet. I cannot, will not be so cast out from thee-never, never, while a hope remains.” and as there is no mill visible, we are left to imagine that the grinding-stones, hoppers, and sieves form part of the furniture of the bedroom or parlour. N. C. TOIL AND TRIAL; a Story of London Life. By Mrs. Newton Crosland.-(Hall, Virtue, and Co., London.)-We believe it is the custom of the judges in Westminster Hall to retire from the bench whenever a cause comes before them in which they have any personal interest. The undue partiality. Guided by the laudable precejudgment-seat must be above the suspicion of abstain from giving any opinion upon the work dent which we have quoted, we must necessarily its publication, and to state its plan and purWe wish simply to announce pose. In her preface the authoress says:— now before us. The story of "Toil and Trial" is an endeavour to awaken sympathy for a class of persons-numbered in the metropolis alone by tens of thousandswho appear to have been singularly neglected by writers of fiction, in this age when Fiction is the favourite vehicle for embodying and illustrating | Truth. Yet I trust that I have avoided the error, to the brink of which earnest feelings are so likely to lead-the error of writing in a partisan spirit. I have striven to put prominently forward the great truth of social life, that the real and permanent interest of employers and employed is identical: and though, for the purposes of my story, I have found it necessary to depict oppressors, my readers will acknowledge that I have been careful to display the reverse of the medal. If I have thrown some little halo of interest about a suffering class, I have also represented individuals of it as unworthy of respect and confidence. Three weeks have passed away, seeming a longlong period of suffering to Lizzy and her husband. Jasper is still confined to the sofa, the injuries he received by the fire still requiring medical attendance. Though it is mid-day, the room is darkened, and Lizzy sits plying her needle by candle-light. She is not now engaged in the manufacture of rich and gay attire for the adornment of the wealthy and the beautiful; her fingers are shaping a black garment for her own wearing, while every now and then they are raised to dash away the large tears that flow silently and at intervals. It For in the next chamber there lies a small grey "The suffering class" here alluded to, is that coffin, that encloses the fragile remains of their of the draper's assistants; and the cause which much-loved child. Often and often in the day is the our authoress has advocated, is the limitation of lid pushed aside, that the mother may gaze, clingthe hours of labour, and a more generous treating while she may to the shadow-the cold, insensible wreck-of her first-born, of that dear intelliment of those young persons employed in gent creature, the pressure of whose lips still seemed houses of business. glowing on her cheek, and whose thin, wasted arms she yet dreamed were knotted round her neck. was no parent's fantasy that made them both think that clay image "angelic;" the prim grave clothes hid the shrivelled limbs, and the face wore an expression of seraphic innocence. To complete the picture, some roses and violets were placed in the little hands; for Miriam had brought her young pupils on a visit of condolence, and this floral offering had been theirs, purchased with their own pocket-money, even at the dead of winter. Mrs. Crosland has attempted to effect her object by working up into a tale the characters, trials, and sufferings of a few individuals, representing the numerous body of London traders and their dependants. It has been one of the chief objects of her work to contrast the benevolent and enlightened employer with the harsh, grasping, and vulgar one, and to point out the different results of their opposite treatment of a young married couple, named Jasper and Lizzy Rivers. The following are the reflections suggested by the state of their infant-one of their many sources of anxiety and sorrow: Lizzy's was, indeed, the woman's courage of patient endurance and of action, when action became imperative. So long as she believed her child was tenderly cared for, she endured the separation, visiting it stealthily, and at distant intervals-like a thief his treasure-at the nurse's home. It was not very soon that the mismanagement of the poor infant became apparent — mismanagement partly arising from the woman's ignorance, partly from her want of principle, and very terrible in its results. There is hardly a sadder sight in the world than to witness the decay of a child; it seems one of the harshest reversals of Nature's beautiful plan. When we see the old and feeble-them who have survived the rupture of the heart's tendril ties, which it seems alone bind us to life,-fading and drooping towards the grave, who can help thinking of the words of the American poet, "It was his time to die;" and rejoicing over the merciful decree which gives the weary traveller rest at last? Or for it is folly's reckoning which measures life by the number of years we have breathed-when they whom suffering and sensation have placed among the sages, are summoned to the unknown sphere, who does not feel that perchance their destinies have been more amply fulfilled than that of the rustic who has vegetated a hundred years? But to see the withering of the bud that never shall blossom, the human creature that on earth shall never develop; to whom the mysteries of life shall never be set as a riddle to propound; to see the young child the prey of disease, might surely dash with sadness the heart of the gay or callous. Poor Lizzy's child was the victim of early neglect; orphaned by cruel circumstances—not death. The poor child dies, and this is the picture of the mother watching by the little corpse : A pleasant spot had been chosen for Ellen's last resting-place, where early flowers would bloom in Spring, and be the first heralds of the earth's coming wealth. Where green boughs would wave in the Summer breeze, and the golden tints of Autumn linger the longest. In the distance lay the Mighty City,-the centre of the world's commerce,-the emporium of all that is great in literature and science, there it lay, like a still panorama, yet prompting the recollection of its wealth and its poverty, its luxury and its suffering, its learning and its ignorance. Not within its precincts must that little coffin rest, for Jasper Rivers was not one to be guilty of the wickedness of adding so much as the light dust it contained to the festering heaps of the London church-yards. Those remnants of barbaric ignorance which surely God uses as a scourge to whip intelligence into the dull of soul and sordid of heart; to show them, by the dread teaching of Death and Disease, that His laws shall be obeyed! Jasper and Lizzy Rivers are represented as people of ordinary merit and ability: they would have sunk without assistance, and accordingly they are saved from perdition by the opportune intervention of the benevolent character of the story-Mr. Warder-who places them in a congenial and industrious sphere of action, and all the good people are rendered happy in the last chapter. Two other stories conclude the volume; one illustrating the state of the poor distressed needlewomen, and the other intended to show the mischiefs of a harsh and despotic treatment of children. But we have already occupied so much space, that we have only room for the following brief remark on the advantage of cultivating the affections of children :— |