So.

But I will catch at her receding garments and hold her back."

At dinner-time we met Bertha, looking worse than I had seen her since my arrival. I noticed that my friend's eyes wandered every little while to her face, and that he did not eat with his usual appetite. After the dessert, and before we left the table, he leaned toward her and said, with a tenderness in his voice that no wife's heart could resist

"I am sorry to see you looking so worn out, Bertha. Last night was a severe tax on you. Have you been lying down this morning ?"

"Part of the time," she answered, looking at her husband gratefully. It was plainly to be seen that she was not used to such tender inquiries.

"This way of life won't do, Bertha," he went on. "It is destroying you. I see you drifting away from me"-(his voice failed a little)" and I must put forth a hand to draw you back. Nature will not bear the burdens you are laying upon her."

I saw light coming into her pale face, and love beaming out from her eyes upon her husband. His interest and concern were genuine, and she felt it.

"We are going to take an easy ride this afternoon," he added, "and want you to go with us. Now don't

say no!'

I saw objection in her face; and her lips moved as if she was about putting her objection in words. But her husband's "Now don't say no!" coming as it did on his warmly-expressed interest and concern, changed her purpose, and she said—

66

If it will give you pleasure."

"Nothing in the world would give me more pleasure," replied my friend, with almost lover-like warmth.

There was visible already a new life in the countenance of Bertha. A soft glow was faintly dyeing her cheeks, and a mellow light tempering the unnatural brilliance of her eyes.

"When do you wish me to be ready?" she asked. "At four o'clock. We will ride until six. That will be long enough for you."

It was the Bertha of other days who talked so pleasantly and looked so bright and cheerful during that ride. At tea-time she was another being from what she appeared on the evening before, or, indeed, on any evening since my arrival at Fern Dale. The ride had quickened in her mind a new and healthier impalse. She was a lover of all things beautiful in nature, and this had given her a pure enjoyment, which could not soon die out. During the evening my friend, by a little management, drew her away from her nursery into the library, where we enjoyed her company for more than an hour. How solicitous my friend was to keep her mind interested, to give her thoughts a new direction, to call back old themes in art and literature that once gratified her taste or charmed her imagination! She felt the change in him, and was, I could see, half surprised, yet touched thereby.

On the next day she accompanied us in our morning drive, and in the afternoon was induced, after a little persuasion, to take a sail on the river. There was an unmistakable glow on her cheeks as she came back from this excursion in fine spirits; and I noticed that she took a relish of tongue, and ate two biscuits at supper-time-an appropriation of food quite beyond anything I had seen in her case since my visit to Fern Dale.

"You have caught her garments ere she drifted quite away," said I to my friend as we sat together that evening in the library, where we had enjoyed her company for some time.

"Yes," he answered, with feeling; "and I will cling to them as a man clings to his life! She shall not get

free upon the waters again through any fault of mine. Was ever a man so thoughtless and stupid as I have been ?"

"Many, very many, are just as thoughtless, just as blind as you were," said I; "and hundreds of overtasked wives-self-tasked it may be, as in Bertha's case-are drifting steadily away from mortal shores upon the sea of eternity; and in a few weeks, or months, or years, they will be out of the reach of hands that will clutch after them in agony when it is too late!"

when asked to play upon a lute, said, "I cannot fiddle, but I can make a little village and a great city." Corneille did not speak correctly the language of which he was such a master. Descartes was silent in mixed society. Addison was unable to converse in company. La Fontaine was coarse and stupid when surrounded by men. The Countess of Pembroke said of Chaucer that his silence was more agreeable to her than his conversation. Dryden said he was unfit for company. Hence it has been remarked, "Mediocrity can talk; it is for genius to observe."

THE CHANGEFUL AND THE CHANGELESS SPRING.

"

MOTHER, come into the fields to-day;
See, the hawthorn Blossoms fast;

The daisies dance in their white array,
And the buttercups nod as the zephyrs play.
Oh, would that the spring would last!

"The woods with merrier voices ring

As the butterfly wings its way;
The wild flow'rs bloom, and the sweet birds sing,
And the sun shines bright on the beetle's wing.
Oh, why will the spring not stay?"
"Spring, like thine own young life, my boy,
Is a bright and joyous thing,
Fresh from its Maker, without alloy;
And never may sin by its blight destroy
The peace which it ne'er can bring.

"But spring, like thee, is but work begun,
And each season its part must bear;
There's rip'ning work for the summer sun,
Or the fruits of autumn would ne'er be won,
Nor harvest crown the year.

"And winter must come, with its storms and showers,
And its chill, dark days of gloom,
When the trees' green garb and the scented flowers,
And all that we loved in the fragrant bowers,
Will lie prostrate in Nature's tomb.

"On God the husbandman then must stay
His hopes for the scattered grain,
For he knows, though in earth it must decay,
It as surely will rise on a future day,
To gladden the earth again.

"Oh, then, as thy seasons in life roll on,
Let no talent neglected lie,

But seek God's grace as thy soul's bright sun,
And its radiance will still, when thy work is done,
Gild the clouds of thy winter sky.

"And when to that bright world of joy we go,
Where spring-tide immortal reigns,
When we rove where rivers of pleasure flow,
And the flow'rets of Heav'n unfadingly blow
On the bright celestial plains,

"How sweet to feel that no change can come,
No sin can its sorrows bring,

But that scenes we love and the flow'rs that bloom
Will brighten the joys of our Eden home
In one joyous, endless spring!"

L. C.

HISTORICAL.

LORD CLIVE AND THE GREAT MOGUL. WHEN Lord Clive embarked for India, for the third and last time, it was with the firm determination to crush the system of corruption and rapacity which everywhere prevailed in our Indian Empire, and by which he had amassed for himself a fortune of £40,000 a year. On arriving at Calcutta, in May, 1765, he found things so much worse than he anticipated, that he wrote home as follows to the directors of the East India Company:-"Upon my arrival, I am sorry to say, I found your affairs in a condition so nearly desperate as would have alarmed any set of men whose sense of honour and duty to their employers had not been estranged by the too eager pursuit of their own immediate advantages. sudden and, among many, the unwarrantable acquisition of riches had introduced luxury in every shape, and in its most pernicious excess. These two enormous evils went hand in hand together through the whole presidency, infecting almost every member of every department."

The

After stating that inferiors grasped at wealth in order that they might equal their superiors in station in profusion, he added-"In a country where money is plentiful, where fear is the principle of government, and where your arms are ever victorious, it is no wonder that the lust of riches should readily embrace the proffered means of its gratification, or that the instruments of your power should avail themselves of their authority, and proceed even to extortion in those cases where simple corruption could not keep pace with their rapacity."

Lord Clive immediately set about correcting in others the evils and abuses which his own example had helped to augment by the unscrupulous means he took to extend British power. To the council at Calcutta, after showing his decisive authorities from the court of directors, he announced his great displeasure at the deposition of Meer Jaffier, the nabob of his own creation, from the Musnud of Bengal, and the acceptance by the council of £140,000 from the new nabob, Nujeem-al-Dowlah, who had agreed that the English should take the military defence of the country, and appoint a naib-subah to manage the revenues and other departments of government.

Mr. Johnstone, one of the members of council, ventured to express some dissent when Clive made known his determination to put an end to the system of receiving presents from native princes. Do you dare to dispute our authority ?" demanded Clive, and the alarmed Johnstone meekly answered, "I never had the least intention of doing such a thing." War was raging in Oude at the time, but the very name of Clive-of the man who had conquered Arcot and other regions of the Carnatic, driven the French from Pondicherry, and made us masters of the Deccan and Bengal-brought the war abruptly to a close. No sooner did Sinjah Dowlah hear of Clive's return than he dismissed his followers, rode to the English camp, and announced his readiness to accept such terms of peace as they might deem suitable. În order to settle the terms Clive proceeded to Benares. More politic than the council of Calcutta, who wished to strip Sinjah Dowlah of all his possessions, Clive allowed him to retain the rank and title of vizier, and gave him back Oude, with the exception of those portions which had been promised to Shah Allum, the Great Mogul, as an imperial domain. On the Mogul he also settled, on behalf of the Company, an annual payment of twenty-six lacs of rupees. And thus, it

has been remarked, "the heir of the great Aurungzebe became the tributary of the East India Company." So far from feeling the humiliation of becoming a stipendiary, Shah Allum was quite delighted at the idea of having a clear income of his own, which would not pass through the fingers of his ministers, and he exclaimed in the buoyancy of his spirits, "Thank God! I shall now have as many dancing girls as I please." But Clive as usual made the best of the bargain. In return for the annual payment of the twenty-six lacs of rupees, he obtained the sole right of dominion throughout the great provinces of Bengal, Orissa, and Bahar. The conveyance of that vast territory, which thus became the legal property of the East India Lord Clive in the presence of the court. The throne Company, was ratified by a public deed, delivered to of the Great Mogul, during this important ceremony, was an English dining-table covered with a brilliantof having secured to his own countrymen an annual coloured cloth. By this transaction Clive could boast revenue of two millions of money. Other parts of the great Indian Empire were gained by means less fair whole course of our dealing with the natives and their than the provinces above named; and recalling the princes, there are some who see the avenging hand of and the recent assassination of Lord Mayo when retributive justice in such dire events as the mutiny, visiting a penal settlement in the Andaman Islands.

MARY RAY.

MARY RAY had been early left an orphan, with two sisters and an idiotic brother dependent upon her love and care. The poor cottage in which they lived was their own; but beyond this and a small garden they had nothing. Soon after Mary's twenty-first birthday she began to grow pale and care worn, and the smile that hitherto had been like sunshine on her pleasant countenance faded away and seldom was seen any more. Mary had parted for ever with a man whom, since her childhood, she had loved. They had quarrelled about "the children,' as Mary continued to call her brothers and sisters; though Rob, as the idiot was called, was now nineteen years old, Jane was nearly seventeen, and Lucy was fourteen years of age. Mary's lover was not very selfsacrificing himself, and he could not endure to see Mary so. He had scolded her a great many times for her devotion to her family. He declared that her sisters took all manner of advantage of her love and indulgence, and that Rob ought to be sent to an asylum for people of his kind. In justice to Mr. Hunt, we must say that he freely offered to support Rob in the asylum as long as he lived, if Mary would but consent to send him there, and induce her sisters to begin to take some care of themselves. But Mary couldn't do this, and so her lover grew angry, married another woman, and moved away where Mary never

saw him more.

Mary never murmured. Not a word ever escaped her lips of the struggle and the anguish within. She only went in deeper silence and dejection about her daily employments. As months and years passed she had more and more reason to remember the words of Mr. Hunt. Her brother she did not expect to see improve. She knew that there was nothing to hope for in his case; but from her sisters she had looked for help and sympathy as they grew toward woman's estate. She looked almost in vain, however. They were indolent and selfish girls, beautiful outwardly, and intent on the gratification of their vanity. They had always been used to see Mary like a drudge, so

they thought nothing of it. They considered her an old maid, whose business it was to work for and take care of them. As she was "only a sister," they would not submit to any exercise of authority from her, though they depended on her kindness for all that they could have expected of a mother. Early and late she worked for them, and her reward was too often words or conduct which gave her sharp pain. But Mary never made any complaint. In silence she bore that sorrow, as she did every other. But she at last grew so discouraged and so weary, that every night when she lay down to sleep she prayed that she might wake up in heaven. She had come to the conclusion that Rob would really be as well taken care of without her as with her, and it made no difference, so far as his feelings were concerned, who took the charge of him. He was gentle and pleasant to manage, and always seemed to feel an equal attachment for all who were kind to him. She felt that she could, without any anxiety, give him up to his fortune. Every one pitied, and spoke kindly to, the "Innocent."

Maggie and Kate, the two sisters of Mary, were now women grown; stout, hearty girls, and possessed of much physical beauty. They had some very warm admirers among the men of their acquaintance. The beau who was the highest in the favour of both the girls, because he was both rich and handsome, was named Lewis Dane. He was an old beau for girls of twenty-one and eighteen, but they did not care for that indeed, they liked it all the better, for he knew so much, and was so dignified, and knew so well just what to say, and what to do to please. Their more youthful suitors really appeared quite green, compared with Mr. Dane. The sisters were sure that he intended soon to propose to one of them, for he was at their house, humble as it was, almost every day. He was a Californian, and had come for the avowed purpose of obtaining a wife. Maggie and Kate were both growing more and more interested in him, and they had several very hot disputes in consequence. But Mr. Dane had never uttered a word nor made a sign that ought to have seemed to the sisters like an intimation of unusual regard.

The only thing that was at all particular in his conduct were his constant visits. But then the sisters kept open house to all their associates. There were several young men, as well as many girls, who were there almost every day. Mary did not like to have so much company; but what of that-who cared what she wanted? so that she kept in her own room busy with her needle whenever she could. She heard Maggie and Kate talk so much about the wonderful Mr. Dane, that her curiosity, what there was left of it, at last stirred sufficiently to cause her to manage to obtain a look at the gentleman. Afterwards she saw him every time he came and went, for she sat at work by the window which looked towards the road. She had often seen that man, but did not know that he was Mr. Dane. They had met in the street, or in the fields, and one day he had rescued her from the attack of a furious cow. Involuntarily she sighed as she

heard his voice in the outer room.

"I have but one month more here, and then I sail for California. Whether I return alone or not I do not yet know," he said.

"Why don't you find out?" asked some one. "I intend to do so very soon," he replied. Mary heard a rustling and a tittering among the girls of the company.

"No doubt each one hopes to be the favoured lady," thought Mary.

In a few moments she saw a shadow fall upon her work. Looking up in haste, she started with em

barrassed astonishment, for at the window stood Mr. Dane. He tapped lightly on the glass, smiling and holding up a letter. Mary opened the sash. He laid the letter down, and turned instantly away. Mary watched him in wonder, and it was not until she lost sight of his form in the windings of the way that she looked at the letter he had left with her. It was addressed to her. Quite excited and nervous, she quickly opened and read it. We will not pause to transcribe it; suffice it to say that Mr. Dane had chosen Mary Ray as the partner of his life, if she was willing to become so. He had heard all the story of her meek and patient life, of her faithful love, and of the ingratitude her sisters had shown. He had heard and seen and understood everything, he had been interested in her at first sight, and had now come to love her more truly than anything else in the world. Could she return his love, and go with him? Poor, amazed, bewildered Mary!

She doubted the evidence of her own senses. Surely the man could not be mocking her. Oh, no! his face told of a heart too noble for such baseness. But yet, how could it be possible that such happiness was in store for her? Hopeless, sad, worn-out, and thirty-three years old! Just then she caught a sight of her face in the glass. Why! what ailed her? The red blood glowed in her cheeks and lips, her eyes fairly glistened, and there were dimples all about her smiling mouth. The first touch of hope and joy had almost made Mary beautiful, even in her own. sight.

"Perhaps I appear well to his view," said Mary; "but what will the girls say? They will be ready to kill me, I am sure."

And so they were; but they were harmless. However, we cannot stop to tell all that they said and did in their rage and disappointment.

GENEROSITY CHEATED.

AN eminent surgeon, not long since, was defrauded of a large fee under very disgraceful circumstances. The surgeon received, in his consulting-room, a gentleman of military and prepossessing exterior, who, after detailing the history of his sufferings, implored the professional man he addressed to perform for him a difficult and important operation. The surgeon consented, and, on being asked what remuneration he would require, said that his fee was a hundred guineas. "Sir," replied his visitor, with some embarrassment, "I am very sorry to hear you say so. I feel sure my case, without you, will terminate fatally; but I am a poor half-pay officer, in pecuniary difficulties, and I cannot, even to save my life, raise half the sum you mention."

"My dear sir," responded the surgeon, with the generosity frequently found among medical practitioners, don't, then, disturb yourself. I cannot take a less fee than I have stated, for my character demands that I should not have two charges; but I am at liberty to remit my fee altogether. Allow me, then, the very great pleasure of attending a retired officer of the British army gratuitously."

This kind offer was accepted. The surgeon not only performed the operation, but visited his patient daily, for more than three weeks, without ever accepting a guinea; and three months after he had restored the sick man to health, discovered that, instead of being in necessitous circumstances, he was a magistrate and deputy-lieutenant for his county, and owner of a fine landed estate.

ANECDOTE OF JAMES I.

IT was the custom of this " merry monarch to visit different parts of his kingdom incog., "for fun;" and his condescension, although it sometimes placed his royal person in awkward jeopardies, was often repaid by the fund of amusement it afforded him. One winter evening James took a trip to Leslie, and having entered a public-house there, seated himself at the large kitchen fire, where he found two gentlemen socially discussing a tankard of ale. The king immediately joined in the conversation, and was not long in ascertaining that he sat in company with two very important personages-namely, the priest and the dominie of the parish. The ale was excellent, the conversation amusing, and the king remained a considerable time, both "delighted and delighting." At last, however, the gude wife was told "to count the lawing," when the dominie remarked, "We'll no let this honest mon be onything; he's a stranger: and mair than that, he has paid his share wi' his wit."

"Na, na," replied the priest, "we cam a' in at ae door, and we gang a' out at ae door, sae we'll just mak it higgledy-piggledy.”

Shortly after this the king sent for his "twa cronies" to the palace of Falkland. When both were

seated in the royal presence, he commenced with the one, "Who and what are you?"

Please your grace," replied the clergyman, “I'm the priest of Leslie.”

"And what are you ?" inquired the king of the obeisant tutor.

"Please your grace, I'm the dominie of Leslie." "And what income has each of you per annum ?" continued his majesty.

Both stipend and salary were named, of course. 'Well," said the king, do you not both come in at the same door and go out at the same door ?" "Yes, sire," was the reply. "Good again," said the monarch, with an affable smile; "and, since this is the case, I shall in future make your incomes higgledy-piggledy."

For many years after that a liberal allowance was made to both priest and dominie by the king.

He

TOAD versus SNAKE.-The gardener of a gentleman living at Runcton, on going to work one morning, was surprised to find a snake lying in one of the paths, wriggling about in a very uneasy manner, and evidently, to use a familiar phrase, "in a fix." quickly got an implement, and without difficulty dispatched the intruder, which was above three feet in length. But on examining the dead snake, his jaws, and the parts which "there adjacent lie," were found to be enormously distended. The cause of this was soon ascertained to be a large toad still alive, which, in order to prevent the unpleasant operation of being swallowed by the snake, had evidently resorted to its well-known power of blowing itself out. Thus, at the time the gardener came upon the scene, there was a deadly conflict going on between snake and toad; the the former exerting its faculty of almost unlimited extension of the jaw; the latter its almost unlimited power of bodily expansion. The snake, at the moment of the gardener's interference, was clearly in a very uncomfortable position; it had more than it could eat. The toad, too, could not have been easy in its feelings, finding itself gradually going down. However, it survived the contest, and was extricated and set at liberty by its good friend the gardener.

PROMPT REPLY.-The rise of the O'Reillys in Spain forms an interesting anecdote. At the close of the Seven Years' War (1762), forming, as it were, an episode of that great contest, hostilities commerced

between Spain and Portugal. In the regiment of Ultonia, which fought on the Spanish side, was an Irish officer, whom, on being left for dead on the field of battle, the followers of the camp were, as usual, about to despoil, when he cried out that he was the Duc d'Arcos. The hope of a reward in the shape of ransom saved his life; but on his return to Madrid, he was ordered into the presence of the duke's widow, and interrogated why he had presumed to usurp her husband's name. "Madame," replied he, "if I had known a more illustrious one, I would have sought its protection." The presence of mind evinced, both in assuming the name in the hour of danger, and in his apt reply to the haughty countess, ensured him this lady's special favour, and her influence secured his rapid advancement in public life.

THE MOON.-It is a vulgar error to speak of the "cold light of the moon," as though any light could be entirely devoid of heat. That the rays of the moon are not, is evident from the fact that the mean temperature of the earth rises towards the second quarter, and from their general influence on vegetation. Light is essential to the growth of plants, because without it decomposition of the carbonic acid absorbed from the atmosphere by their leaves could not ensue. As darkness intermits this vital process, at night all plants slumber, except when the moon shines; then, alone, they wake and work. Hence the farmers, taught by observation of nature, select the season of full moon for sowing; so that, after germination, the young plants may enjoy an interval of darkness favourable to the maturing of their powers, and when the moon attains her maximum brightness may have strength to support continuous action. Sown at new moon, they would have been exposed to constant light while yet feeble and in need of repose. It has been observed that often, when the moon rises, the clouds which before obscured the sky singularly melt away before her light. Seamen say that the moon "eats up the clouds"- such is their simple version of the pheno menon-and hence it may be inferred that the clouds are expanded by the heat of her rays, and again trans formed into invisible vapour. It has been hitherto fancied that the moon was but a barren waste, alike destitute of air, water, and vegetation; but a reference to Mädler's maps, constructed forty years ago, indicates changes on her surface contradictory to that conclusion. The craters have changed their form; Secchi assumes the higher peaks to be snow-covered; the level spaces, formerly thought seas, are now considered forests. Besides these large expanses, numerous stripes are discernible-straight or slightly curved-from three to thirty-five miles in length, and never beyond 5,000 feet wide, generally distinct from each other, and alternately crossing or interrupted by the craters. These singular stripes appear to consist of fine, parallel, dark lines, divided by open spaces which vanish and return at intervals of a few months. From this periodical change, Schwabe concludes that the lines are strips of forests, between which openings only when the foliage falls. The inference is plausible; the only difficulty being to account for the growth of trees in such strange right lines; yet it may be observed that the great American prairies are similarly intersected by two strips of forest, extending north and south for hundreds of miles-the crosstimbers, to account for the regular form of which has greatly puzzled travellers. The existence of vegetation and volcanic action necessitates our presuming that the moon has an atmosphere; and this has also been lately surmised from the singular red protuberances visible on her edge in late eclipses of the sun, and which have been assumed to be auroras in her higher atmosphere.

are seen