her servants, who, in the confusion occasioned by messengers from home as well as from herself, had increased her distress.

The young mother arrived in time to see the face of her dying child distorted by convulsions, and to meet from her husband anger, reproach, and contempt. She was astonished, even terrified, by witnessing the death of the innocent being she had forsaken in a moment so critical; and bitter was the sorrow and remorse which arose from offending him who had hitherto loved her so fondly and esteemed her so highly. These emotions combining with other causes, rendered her soon the inhabitant of a sickbed, and converted a house so lately the abode of happiness and hope, into a scene of sorrow, anxiety, and death. Lady Sophia, after much suffering, recovered her health; but when she left her chamber she became sensible that although pity and kindness were shown to her situation, esteem and confidence were withdrawn. She had no child to divert the melancholy of her solitary hours, and, what was of more consequence, no husband who could condole with her on its loss-silence of the past was the utmost act of tenderness to which Mr. Seymour could bring himself on this subject, which recurred to him with

renewed pain when his anxiety was removed for the life of one still dear, though no longer invaluable.

And all this misery, the fearful prospect of a long life embittered by self-reproach, useless regret, and lost affection, was purchased by a new dress and an ignorant waiting-maid—a risk so full of danger and so fatal in effect was incurred, to strike a man already refused, and wound a woman who never injured her. Such are the despicable efforts of vanity for temporary distinction, and such the deplorable consequences of quitting the tender offices of affection and transgressing the requisitions of duty.

B. H.

HYPOCHONDRIANA.

THE LAMENT.

Of all the ills foredoomed by Fate,
That haunt and vex this mortal state,
None holds such firm and dismal sway,
Augmenting night, and darkening day,-
As the foul pest-accurst, unholy,
Sad-eyed, soul-sinking melancholy!

The fears that come without a call,
The shade that, like a thrice-heaped pall,
Drops o'er the shuddering unstrung sense,
In wide and drear omnipotence!
The aimless blank, the sightless stare,
The nerve, with all its fibres bare;
The shapes grotesque that start to view,
And, as their victim shrinks, pursue ;
The sickening languor, "last not least,'
That spreads o'er all the damp chill breast,
Unnerves the will, and racks the head,
And brings the tears into their bed