for dinner grew uncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the room with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which she laid upon the table. This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my appetite. My protectress soon returned with a small bowl of sago, a small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and the heel of an old cheese, all over crawling with mites. My friend apologized that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and that better fare was not in the house; observing at the same time that a milk diet was certainly the most healthful: and at eight o'clock he recommended a regular life, declaring that for his part he would lie down with the lamb, and rise with the lark. My hunger was at this time so exceedingly sharp that I wished for another side of the loaf, but was obliged to go to bed without even that refreshment.

“This lenten entertainment I had received made me resolve to depart as soon as possible; accordingly next morning, when I spoke of going, he did not oppose my resolution; he rather commended my design, adding some very sage counsel upon the occasion. To be sure,' said he, 'the longer you stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve her and your other friends, and possibly they are already affected at hearing of this foolish expedition you have made. Notwithstanding all this, and without any hope of softening such a sordid heart, I again renewed the tale of my distress, and asking how he thought I could travel above a hundred miles upon one two-and-sixpence, I begged to borrow a single guinea, which I assured him should be repaid with thanks. 'And you know, sir,' said I, ‘it is no more than I have done for you.' To which he firmly answered, 'Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, that is neither here nor there. I have paid you all you ever lent me, and this sickness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought myself of a conveyance for you; sell your horse, and I will furnish you a much better one to ride on.' I readily grasped at his proposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to his bedchamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick. Here he is,' said he, 'take this in your hand, and it will carry you to your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride.' I was in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not in the first place apply it to his pate, but a rap at the street door made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlour he introduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the gentleman who entered as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy friend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I could scarcely compose myself; and must have betrayed indignation in my mien to the

stranger, who was a counsellor at law in the neighbourhood, a man of engaging aspect and polite address. After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with him at his house. This I declined at first, as I wished to have no further communication with my hospitable friend; but at the solicitation of both I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives; one that I was prejudiced in favour of the looks and manner of the counsellor, and the other that I stood in need of a comfortable dinner. And there I found everything I could wish; abundance without profusion; and elegance without affectation. In the evening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at his neighbour's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, made a motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should take a bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he might go home, and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I should never re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me to add this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of his plausible neighbour.

"And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to all my follies; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor had two sweet girls in his daughters, who played enchantingly on the harpsichord; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the first time I heard them; for that being the first time also that either of them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I saw tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every day endeavoured to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay. On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse and servant to convey me home; but the latter I declined, and only took a guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road.

"OLIVER GOLDSMITH."

JAMES AND ELEANOR; OR, THE LEFT HAND.
CHAPTER I.

Ir was an unusually calm and lovely autumn evening. I will not attempt to describe it, language would prove too weak, but leave it to the imagination of my reader, who, if he or she be a lover of nature, must have enjoyed many such. Our climate, uncertain though its temperature be, is particularly favoured at that season with lovely sunsets, which, lingering on the subdued

and mellowed tints of the woods and bowers, shed around a golden, glorious radiance; and the sweet calm which pervades all nature awakens thoughts of another and a better world, especially if the heart has been seared, and the mind's youthful effervescence calmed down by early trials and disappointments. The silvery moon, yet in cusp, was peeping pale-waiting till the golden beams of its more glorious rival were entirely withdrawn beneath a canopy of purple which seemed to invest its departure with a solemn majesty; an almost holy serenity prevailed over all, leading the mind to forgetfulness of earth. Lovely also were the two beings, a mother and her child, who were the beholders of this scene, and who will form the prominent features of this simple tale,—lovely in their innocence and guilelessness.

The former, a pale, interesting creature, in her twenty-sixth year, was sitting at an open porch, all embowered in jessamine and honeysuckle.

The child, a sylph-like creature, with a profusion of curling hair of the palest auburn, sparkling, laughing eyes of azure, a mouth of the most faultless shape, cheeks and chin dimpled in smiles, her complexion displaying that peach-like tint so often to be met with in early youth among persons born far from the closeness and smoke of towns and cities; and a voice which, in her fond mother's ears, sounded like heavenly music.

Such were the pair I first present to my readers, who, as far as earth can boast, were, if not faultless, at least without guile in thought and deed. Their occupation was most interesting. The child was seated on a large square stone, at the entrance of the porch, placed there, as it would seem, for her especial accommodation; the mother on a bench, holding a bible in her hand, from which she had been reading. The position she had taken enabled the little one to place her arm upon her mother's knee; on this her cheek reposed, and she was gazing, with confiding, inquiring affection, up into her parent's face, as if about to ask further explanation of something.

But we will take a retrospect of the past, and say who and what they were. Eleanor Sherwood was the daughter and only child of a farmer in very easy circumstances. The house, or lodge, as it was called, was his own, and had, with several cottages around, descended to him from his father, who had always been designated Squire Sherwood, and who, though he had brought up to man's and woman's estate a large family, had had the misfortune to lose all except his youngest son, Edward. The love he had cherished for nine was, therefore, concentrated in his only remaining child, to see whom happily settled before he died became an all-absorbing wish. Delighted was he then when that son's choice fell on a worthy object; and Alice Milman, the

daughter of an old friend, was named as the chosen of his heart. It is true Alice could bring no additional store to her intended husband's garners, for misfortune had visited her once wealthy and only remaining parent; but for this old Stephen Sherwood cared not. Edward was his only heir, and it was enough for him if virtue were added to their possessions. Of Edward and Alice Sherwood Eleanor was the only child; no other blest their union, which was not fated to last through many happy years. Eleanor's father had inherited, in common with his brothers and sisters, the germs of that fatal disease, which though in some constitutions they may lie dormant for a long period, are sure ultimately to ripen into deadly fruit, and seven years after their marriage, to the unspeakable grief of his widow, this most affectionate husband and father was carried off by rapid consumption to that immortal bourne where sickness and sorrow are not known.

Mrs. Sherwood's affection for her husband was not of a character to die with him. The few years he had been spared to her had been years of unalloyed happiness, save as her anxiety at the unmistakable symptoms of his appalling malady would prevail, notwithstanding the flattering appearances which that peculiar complaint is well known to assume. By these, however, she was never deceived; and being naturally a strong-minded woman, ever guided by a full sense of her duty through all trials and in all circumstances, she felt that she owed it to the comfort and support of one she loved so well to sustain his drooping spirits with cheerfulness, ever to him appearing hopeful, though in her own mind feeling a deep conviction of its futility. Her devotion to the father of her child naturally leads us to believe that the pledge of their mutual affection would find in her mother a valuable instructress, counsellor, and guide, and so it proved.

Eleanor was just six years old when her father died. Even then she was a child of great promise, possessing the warmest affections. Deeply did she feel her bereavement, nor did her tender mother check her sorrow. Much and often would she talk of her beloved father, dwelling on numerous little acts of parental kindness and words of love treasured in her young memory, and though each childish reminiscence brought its pang to the heart of Mrs. Sherwood, yet it was with unmixed delight that she from these drew auguries of the future gratitude and love of that gentle being in whom all her worldly hopes were now centred.

Eleanor Sherwood was nature's own child, for, as yet, no educational cares had been bestowed upon her. The long declining state of her father had been an all-absorbing thought;

his death now left ample leisure, and Mrs. Sherwood resolved that no pains should be spared to make her darling child worthy of the name she bore. To this pleasing task she at once applied herself, after the solemn rites for the dear departed had been performed; thinking by such occupation to turn her own mind from selfish sorrow, as well as to develope that of her daughter, in whom she hoped to find a quick, attentive, and amiable pupil. In this hope she was not deceived.

"SHE IS BAREFOOTED PASSING BY."

SHE is barefooted passing by-in a silken robe I'm clad;

But summer flowers surround us both on the earth with verdure glad;
She hath the smile of youth and health, in her rags she is passing fair,
Whilst I, in my silken jewelled robe, wear the faded look of care.

Have we drunk from the self-same fountain the bitter waters of life,
And turned away with wearied hearts from the path of worldly strife?
Hath music breathed o'er the summer flowers, to which sad memory clings,
And the withered flowers mutely breathed of dead and perishing things?

To rest on the brightest earthly hope is the rest of a broken reed,
And the fairest blossoms of summer prime the hungry will not feed;
Ah! do I deserve my silken robes? is she not better than I?
Had I my deserts, mine would be rags, and hunger, and poverty.

From my needy sister's touching plaint dare I turn in scorn away,
Decked with the gems that would give her food and warmth for many a day?
Coldly murmuring "Trouble me not, I have nought to spare for thee "—
Blessed REDEEMER! where is my hope, shouldest Thou thus answer me?

C. A. M. W.

MY AUNT NELLY'S PORTFOLIO.

(Continued from page 47.)

ONE would be loath to charge so great and good a man as Dr. Johnson with telling downright fibs, but certainly he spoke what is not true when he affirmed that " celibacy has no joys." I only wish all those who are infected by this false doctrine would come and take a peep at me in my snug—what shall I call it? It is not, strictly speaking, a bed room, since the little dimity affair which would entitle it to that name is ensconced within a coved recess, and completely shut from sight during the day by virtue of a curtain, so nicely matched to the paper, that you