roof. I heard the fellow come out into the balcony. I had heard his voice before as I was near a small window; it was raised in bitter invective, and I caught my own name. I heard your tone, too, though I could not distinguish the words. You answered composedly, with cold severity."

"He said dreadful things of you; but I did not believe one word. I tried to keep from passion-to keep a steady countenance; I wonder how 1 found strength-it was given me!"

Helen trembled in the recollection of all she had undergone, and the effect of her wound contributed to weaken her strength of heart; but Arden soothed and encouraged her to sustain, and the excitement of happiness upheld her.

It was nearly an hour before any sound disturbed the silence reigning in the building. Suddenly a loud knock struck upon the oaken door, and Mr. Mainwaring, having possessed himself of Witham's keys, proceeded to open it. “Master, I'm afraid—” a voice began.

The mummy-like figure on the floor struggled violently, rolled over, but could give no effective warning; and the ill-visaged servitor was received in a manner that quite took away his breath; and warned that his master's pistol was at his head.

"Courage, Helen,” said Arden; "I believe our friends are at hand. I hear the gallop of horses."

In a few minutes more he again opened the door, to give entrance to Collins and a party of the police.

"So you've got him, sir," said the detective. "No," he continued, as the light of their lanterns flashed on the prisoner, "that's some other fellow."

Arden released his hold of the man, and entered with the others into the apartment. "There he lies: that is Witham," he said"and now, one of you go for a surgeon. The rascal has shot my wife."

THE MOTHER'S VISIT.
Silence-shrouded was the room;
No wakeful eye was there :
Only through the flower-veil

Stole the moonbeams fair

And on a snowy couch they fell

(As though they loved the sight), Where two fair children slumbering lay, On that still summer night.

Lo! gliding in, through light and shade,
A form stands by the bed;
A light more pure than aught on carth
Is o'er her features shed.

A mild, soft radiance fills the room,
Soft music stirs the air,

Yet doth but lull to sweeter rest
Those sleeping children there.

The boy lies with his soft cheek flushed
Beneath his golden hair;

And upwards flung, in happy rest,
One rounded arm lies bare;

The other clasps the dimpled hand
Of the infant by his side:
Like Lily of the Vale she shows
Beside the Rose's pride.

And still, and full of wordless love,

The Spirit-mother stands;
In blessings o'er each cherub head
She lifts her shadowy hands;
And o'er each lovely sleeping face

A holy light seems thrown;
Then, like a star that shines and falls,
The dreamlike form is gone!

Not yet! not yet to that bright land
Beyond the eastern skies.

She clasps her hands, she lingers still,
Even from Paradise!

She passes on through light and shade;
And ever, as she goes,

Each sleeper in that silent house
Sinks deeper in repose.

But one is there, on whose sad eyes
No slumb'rous spell is cast:
Calm, tearless in his mute despair,

He muses on the past.

His arms are folded o'er his heart-
That heart so lonely now,
Which late in joy had throbbed beneath
The presence of her brow.

The tender words of early love

Sound sadly in his ears:

He gazes on her loving eyes

Ere their mirth was dimm'd by tears. Many a tender memory,

Fraught now with deepest pain, Comes stealing o'er his withered heart, And burning in his brain.

But lo! in that deep agony,

With which his soul is riven
When his despairing heart forgets
Her joy and rest in heaven,

A soft, pure light gleams on his brow:
He lifts his tearless eyes;

But never yet so glad a ray

Beamed from the midnight skies!

He looks, and, beaming on his own,
Those soft eyes meet his gaze;
Within their cloudless depths he reads
The love of other days!

The same, but holier, deeper now,
Eternal in its might!

It draws him from his lonely grief,

It gilds the solemn night.

It makes him feel how short the hour
That parts them for awhile,
And o'er that face, so pale and sad,
There lightens now a smile.

Soft murmuring wings around him wave,
Faint music soothes his ear;

He calmly sleeps; but in his dreams
He thinks she still is near.

And far above the rosy clouds
Which glow in eastern skies,
The Spirit-mother wings her flight
To distant Paradise!

Venice, Feb., 1817.

F. has requested me to remind you that one of his boys was to be a candidate for the Bluecoat school, and as you know the 's (who | are governors), he begs by me that you will use your interest to obtain theirs. He has spoken to you (he says) on the subject already, and Easter is the time, so that you will not forget his request he hopes. The carnival closed last night, and I have been up all night at the masked ball of the, and I am rather tired or so. It was a fine sight-the theatre illuminated, and all the world buffooning. I had my box full of visitors-masks of all kinds -and afterwards, as is the custom, went down to promenade the pit, which was boarded over level with the stage. All the virtue and vice of Venice was there. There has been the same sort of thing every night these six weeks, besides operas, Ridotta parties, and the Devil knows what. I went out now and then, but was less dissipated than you would expect. . . . I have hardly time for a word more, but will write again soon.

P.S. I am not "P.P.," I assure you, upon my honour, and do not understand to what book you allude, so that all your compliments are quite thrown away.

:

Venice, Feb. 25th, 1817. I believe you have received all my letters. I sent you no description of Venice beyond a slight sketch in a letter, which I perceive has arrived, because you mention the "canal," &c., &c. that was the longest letter I have written you from the city of the seventy islands. Instead of a description of the lady, whom wants to have described, I will show you her picture, which is just finished for me, some of these days or other..... The carnival is over, but I am not in a descriptive mood, and will reserve all my wonders for word of mouth, | when I see you again. I know nothing which would make you laugh much, except a battle some weeks ago in my apartments, between two of the fair "sect"+ (sisters-in law), which ended in the flight of one and fits of the other, and a great deal of confusion and Eau-de-Cologne, and "asterisks," and all that. The cause was one paying me an evening visit; the other was gone out on a conversazione, as was

supposed, for the evening; but lo and behold, in about half-an-hour she returned, and entering my room without a word, administered (before I could prevent her) about sixteen such slaps to her relation as would have made your ear ache only to hear them. The assaulted lady screamed and ran away; the assailant attempted pursuit, but being prevented by me, fairly went into "asterisks," which cost a world of water of all sorts, besides fine speeches, to appease, and even then she declared herself a very injured person, although victorious over a much taller woman than herself; besides she enraged my innocence, for nothing could be more innocent than my colloquy with the other. You may tell this to if she wants amusement. I repeat, as in my former letter, that I really and truly know nothing of P.P. I have published nothing but what you know already. . . . . I am too sensitive not to feel injuries, but far too proud to be vindictive . . .

Venice, March 25th, 1817.

I have had a fever, which prevented me from writing. It was first slow and then quick, and then it went away. I got well without physician. You will think it odd tor me who am so fond of quacking, but on this occasion, though bad enough, I would see none, and refused to see one who was sent for by Madame Sogati, on purpose, and so I got well. I had the slow one upon me some time ago, but I thought it better to say nothing to you till I recovered altogether. So you have seen Holmes. By the way, owing to some foolery of's, he has cut my hair in his picture (not quite so well as Blake). I desired him to restore it. Pray make him do so. He may send his print in a letter if he likes, unless you see it and don't like it. I have been sitting for two miniatures for you; one view of the face which you like, and the other different, but both in my usual dress, and, as they are the only ones so done, I hope you will like them. The painter is an Italian named Pressiani, reckoned very good. He made some fine ones of the Viceroy Eugène. I will send or bring them You amuse me with -'s marquis's message. A pretty compliment, to set a sick man asleep; however, I am glad I have done the old gentleman_any_good. Believe me (in total ignorance of P.P., of which I know nothing), &c., &c.

old, and not pleasant. There was the deuce, for her father's family (a very noble one of ——) were furious against the husband (not against me) for his unreasonable ways. . . . . You must not dislike her . . . . . and she was a very amiable accomplished woman, with, however, some of the drawbacks of the Italian character now corrupted for ages. All this and my fever have made me low and ill; but the moment A- is better, we shall set off over the Tyrolese Alps, and find our way to England as we can, to the great solace of Mr., who may perhaps find his family not less increased than his fortune during his absence. I cannot fix any day for departure or arrival, so much depending on circumstances, but we are en voyage as soon as it can be undertaken with safety to the child's health. . . . . . Though

"All for love, and the world well lost,"

was as

I, who know what "love" and the "world" both are, persuaded her to keep her station in society. Excuse this scrawl; think that within this month I have had a fever, an Italian husband and wife quarrelling, a sick family, and the preparation for a December journey over the mountains of the Tyrol, all brewing at once in my caldron. I enclose you's last letter to me, by which you may judge for yourself that it was a serious business. I felt it such; but it was my duty to do as I did. I will tell you of my American scheme when I see you.

Bologna, Dec. 23rd, 1819.

The health of A—, the cold season, and the length of the journey, induce me to postpone for some time a purpose (never very willing on my part) to revisit Great Britain. You can address to me at Venice as usual; wherever I may be in Italy the letter will be forwarded. I enclose to you all that long hair on account of which you would not go to see my picture. You will see that it is not so very long. I curtailed it yesterday, my head and hair being weak after my Tertiun. I wrote to you not very long ago, and as I do not know that I could add anything satisfactory to that letter, I may as well finish this. In a letter to I requested him to apprise you that my journey was postponed; but here, there, and everywhere know me, &c.

ANCIENT USE OF BUTTONS.-In the fourteenth century buttons of gold and silver were worn, not for use, but for mere ornament, as in all the paintings of the time they are depicted on garments without buttonholes. In the reign of William and Mary a protective duty of 40s. per dozen was imposed upon imported "covered" buttons, the manufacture of which in this country had just been acknowledged as a branch of national industry. In the succeeding generation the fashions of attire greatly favoured the button-makers. "Tradesmen," we are told, in an old copy of the St. James's Chronicle, "aped their betters in the wearing of myriads of gold buttons, and loops, high garters, shoes, overgrown hats, &c."

"IN TE SPERAVI."

"I have prayed for thee."

BY LILY SHORTHOUSE.

In Te Speravi.
Dark falls the night:

Into the ocean fadeth the light,
Thou who wast wont to keep
Watch on the mountain steep
Through the still hours of sleep,
Ora pro me.

In Te Speravi.
Twilight hath flown :
Far on the waters I am alone;
Round me the tempests rave.
Thou who hast power to save,
Lord of the wind and wave,
Ora pro me.

Salva me Domine.
Over the sea,

Wearily watching, wait I for Thee.
Lord of the earth and sky,
King of the worlds on high,
For me content to die,
Ora pro me.

Shrewsbury.

WINDOW PLANTS.

BY ADA TREVANION.

'Twas golden summer in the land, And sunshine: in the room A delicately-tinted band

Of flowers was in bloom.

A lovely head-the brown hair lit
With glancing lines of gold-
Bent o'er those blossoms, seemed most fit
To be with them enrolled.

The blue eyes beamed, the dewy mouth
Curved with a happy smile,
Like ripenings of the sunny south,
Fresh fancies poured the while.

For one upon the couch of pain

Her every look had grace: Her presence, like the breeze or rain, Brightened the weary face.

I know not why my fancy holds
That mother, wan and mild,
Nor why each shape of beauty molds
The earnest, radiant child;

But still, when in their loveliness

Fair window-plants I view, Some feeling prompts my soul to bless The twain I never knew.

AND

I embarked on the morning of 1st September, 1850, on board of the Austrian steamer, Arcaduca, to sail from Corfu to Trieste. The scene in the bay of Corfu on a fine summer morning, is as lovely as any which one can have an opportunity of viewing throughout Europe. The lofty mountains of Albania, contrasted with the rich scenery of the island from which they are severed by a channel not more than five miles in width, and in some places only a mile and a half; the calmness of the azure surface of the waters; the small island of Vido in the centre of the roadstead, bristling with all the apparatus which belongs to a strongly fortified post, which is indeed the guardian outwork to the garrison; the Greek crafts of different sorts and sizes moving gaily along from creek to creek; the mild serenity of the Grecian sky so often noticed by Homer and other ancient writers-all these make the scene as charming as any to be met with in any part of the world. At 12 we passed the fort of Cassopo, one of those Venetian fortresses of which one sees so many throughout the Ionian Islands. The sway which the Venetians exercised over the whole of Corfu, and the manner in which they have ingrafted their language, manners, and laws upon its population, are observable everywhere. Every projecting buttress or salient point of the bastions, both in this fort and throughout the works of the Corfu Citadel, is stamped with the lion of St. Mark, "Il Leon di Adria Altiera," which insignia has of late years been so completely humiliated, as to make its existence a matter of history. Soon afterwards we came in sight of the islands of Morleena and Fano. We passed these at 2 o'clock. The latter of these islands rises very high indeed, and is situated in the centre of the Adriatic. It is a place of all others best calculated for a look-out station. From its signal station one could, with much ease, telegraph the approach of any craft. In these two islands were stationed some British soldiers, who were detached from the garrison at Corfu. In the first (Morleena), two soldiers; in the second, one sergeant and five soldiers.

During our sail this day, we kept the Albanian coast at the distance of three miles from us.

This presented continuously to Our view a series of rugged mountainous heights, black, barren, and wild. There was great boldness and diversity in their outline, but a total want of cheerfulness and an absence of cultivation. The rude rugged bleak mountains are still as unknown and as uninviting as when Gibbon, the historian, wrote of them, saying that a "land

which was a short sail from Europe, was as little known as the back woods of America." It certainly required some of the imaginative power with which a poet's eye

"Glances from Heaven to earth, From earth to Heaven,"

to enable Byron to realize the feeling which he expresses when he talks of "bending his eyes upon their rugged beauties." Towards the close of the day we came to the Dalmatian coast, and passed some of the numerous islands which lie to the east of the Adriatic. This day we dined, as the Italian phrase terms it, “Ál fresco pranzo," that is, having a table on deck.

The dinner was arranged after the fashion of the foreign dinners, and with all their numerous dishes, I certainly did not think any of them peculiarly choice. However, as the Persian proverb has it, "What is not food to the man who is hungry?" so what with the sea air and the appetite of health, we enjoyed our fare. The breakfast was in exactly the same style the next morning. When we first went on deck early the next day, the Captain told us that we were in Austrian waters.

Little need be said more of our voyage for the next three days, which was anything but remarkable, except for our having a contrary wind, and, being in an extremely slow vessel, not reaching Trieste until 11 a.m. on the morning of the 3rd September.

On our arrival at the port of Trieste, the health officer came alongside the steamer to inquire whether there were any sick on board. Unluckily, there was one unfortunate who was suffering from a fever, and we were obliged to mention the circumstance. We were then informed that we should have to wait until the return of the health officer from the town whither he went, to report the state of the case. He returned in about an hour and a half, and when he came on deck he obliged us to march past him from the poop to the forecastle, and narrowly watched the eyes, countenance, and gait, of each of us. The reason of his great care on this occasion was, that the cholera had just broken out in Cephalonia, and he was apprehensive of some of our party bringing it to Trieste. However, at last we passed through the ordeal, and were allowed to land.

The town of Trieste, which is a modern one, is clean and well built. The houses are large, roomy, and built of stone. The fountains, so ornamental and refreshing, are a great boon to