And she sends him a little piece of her work, für Andenken. My wife is very industrious with her needle."

"Your wife!"

"It is I know not what you call it in England."

And, from a paper parcel, in one of the pockets of the very cutaway coat, which had made so lively an impression on my eye in the moment of nausea, he produced a knitted worsted comfortable, of the finest Berlin wool imaginable, wrought in a pattern which the Miss Blackstones will describe to any one postpaying a letter to Deal: I cannot. My poor cousin! he had not recovered himself when I left his hospitable roof the next morning, taking good care to avoid the coach upon which Herr Reichenbach travelled townwards. And, as circumstances connected with the legal business entrusted to my care brought about a coolness between us a more irascible client never did poor solicitor possess !—I know not, to this day, how far his story was true-how far he had really been entrapped by the original Margaret Dremel, the Miranda of the portrait; how far Mrs. Blackstone really was jealous of her husband; how far all I heard or all I fancied might be ascribable to the best part of the best bottle of port I ever drank, acting upon a weak brain, made all the weaker by a coup de soleil.

IMAGINATION.

BY CHARLES SWAIN, ESQ.

Life of the Invisible! Thou Light supreme!
Heir of the unapparent!—that alone,
As in the radiance of some angel-dream
God-visited, ascends Creation's throne!
To thee immortal destinies are known:
Bards of all ages;-glories of each clime;-
Minds that exalted Genius called her own!
The great-the gifted-honoured of all time-
Have to thy footstool soared, and wreathed thy
steps sublime!

Imagination—whose transcendent power

Links earth with heaven!-that with one mighty

hand

Grasps the proud stars which visit heaven each

hour,

And midway with the other lifts the land!
Whilst angels, as around God's altar, stand—
The immortal with the mortal to behold!
Two worlds as by Imagination spanned!-
All nature and eternity unrolled :—
As Deity designed, and Prophets had foretold!

THE SEA-SHELL'S MURMUR,

BY R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, LL.D.

"I have seen

A curious child, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell,
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely, and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for, murmuring from within,
Were heard sonorous cadences! whereby,
To his belief, the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea."

A murmur low,

A moan, as if of woe,

WORDSWORTH.

In a mysterious whisper aye doth swell,
From thee, oh wreathed Shell-

As if some spirit, struggling to be free,
Gave a faint echo of the sounding sea.

Lute of the ocean-caves,

Some exile from the waves,

In the deep winding of thy chamber dim,
May breathe a mournful hymn—

Sighing, to earthly ears, the low, sad strain
Which makes the restless music of the main.

As if within that cell

It pined for things that dwell

In crystal palaces beneath the seas—

For the red coral trees,

Or for the gems which their rich brightness keep In the far abysm of the boundless deep.

A melancholy moan,

A music all thine own,

Thou breathest ever in this upper sphere-
As if a soul were there,

Holding communion with that heaving main,
In which its voice may never sound again.

Could'st thou but tell,

Oh ever-murmuring Shell,

What thou hast witnessed in the depths below, Where stately vessels go

Where youth and age, the dastard and the brave, Have found quick burial 'neath the yawning wave!

Yea, more than all—

Like a funereal pall,

How the dark waters sweep above the dead!-
What sighs, like odours shed,

The sea-nymphs breathe above the early lost,
Decking their sleep with pearls of priceless cost!

Yet more-oh more!

Upon that ocean-floor,

Paved with the rarest gems that ever shone,

How pale Death sets his throne,

What time the waters by the storms are stirred, And when, in thunder, his deep voice is heard!

One ceaseless sound,

Thrilling the air around,

Breaks from the deep, is whispered by the waves—
A wail from myriad graves,

In which the brave and beautiful do rest,
Like wearied children on the mother's breast.

There have gone down

The banner and the crown

There friend and foe have found one sudden tomb :
Oh tell if, 'mid that gloom,

The ocean-spirits do not sometimes weep,
While o'er our dead a vigil long they keep!

Thou answerest not!

But, on this sunny spot,

Where come the merry murmurs of the bees,
And sweeter sounds than these-

The music-gush of rills—the songs that swell
From childhood's heart-thou moanest, lonely
Shell.

The cheerful sounds of earth,

Their music and their mirth,

The light winds whispering with the forest leaves On lover-meeting eves,