It happened in the revolutions of life, that an intimate friend of the writer of this narrative became acquainted with the story and circumstances of the unfortunate Inglis, and was able to do something for the alleviation of his many troubles. He found him to be, upon the whole, a man of an inoffensive character, of some acuteness of mind, and with more than the average information, but outworn with past excesses and the attrition of a perpetual grief. He spoke little of his misfortunes or of his family; but one day, being rather more depressed than usual, and the cause being asked, he said he had just heard that his second son, whom he had not seen for many years, was about to come to the capital, for the purpose of studying the bar, and being certain that the young man would be there without ever inquiring for his father, or perhaps being aware of his existence, he had experienced more than usual distress of mind from the consideration of his extraordinary circumstances. My friend could not help acknowledging that, even after enduring so much, a new circumstance, involving so unnatural au association of ideas, might well be expected to give him additional uneasiness.

This ill-used man at length died in a humble lodging, where he existed solely upon charity; and his wife, being written to on the occasion, replied by the simple transmission of a sum of money sufficient to bury him and discharge his little debts. No notice was taken of the event by his family. wore her usual gay dresses; his children were not

His widow

even informed of their loss; his name was beard."

God, however, in due time, seemed (as far as mortals might be permitted to interpret bis decrees) to manifest his sense of this unholy violation of one of his earliest and most solemn injunctions. The children, in whom the mother and grandfather took so much delight, were one after another snatched away by the various diseases of childhood and youth, till not one was left to console their age, or inherit the wealth which had so absurdly been hoarded for them. The loss, it may well be supposed, was mourned with tears of double bitterness, for it was impossible to take such a calamity as an occurrence altogether within the ordinary course of nature. The lady was so much exhausted by her exertions for her children, that she took ill immediately after the death of the last, and, mental anguish aiding in the progress of ber malady, she did not live many weeks. Bisset, wo apparently had never thought it possible that he should outlive his daughter and so many blooming children, was, by this event, struck with a kind and degree of grief altogether foreign to his nature. He yet survives-but only as a spectacle to excite the pity of those who know him. Palsied, fatuous, and blind, he is nothing but a living block; nor can all his gold, immense as it is in amount, reflect one consoling ray on his decline. His wealth, which, if well used, might have spared him the life of the only being he ever loved, and kept other hearts besides

from breaking, will speedily be dispersed among a number of distant relatives, who neither care for its present owner, nor will be advantaged, perhaps, by its possession.

300

LYRICS OF HOME.

By H. F. Chorley.

THE BIRTH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

YOU'RE Welcome, tiny stranger,

So long expected here;

You're welcome to this world of ours,

With all its joy and fear:

If angels bless your cradle

With friends in plenteous store, And with a spirit bright and free'Twere sin to ask for more.

Oh, since the days of Adam,

Was never such a child!

Before you well were born an hour,

You looked about and smiled;

Your eyes are twin blue flowers,

That at the dew-fell close;

Your voice the laugh of summer wind, That nestles in a rose:

Your dimpled cheeks are softer

Then the white dove's downy wing;

Your little hands like tender leaves

Of the curling fern in spring;

Your feet already striving

To meet the stranger ground:

Your sire would swear you have no peer In town or country round.

My blessing to you, dearest:
If some are born so gay

They mock at every chance and ill

That meets them on their way

Be yours a lot so joyous;

And, oh, where'er you be,

Aye keep a corner in your heart
For lonely ones like me!