A LEAF FROM LIFE.

"Truth is strange-stranger than fiction."-BYRON.

THE time of year was winter in its most sullen mood; a thick fog, pregnant with a stifling smoke, hung over the face of this modern Babylon, making the few lamps that were to be seen at the time we write burn with a ghastly flickering flame; and, as if to make outward things wear a more miserable aspect than the fog imparted, a drizzling rain came slowly down, drenching those who had the misfortune to be out of doors to the skin-when the door of a miserable tenement, in a narrow, squalid court, which ran between two rows of poor and ruinous houses on the banks of the river, turned on its hinges, and a man, poorly clad, and wan in aspect, made his way, with a rapid pace, towards some light indistinctly seen through the fog.

In a few minutes he had crossed Old London Bridge, and stood before a comfortable-looking mansion, in a street immediately adjacent to the Temple, from the lower rooms of which bright lights shone, and, now and then, "by fits," loud peals of laughter were borne on the wind. The man passed up and down the street some few times, and then knocked timidly at the door, which was opened by a red-faced, buxom female, who had thrown a capacious shawl over her head and shoulders to avoid the inclemency of the weather, and to her pert summons, what he wanted at that late hour-it was nigh twelve o'clock-he said he wished to speak to Mr. Jefferies upon important business, which would admit of no delay. She bade him wipe his feet, as the streets were dirty, and step into the passage while she went to inform her master that a fierce-looking man wished to say a word to him. She shortly returned, saying that Mr. Jefferies was then too much occupied to attend to any visitor at that late hour.

"Tell him," said the man, in an earnest but feeble voice, "that one allied to him by every tie that should bind one man to another must speak to him."

He was shown into an office, and told to wait until the master of the house could find it convenient to speak to him. In a few minutes the door was opened and a respectably attired elderly man stood before him.

"You have come, sir," he said, in a cool, even tone, without recognising his visitor, "at a most unseasonable hour. In what way do you wish me to serve you? You must be brief, as my time is in such great demand that I cannot waste it upon trifles, June, 1845.-VOL. XLIII.-- NO. CLXX.

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far less on you, whom I hate far more than the vilest wretch that crawls these London streets."

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"Edward," said the other, in a hollow, unearthly tone, should not meet like this, when so many long and tedious years have passed away since last we met-but let that pass. My wife and child are, at the present moment, perishing of want, in an obscure garret on the other side of the Thames, and I have come to supplicate from you a small sum of money to save them from the grave-every moment is of consequence to them and me. Even now I feel the thorny pains of hunger gnawing at my heart; but that is naught, compared to the sufferings of those who are dearer to me than my life."

"Know this, then," said the other, in the same unruffled tone, "that were you and yours on the brink of the grave, as I had hoped you were ere this, I would not give one farthing of my hardearned gains to save you all from perdition. You come here no more; your way lies there-mine here; good night!" and the speaker coolly left the room.

The brother, who had drunk to the dregs of the cup of adversity, said no more, but, with clenched hand and distorted features, rushed from the house; while his kind relation returned to an adjoining chamber, there to drown care in the Lethean nectar.

*

In a garret, devoid of every essential to the enjoyment of life, a pale-faced woman and her child were sleeping on a miserable pallet, stretched on the floor. By their side sat a man, who was the very personation of death itself-a lone, friendless being; one with whom the world had long been on unfriendly terms. The dense fog which had enveloped the metropolis two nights ago had given place to a bright sky and moon, which threw a pallid lustre on the walls of the dismantled chamber. The man was gazing with a distracted air upon the sleepers, and, anon, passing his hand across the woman's face, to assure himself that death had not yet set his grasp upon the lovely, care-worn being, who was all his world-the subject of his thoughts and dreams by night. Sharp misery had worn the young mother to the bone; a hectic flush, the undeniable precursor of the body's exhaustion and premature decay, covered her face; the grave and she were surely soon to be boon companions.

The broken man-for such he was-had long been on ill terms with the world, buffeted to and fro by adverse winds on the great ocean of life for many, many years, and at last dashed upon a desolate rock, from which there appeared to be no retreat. He had been unfortunate in trade; hurled, in one little day, from a respectable tradesman to a friendless outcast of society-a wandering vagabond. He had, by every means in his power, supported

himself and family, until sickness and want laid their heavy hands upon him, and prevented him from holding a menial office which he had obtained through the instrumentality of the man from whom he rented his miserable apartment. He had been forced, much against his will (but stern necessity overleaps apparently unsurmountable difficulties), to beg from a rich brother, who had pursued him through life with a fiendish hatred, a trifle wherewith to support life. The rest is in the possession of the reader.

The night was bitter cold-a keen and nipping air was blown from the north, and large flakes of snow began to fall, when the man of whom we have spoken at some length stooped over the bed in which his wife and child were sleeping, and, muttering something like an oath, rose up and hurried into the street.

The time was three in the morning, and the well-told jest and sprightly laugh were heard at the rich brother's table. Presently the guests, one by one, began to depart, and soon Edward Jefferies sat alone in his splendid drawing-room. He was alone, both in mind and body-a conscience-stricken man. A letter, edged with black, lay open before him, which told of a man having destroyed his wife and child while asleep, and afterwards leaping from Blackfriars Bridge into the Thames.

THE TRUST RECLAIMED.

BY MRS. ABDY.

THE chieftain hastened homeward from the field of battle strife,
Eager to clasp his blooming boys and fair and faithful wife;
Alas! his vassals welcomed him in accents faint and low,
And his lady on a couch reclin'd in deep and silent woe.

"What aileth thee, sweet Isabel? hast thou no smile or word
To greet thy long-expected love, thy wearied warrior lord?"
But ever as he soothed her grief tears trickled from her eyes,
And mournfully she told her tale with sad and broken sighs.
"A potent ruler once," she said, "committed to my care
Two exquisite and precious gems of lustre rich and rare;
He bade me the deposit guard with prudence firm and just,
Till summoned at a future day to render up my trust.

Time pass'd away; those dazzling gems shone ever on my sight,
And daily they appeared to me more beautiful and bright;
My love for them increased by years, and, rash and reckless grown,
In fondness and forgetfulness I deem'd them all my own.

The rightful owner bids me now prepare my trust to yield;
Alas! I may not from his arm my cherish'd treasure shield;
Yet may my tears upbraid the act tyrannic and severe
That rends from my unwilling grasp the gems I hold so dear.”

The chieftain on his lady fix'd a gaze amaz'd and stern-
"How hath thy tale destroyed," he said, "the joy of my return!
Can she, the truthful Isabel, the chosen of my heart-

Can she from honour's simple laws thus flagrantly depart?

Why were thy thoughts and wishes on thy frail possessions bent?
How couldst thou stake thy peace of mind on treasures only lent?
Restore the gems, por show thyself, by weak complaints of wrong,
Unworthy of the noble trust reposed in thee so long."

A look of soft serenity replaced the lady's gloom,

She gently led her husband to a still and darken'd room;
There lay his lov'd and lovely boys once strong in beauty's pride,
Each wrapped within a snowy shroud, they slumber'd side by side.

weak;

The father gazed upon the dead-the warrior's heart grew
Sobbing in bitter agony, he vainly strove to speak-
"See here," his trembling lady cried, "the loss I fear'd to tell
These are the dear intrusted gems I valued but too well.

I knew the wise and gracious God, who rules o'er human ties,

Had to my charge these boys consign'd to train them for the skies;
I knew them fitted to depart, and yet in wayward pain

I murmur'd that the mighty Lord had claim'd his own again.

Now I repent me of my fault-I bow to Heaven's decree."
The chieftain paused, then by her side he prayed on bended knee;
That prayer an answer from the Lord of peace and mercy won:
In meek and tranquil faith they said "The will of God be done."

Years now have pass'd, bright children smile around their happy hearth,
Yet hold they with a loosen'd hand these fleeting ties of earth,
And view the treasures of their house as blessings lent, not given,
Ever prepared to yield the charge they hold in trust for Heaven.

THE CHIRRUP OF A SMILE.

To H. J. B.

THERE sat a king upon a golden throne,

Radiant with very dignity, alone!

"Alone!" quoth he," and yet two kingdoms and a half,

Kneel at my toe, or cry, or howl, or laugh,

While out of diamonds I the rich wine quaff;

And yet no smile!"