was walking with a young and beautiful girl, in the shade of the forest trees in Milverton Park.

"I think you must be tired, dear uncle, here is such a nice shady seat," said the young girl, with a look of tender solicitude at her companion.

"I am not very tired, but we will sit here awhile," answered Mr. Fanshaw, for it was he; "I know you are fond of this seat, my child, because it commands such a beautiful view; let us sit down and enjoy it."

"Dear uncle," said the fair young girl, for such was the relationship they had adopted-" dear uncle, look at that line of hills, relieved by those lovely white clouds, which sail along, reposing on the bosom of the sky, and watch now that lark piercing a way with his glad song into the clear heavens."

Mr. Fanshaw absorbed in his own thoughts, heard rot the young enthusiast; at length he said very earnestly,

66

My child I have during the last few months learned much, and you, my love, you have been my teacher; how shall I repay you ?”

His young companion pressed his hand, tears were in her eyes, but her heart was too full for speech.

Mr. Fanshaw continued, "I have seldom spoken to you of my past life, Julia, for its most cherished memories its most bitter disappointments were connected with the name of your mother. I could not speak of her to her child without either compromising the truth, or wounding your filial feelings, therefore I was silent, but now that I find you know the mutual relation in which your mother and myself stood to each other, and that she freely confessed her errors, to avoid her example, now that I know all this is not unknown to you, I may speak without reserve of my own past life, and teach you, also, by my example to avoid the errors into which I too have fallen. You know how my hopes of happiness were blighted, but none but myself can know how deeply I felt the blow. I resolved in my bitterness never again to trust my happiness in another's keeping. I schooled myself to subdue every generous feeling, every warm emotion: I would be the stoic, whom none should have power to wound. Guided by this cheerless philosophy, I marked out my path in life. Years passed on, dark gloomy years of loneliness, but I would not unveil to your young mind a picture so sad, sufficient for me to know that they are for ever past. In the dreary waste of that spiritual solitude you came, my child, like an angel from heaven, winning me to a softer and better mood.

In my sickness you ministered to me, in that yet worse sickness of the soul, you breathed into my ear the religious consolation which appeals to the heart, purifying and elevating even while it chastens. Julia," he continued after a pause, " I did not think when I unwillingly consented to receive you,—the child of her who had so cruelly blighted my early hopes,-I did not think that you were destined to cheer, with all the fondness of a daughter's love, the solitary years of my old age, much less did I think that any mortal again could win my affection or turn me from my stocism. I bless the hour, in which you became as a daughter to the childless old man.'

"My father, my more than father," said Julia Barton, with emotion, and pressing his withered hand to her lips "do not speak in that way, it is I who have cause to be thankful for having found in you a kind protector when destitute and in sorrow, when left without hope, and without friends. The devotion of a life could not repay the debt of gratitude I owe you, and feeling this, is it not an inexpressible joy for me to know that I can in any degree soothe your sorrows or cheer your solitude?"

we

"My dear Julia," said Mr. Fanshaw with solemnity" have indeed both reason to be thankful for thedealings of God's providence. If we only wait with patience, we shall always find that some happiness can be derived, even from our deepest sorrows, and I am sure we may now say with our good friend Mr. Willoughby that "the good has overcome the evil."

THE SONG OF THE WAVES.

We are coming, we are coming, we are coming, in our might!
In the sunbeam shines our snowy crest, like waving war-plumes bright,
And we dance, and we leap, as we rush towards the strand,

In the wild and reckless liberty, that scorneth chain or band.

We dash against the stout sea wall, we burst upon the shore,
And the white cliffs hanging over us re-echo to our roar;
We throw our sportive arms around, the sun smiles on our glee,
Each diamond drop, all rainbow-clad, falls back into the sea.

The sea-gull floats like some white flower upon our bosom green,
Now mounting o'er a rising wave, now gliding in between,
The sailor sings rejoicingly, the gallant ship sails free;
Oh bright and beautiful we are, the billows of the sea!

NO. III.

L

VOL. II.

We are coming, we are coming, we are coming in our might!
And the shrieking winds above us are rushing all the night;
Whilst we madly chase each other, and rear our heads so high,
That the storm-clouds with our flaky foam seem mingled in the sky.
Now darker than the darkest night, we form in awful caves,
The sea-fowl screaming flys along, between the towering waves,
Then like warriors on their war-steeds set, we charge against the strand
And every angry surge cries woe! woe to the trembling land!

We take the proud ship in our arms, and dash her on the shore;
And like a tyrant crushed she rides triumphantly no more:
She that seemed mistress of our might-but never slaves were we,
Oh dreadful are we in our wrath, the billows of the sea.

CATHERINE BRANDON.

HANDSOME IS THAT HANDSOME DOES.

IN CONTINUATION OF THE ESSAY "UGLY AS SIN."

BENEVOLENCE is a great beautifier. The utilitarian, when applying his "cui bono" to all that attracts or delights his eye, little thinks he is on the threshold of a great truth, which forms the universal answer to his heedless question.

Would that all beauty were thus tested. By its usefulness. In how many humble things should we then see beauty. The weeds of the field, having the gift of healing, being the unconscious instruments of life and death-how many a veined wonder, how many graceful arrangements of line, would every leaf disclose. And how soon should we learn that what at first seems only created for bloom, for glow: has both its Mission and its Lesson, beneath its apparant holiday life. Aye, these incense vases, the flowers!-their delicate perfumes exaled from cups so transparant and various of texture, so subtle and choice of hue that alabaster or porcelain fails to imitate their purity, and the ready hand of Man has never combined traceries so graceful, or teints so harmonious, these bending cencers that Nature's high priests, the cloud-robed Winds, are ever swinging in her glorious Temple-what texts for worship do they carry with them, when appealing to the most sensitive and loving of our senses. Not a flower but has its uses, not a flower that is not a purifier of the air, as well as a ministerer of beauty to the eye and gladness to the heart.

Utility is everywhere the great end of Creation, Beauty the means. How could it be otherwise. Could God be less than Good, or Love speak any language but Loveliness. The visible world is opened to us solely that we may learn the luxury of doing good, in the poetry of colour, the emphatic fragrance, the airiness of motion, ever attendant on its ministry. What prevents our carrying out this with ourselves. Why does the whole business of Life wear so ugly a mask? Why does it seem so self-seeking, so mercenary, so unhandsome? It is not so. Men are, in reality-aye, the most selfish, unwitting parties to a necessary compact, and work for each other.

Why not confess the necessity, and graciously wear the motto on your foreheads. Why, ye self-duped self-scorners, ye ignorant instruments of a generous Master, why exult in the humiliating lie that you care only for "Number One."

The heartless miser, who makes the world his inheritors; and the equally selfish spendthrift-the unconscious donkey, who bears the world's luggage on his back-are they not living epitaphs on the fallacy you disguise yourself with.

How often have we been struck with the pinched, mean, sharp, specious faces of men, whose features powdered off by their selfishness to the most economical outline, yet speak, in an occasional gleam, of the candour of school-days, of shared enjoyments, of confidential rambles, of all the manly promise of impassioned youth.

O that these animated ledgers-with their smug respectability, knew but the luxury of giving a penny to a beggar. Could they but strike a balance with their conscience, what glorious hours would they have to carry on to the Credit-side of their life-account. And if they care for their appearance—and we have seen, even in these perepitetic cash-boxes, a lingering fondness for the lost youth and beauty-how soon Macassor and Kalydor, Regenerator and Atrapilatory, would give way as beautifiers, to offices of charity and words of encouragement.

Handsome is that handsome does. Rise, ye Benefactors of your race, ye Champions of Freedom, ye Fathers in Religion, ye Social Prophets, ye Domestic Heroes and Heroines! Is there an ugly face amongst you? Come, noble Wallace, graceful Masaniello, and you, majestic Melancthon, and honest, one-thoughted Luther.-Come, ye gentle Christians, who have spent your lives in going about doing good: where shall we find happier, handsomer faces than in a Howard, a Fry, a Father Mathew, a Hannah More.

Handsome is that handsome does. Look round your own circle. Where are your handsome faces? Not the belle of the ball-room, not the Fancy Fair Philanthropist-but the "tendereyed:"-to take an exquisite expression from the Book where all is Beauty-the pity-full: the justice loving: the free-thoughted: the pure.

We would carry our Theory very far. In the least attractive man we would see-not

"Othello's visage in his mind,"

but "Othello's mind in his face." We would, in our faith in Physiognomy, which is entire, see the purified, lifted soul rise into the face and through all outward check-the marring of distortion of disease-pour forth its flood of light through the loving eyes, which, however mean the eye-brow, however narrow the lid, can never lose their depth, their beauty, where they have truth to tell, purity to emphasise.

Pass me your Models. Not the Life in the Marble-the glorious Symbols of the Sculptor, but the Marble in the Lifethe dull, stony-eyed unanimated, creatures who sleep away existence in dressing, dining and displaying themselves—those who know nothing of the three-fold life" to be," "to do," and "to suffer," but think the first, embraces all that is worth vegetating for.

Is there a Moral in our Essay: a purpose in the Truth thrown amongst our Readers? Is there a truth in nature without its purpose, its moral?

And what purpose, what aim higher than to teach us to look beyond the first glance; beyond the dwarfed form: the seamed face the wry figure to look beyond irregularity of line, inequality of tint-to see through the warp of birth or the shadow of sorrow, the simple, gentle, holy truth that so seldom rises from an unchastened spirit.

It is the stricken rock that welleth forth its wealth. And wherever it has ended otherwise, wherever we have driven the weak, the wronged, wounded spirit from us, we should see in their crimes, their despair, the reflection of our cruelty and our scorn. We that have made the darkness should not point to the gloom; we might often pierce its depths with the light of our mercy. Mercy! Alas! what right have any of us to such a word-rather say, with our stronger hand, our unbroken heart.

And what beautiful faces should we thus recover. Eyes in which the standing tears of gratitude should be as the pearled