On the morning of that day When with the strength of death I cried. Nor cumber thus thy entrance-stone : Her voice, so terrible and shrill, Died on the midnight breeze,— The beatings of my heart stood still,— Oh! fearful things were these! Another phantom, dark and grim, Rose on my sight by the moonbeam dim. "On the gallows-tree I hung, Betwixt the mocking earth and sky! He was silent like the others- Was more dreadful than each word! O silence pure! O solitude! Can I no longer prove O'ercloud the moonlight sky? Then the phantoms gathered round me My nameless, shameful tomb : Yet life beat strong within me, And darkness wrought with fear, A sound like a church bell ringing A sound like the free birds singing Joy to that holy time; A light like the light of a young child's heart, O light! O sound! how dear thou art,- The grisly phantoms faded, My darkened soul was free, The bright moon shone and the clouds were gone As I stood 'neath the churchyard tree. It was a child's beseeching prayer, O silver, silver tone! For me those loving accents were; Oh! innocence, availing much! Oh! childhood's grateful love! One tender word, one kindly touch, One cup of water held to such, Of wondrous power may prove. Pray for me still, thou little child! With thy lips unstained by sin ; Pray for me, spirit undefiled, For at thy pure and holy prayer An angel's presence fills the air, And hope springs up within. AN ARABIAN TALE. (TRANSLATED FROM A FRENCH MS.) THE Arab tribe of Neggdié formerly possessed a thoroughbred black mare named Houban-heggin. She was extremely beautiful, and much coveted by the chief of another tribe called Daher. Having vainly offered to exchange for her his camels and all his riches, he conceived the idea of disguising himself as a beggar, and accordingly hastened to stain his skin with the juice of some herb, to cover himself with rags, and to tie up his throat and legs, in order to counterfeit a lame and distorted mendicant, and thus to await Nabee, the animal's master, on the road by which he was expected to return. On his drawing near, the feigned beggar addressed him in a feeble voice. "Have pity on a poor stranger, who has not tasted food for three days. I am dying; help me, and God will reward you." The Bedouin offered to take him on his horse to his own home; but the counterfeit replied, "I have not the strength to rise." No Full of compassion, Nabee dismounted, and with great difficulty placed the beggar on his mare. sooner did Daher feel secure on the saddle than he struck his spur into the animal's side, and galloped off, crying out at the same time, "It is I, Daher, who have gained and carried her off!" Nabee shouted to Daher to listen to him, who, certain of not being pursued, stopped, though at some little distance, as Nabee was armed. "You have stolen my mare," said the latter: "I wish you prosperity with her, but I entreat you never to reveal how you became possessed of her." "And wherefore?" asked Daher. "Because a really suffering person might be refused assistance, and an act of charity neglected, from the fear of being deceived as I have been." Struck by these words, Daher considered for a moment, and then, dismounting, he returned the mare to her master, at the same time embracing him with great cordiality. Nabee invited him to his house, where he remained three days, and departed after an interchange of vows of eternal friendship. NICHOLAS BERGHEM. C. B. B. should complete the work for the last enemy. Everything about her was beautifully clean and neat, as the rector had described it after his first visit, and there was besides an air of comfort in the room, which told of another's care and thoughtful charity. Her pale who lay in a calm guileless sleep, such as children expressive face was turned towards her little child, only sleep, outside the bed, with his head covered with its curly hair reclining on one of his mother's arms, and his little knees gathered up towards her, while his body was circled by the other arm of this his only surviving parent, who was also so soon to be THIS celebrated artist—one of the most celebrated taken from him. It was a strange, a painful conof the Dutch School-was the son of Peter van Haerlem, born at Haerlem. From his father he (for good supplies of food had made a wondrous trast! the healthy rounded arm of the little fellow, received his first instruction in art. He acquired the name by which his works are known from an incident change in him,) lying in this attitude of quiet confiin his early life. Whilst studying under Van Goyen, dence on the lean, wasted arm of the exhausted his father followed him, for the sufferer. of chastising purpose As we entered she turned her head, and him for some indiscretion, into the rooms of that artist, lifted her dark bright eyes, now filled with tears, who, perceiving the father's purpose, called to his while a smile of heavenly gratitude spread over her pupils to "berg hem," or "hide him." This was face, as she at last fixed an earnest gaze upon the rector. afterwards applied to him as a by-name. Ultimately he adopted it; and by this name he became distinguished. Berghem was a man of varied powers, equally successful in landscape, figures, and cattle. He lived contemporary with Both and Wouvermans, to neither of whom he was inferior. His works, indicating talent of a very high order, were in his own day, as at the present time, esteemed of great value, and brought extraordinary prices. His etchings, many of which he did from his studies of animals, &c. from nature, are carefully preserved by the fortunate possessors of them, being valued for their delicacy and vigour. The brilliancy of light and shade observable in the specimen we have here given, was one of the chief characteristics of his works. He died in his native city, in the year 1683, at the age of fifty-nine. EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF AN T. N. H. you and reward you; for I can't-I wish I could. "Oh, sir," she said, "may God in heaven bless How good you have been to me! but He will never forget it, your reverence; no, and-" "Never mind all this now, Helen," said the rector in a consoling tone of voice, soft and subdued, in perfect unison with the awful approach. "Is there anything you wish to say to me-anything of earthly matters, which disturbs the thoughts of your heart, and carries them away from what should solely employ them now? Tell me if there is." "Oh, your reverence!" but she could say no more. buried her face in its little bosom; and her long black She pointed to the sleeping innocent, and hair, which had escaped from her nightcap, fell loosely over its face and neck while she wept-faintly, for death was near at hand, yet the more piteously for that very reason. At last she said, turning round again— "Oh! sir, I know it's wrong-very wrong. But, But I know you will never lose sight of him, and poor Willy! I can't feel quite easy like about him. there is besides a Father of the and at that moment the child moved restlessly, and July 19th.-THE rector came this morning into the breakfast room, and told us that Helen Jewell was dying, and had sent for him to administer the last and only consolation for the sick. He had been with her during the greater part of yesterday, and had fixed an hour this morning for this very purpose. But the poor creature felt herself dying, and had requested if it would not be too much trouble to his reverence, that he would come as soon as he could. He begged both Montague and myself to go with him, that the Church's rule might be sure to be obeyed without any delay or unnecessary bustle. We went up into the room where the sufferer was, as had brought the rector here so early, the sufferer eviAfter the completion of the solemn service which soon as we reached the cottage, for all had been pre-dently waxed weaker and weaker, and she could now pared for our coming. On a bed in the corner the dying woman lay panting for breath. She appeared to suffer hardly at all from coughing; indeed, her whole system seemed quite subdued, as though disease had done its worst, and, having broken down all impediments, was waiting inactively awhile, ere it (1) Continued from p 272. creature was satisfied. only speak in a whisper. in the room, and the light was dim, for they had There was a dead silence drawn a curtain across the window, by the rector's request, to shade the light from her eyes. Around her bed we watched kneeling, while the rector prayed for her. Suddenly she said in the same whispered voice, only fainter, "My child-Willy-fetch him." He was brought in, and she clasped him to her bosom as well as she could. Her lips moved in secret prayer, and her eyes were upturned to heaven. What sights may not the dying faithful see, which are hidden from us! As if blessed with a vision of peace, her wan face lighted with a sudden joyful | smile, and she turned her eyes towards the rector. "Some water, please," she said, so as scarcely to be audible. Then beckoning with her hand to him, she added, as he leant down to catch her words, "Bless me before I die; bless me, O my Father!" we once when you first spoke of it, and his crib came from Dorchester three or four days ago." "Then you could take charge of him to-night?" "Quite well; and the sooner the better, you know, if you consult me.' "I wish, Mr. Freeman, you would go with me, and you too, Charles. You may perhaps make the matter less awkward, though of course I shall wish to break it to her at first alone, which can be easily managed." So, after breakfast we went; and there on the top step before the door was little Georgie with his flaxen hair, and pale delicate face, lighted up with a bright glad smile. When he saw us he clapped his tiny hands together, and shouted as loudly as a child can shout, "Here's Mr. Montoo, mamma!" and he clambered down the steps one at a time, with his right leg foremost throughout, as fast as he could, and running to us, caught hold of the rector. He raised the little fellow in his arms, and a sad earnest look did he fix on that innocent face which was so soon to brighten his parsonage. He was thinking, doubtless, of his awful charge. But, quickly rousing himself from his reverie, he kissed the dear boy on his fair forehead, and carried him in his arms to the house, while Charles Montague and I remained in the garden. As he passed in, the sun poured down a glowing light on the upturned face of the child, and gilded the falling hair with an almost supernatural brilliancy, as it lay streaming over the arm of the aged clergyman. I could not but think of the Good Shepherd, carrying one of the lambs in his bosom. I trust it was not wrong. However, I am coming the sentimental again in my diary. The old clergyman laid his hands on her head, and gave her the Church's blessing. She took his hand and kissed it, and then kissing her child, (who seemed almost to know what was going on, so quiet was he,) she placed it upon his head, and looked up in the rector's loving, peaceful face, and prayed him with her eyes, for she could no longer speak, that he would take care of the orphan. A change came over her, and the perspiration stood on her face, and she motioned for water. It was brought, but she could not swallow. Her eyes closed, and her lips moved, as if in prayer. We all sank on our knees, and the rector said in a low voice a litany for the departing soul. He ended, and there was no soundwatched for breathing, but it had ceased. The mother of Willy was asleep in Christ. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." The child was at once taken out of the room, for he was frightened, and was pulling the motionless arm of the departed, to catch attention, as of old. Poor orphan! that may not be. Thou shalt never see her again who once sheltered thee in her bosom from all fears, and loved thee with a mother's tenderest love, till time has ended for thee also, and that last sleep has sealed | thee for the grave. How changed both mother and child will be then, who can tell? Meanwhile thy mother careth for thee, Willy, and may be nearer to thee than thou dreamest. Keep her memory as a vestal flame ever pure and bright in thy soul, then shall the presence of the dead be thy best shield and buckler against temptation. Though thy remembrance of her will be faint and phantom-like in after years of manhood, still let the reverence of her being pleasure to be obtained thereby-which signifies, ever preserved in thy heart of hearts, the inmost sanctuary of thy spiritual temple; then wilt thou obey the commandment with promise, then will thy voice be low and subdued if thou chancest to speak of her, and thy love will be eternal, and thou shalt in a measure overlook the partition-wall of flesh, even here, in this thine earthly sojourn! July 21st.-At breakfast this morning the rector said that he intended calling on Mrs. Hutchins, to ascertain her determination about her child. "I have purposely waited so long," he said, "because I wanted her to hear of it first from common rumour, which she is sure to have done ere this, and so it will not take her by surprise. I suppose, Mary dear, that you are prepared to receive little Georgie ?" We had not been long walking the narrow circumference of the garden when Mrs. Hutchins made her appearance and invited us to come in. There were tears in her eyes, but a most contradictingly goodhumoured smile playing about her mouth. When we entered, we beheld Mr. Hutchins sitting with both his feet on the fender, in front of the fire-place, reading the newspaper. He did not rise to receive us ; and this piece of ill-breeding was all the more conspicuous and unmeaning as there was no correspond in plain English, that there was no fire in the grate. The child was on a stool, up in a corner, (his usual seat) close by the sofa on which Mr. Montague was sitting. The expression of his face was greatly altered-it was now one of fear. Mr. Hutchins scarcely noticed us by a distant shake of the hand, and did not change his position. A sullen and dogged ill-humour was depicted in the plainest hand-writing on his coarse countenance; and he was endeavouring, most unsuccessfully, to appear engrossed with his paper. "Well, then, Mrs. Hutchins, you will give me leave to run away with Georgie to the Parsonage, won't you?" said the rector. 66 Why, I do not know what to say, Mr. Montague. It's very hard to be separated from him, for he is a “Oh, yes, papa, quite prepared; I arranged it all at great amusement and comfort to me, I assure you. |