308 differed with him in opinion, and plainly told him so, There In front of the house of the Walkers, had been, a few years before, an open space, but which now, thanks to the rapid march of improvement, was being changed into a row of very good houses. were a dozen of them, and they were dignified with the name of Beauchamp Terrace. They were, about the time I speak of, all to let; the last finishing-touch had been put to them, the railings had been painted, the rubbish all removed, and they wanted nothing, save furniture and human beings, to make them assume a civilized and respectable appearance. I called one morning on Maria Walker, her father was out, she had been playing the piano until she was tired, so we sat down in the bow-window and talked. "So the houses are letting?" said I, who took an under interest in the terrace which I had seen grow my eyes. "Two are let," replied she, "and both to private families; papa is pleased, he looks upon these twelve houses as twelve new patients." "have you not read the "But," said I, laughing, advertisement:Healthy and airy situation, rising neighbourhood, and yet only one medical man.' "Oh! yes," smiled Maria; "but sickness, I am sorry to say, is very apt to run about at some time or other, even in airy situations." "But Maria you are mistaken, there are three houses let," said I suddenly, "the bill is taken down opposite, it has been let since yesterday." "Oh yes, I recollect a very nice young man driving up there yesterday, and looking over the house for an hour; I suppose he has taken it." "A nice young man," said I, "that is very interesting, I suppose a young couple just married." "Very likely," replied Maria Walker, laughing; but whether at the fact of my making up my mind to its being an interesting case of matrimony, or what else, I know not. It was a week before I saw Maria again, and when What was my astonishment when, on the door in "A rival," cried I, clapping my hands, thoughtless "another feud of Montague and girl that I was; Capulet. Maria, could not a Romeo and Juliet be found to terminate it?" "Don't laugh," replied Maria gravely; "Papa is quite ill with vexation; imagine, in a small town like this, two doctors! it's all the fault of that advertisement. Some scheming young man has seen it, and finding no hope of practice elsewhere, has come here. I suppose he is as poor as a rat." At this instant the sound of horses' footsteps was heard, and then three vans full of furniture appeared We looked in sight. They were coming our way. anxiously, to see before which house they stopped. I must confess that what Maria said interested me in the young doctor, and I really hoped all this was for him. Maria said nothing, but, with a frown on her As I exbrow, she waited the progress of events. pected, the vans stopped before the young doctor's house, and in a few minutes the men began to unload. My friend turned pale as she saw that the vehicles were full of elegant furniture. "The wretch has got a young wife too," she exclaimed, as a piano and harp came to view, and then she added, rising, "This will never do; they must be put down at once; they are strangers in the neighbourhood, we are well known. Sit down at that desk, my dear girl, and help me to make out a list of all the persons we can invite to a ball and evening party. I look upon them as impertinent interlopers, and they must be crushed." I laughingly acquiesced, and aided by her, soon wrote out a list of invitations to be given. "But now," said Miss Walker, after a few moments of deep reflection, "one name more must be added, they must be invited." "Who?" exclaimed I, in a tone of genuine surprise. "Mr. and Mrs. Edward Radstock," replied Maria triumphantly, while I could scarcely speak from astonishment. The rest of my narrative I collected from the lips of my friend, a little more than a year later. The ball took place to the admiration of all C It was a splendid affair: a select band came down from London, in which two foreigners, with dreadfully un-euphonic names, played upon two unknown instruments, that deafened nearly every sensitive person in the room, and would have driven everybody away, had not they been removed into the drawing room balcony; then there was a noble Italian, reduced to a tenor singer, who astonished the company, equally by the extraordinary number of strange songs that he sang, and the number of ices and jellies which he ate; then there were one or two literary men, who wrote anonymously, but might have been celebrated, only they scorned to put their names forward among the common herd, the ot already known to the public; there was a young poet too, who thought Alfred Tennyson infinitely superior to Shakspere, and by the air with which he read a poem, seemed to insinuate that he himself was greater than either; and then there was a funny gentleman, who could imitate Henry Russell, John Parry, Buckstone, or anybody, only he had a cold and could not get beyond a negro recitation, which might have been Chinese poetry for all the company understood of it. In fact it was the greatest affair of the kind which Chad seen for many a long day, Mr. and Miss Radstock came, and were received with cold politeness by both father and daughter. The young man was good-looking, with an intelligent eye, a pleasing address, and none of that pertness of manner which usually belongs to those who have just thrown off the medical student to become the 1 doctor. Miss Radstock, his sister, who kept house for him, until he found a wife, was a charming girl of about twenty. She smiled at the manner of both Mr. and Miss Walker, but said nothing. Young Radstock's only revenge for the lady of the house's coldness and stateliness of tone, was asking her to dance at the first opportunity, which certainly was vexatious, for his tone was so pleasing, his manner so courteous, that my friend Maria could not but feel pleased when she wanted to be irate, distant, and haughty. They danced together several times, and to the astonishment of many friends of the young lady, of myself in particular, they went down to supper the best friends in the world, laughing and joking like old acquaintances. Next day, however, she resumed her original coldness of manner when the brother and sister called to pay their respects. She was simply polite, and no more, and after two or three words they retired, Emily Radstock becoming as stiff and formal as her new acquaintance. From that day Maria became very miserable. She was not avaricious, and did not fear her father losing his practice from any pecuniary motives, but it was pride that influenced her. Her father had for some years monopolized the parish, as his predecessor had for forty years before him; and now to behold a young unfledged physician setting up exactly opposite, and threatening to divide in time the business of the town, was dreadful. The physician of the town, sounded better too, than one of the doctors, and altogether it was a most unpleasant affair. Maria's place was now always the bow-window. She had no amusement but to watch the opposite house, to see if patients came, or if Edward Radstock made any attempt to call about and introduce himself. But for some time she had the satisfaction of remarking, that not a soul called at the house, save the butcher, the baker, and other contributors to the interior comforts of man, and Maria began to feel the hope that Edward Radstock would totally fail in his endeavours to introduce himself. She remarked however, that the young man took it very quietly; he sat by his sister's side while she played the piano, or with a book and a cigar at the open window, or took Emily a drive in his gig; always, when he remarked Maria at the open window, bowing with provoking courtesy, nothing daunted by her coldness of manner, or her pretence of not noticing his politeness. One day Mr. Walker was out, he had been called to a distance to see a patient, who was very seriously ill, when Maria sat at the bow-window looking up the street. Suddenly she saw a boy come running down on their side of the way; she knew him by his bright buttons, light jacket, and gold lace. It was the page of the Perkinses, a family with a host of little children, who, from constant colds, indigestions, and fits of illness, caused by too great a liking for the pleasures of the table, which a fond mother had not the heart to restrain, were continually on Mr. Walker's books. The boy rang violently at the bell, and Maria opened the parlour-door and listened. "Is Mr. Walker at home," said the boy, scarcely able to speak from want of breath. "No," replied the maid who had opened the door. "He will be home directly," said Maria, advan cing. "Oh! but missus can't wait, there's little Peter been and swallowed a marble, and the baby's took with fits," and away rushed the boy across the road to the hated rival's house. Maria retreated into her room and sank down upon a sofa. The enemy had gained an entrance 309 into the camp, it was quite clear. In a moment more she rose, just in time to see Mr. Edward Radstock hurrying down the street beside the little page, without waiting to order his gig. This was a severe blow to the doctor's daughter. The Perkinses were a leading family in the town, and one to whom her father was called almost every day in the year. They had a large circle of acquaintances, and if young Radstock became their medical adviser, others would surely follow. In about an hour, the young man returned and joined his sister in his drawingroom, as if nothing had happened. This was more provoking than his success. If he had assumed an air of importance and bustle, and have hurried up to inform his sister with an air of joy and triumph of what had happened, she might have been tempted to pity him, but he did everything in such a quiet, gentlemanly way, that she felt considerable alarm for the future. Maria was in the habit of spending most of her evenings from home, her father being generally out, and that large house in consequence lonely. The town of C- was famous for its tea and whistparties, and though Maria was not of an age to play cards, except to please others, she however sometimes condescended to do so. to the house of a Mrs. Brunton, who announced her One evening she was invited intention of receiving company every Thursday. She went, and found the circle very pleasant and agreeable, but, horror of horrors-there was Mr. Edward Radstock and his sister Emily; and worse than that, when a lady present volunteered to play a quadrille, and the ladies accepted eagerly, up he came, of all others, to invite her to dance! Mrs. Brunton the instant before had asked her to play at whist, to oblige three regular players, who could not find a fourth. "I am afraid," she said, quietly, but in rather distant tones, "I am engaged"-the young man looked surprised, even hurt, for no gentleman had spoken to her since she had entered the room-" to make a fourth at the whist-table, but-" "Oh, go and dance, Miss Walker," exclaimed Mrs. Brunton, "I did not know dancing was going to begin, when I asked you to make up a rubber." Maria offered her hand to the young man, and walked away to the dancing-room. Despite herself, that evening she was very much pleased with him. He was well informed, had travelled, was full of taste and feeling, and conversed with animation and originality; he sought every opportunity of addressing himself to her, and found these opportunities without much difficulty. For several Thursdays the same thing occurred. The young man began to find a little practice. He was popular wherever he went, and whenever he was called in was quite sure of keeping up the connection. He was asked out to all the principal parties in the town; and had Mr. Walker been not very much liked, would have proved a very serious rival. One morning the father and daughter were at breakfast. Maria, who began to like her bowwindow better than ever, sat near it to scent the fragrance of her flowers. When the young doctor came out, she always now returned his bow, and a young lady opposite declared in confidence to her dressmaker that she had even kissed her hand to him once. However this may be, Maria sat at the bowwindow, pouring out tea for her father in a very abstracted mood. Mr. Walker had been called out at an early hour, and returned late. He was not in the best of humours, having waited four hours beyond his time for his tea. "I shall die in the workhouse," said he, as he buttered his toast with an irritability of manner quite alarming. "This Radstock is getting all the practice. I heard of two new patients yesterday." "Oh, papa," replied Maria, gently. "I don't think he has got a dozen altogether." "A dozen-but that's a dozen lost to me, miss. It's a proof that people think me old-worn outuseless." "Nonsense, papa; C is increasing in population every day, and for every one he gets, you get two." "My dear," replied Mr. Walker, with considerable animation, "I think you are beginning to side with my rival." A loud knocking came this instant to the door, and the man-servant immediately after announced "Dr. Radstock.' Mr. Walker had no time to make any remark, ere the young man entered the room, bowing most politely to the old gentleman and his daughter; both looked confused, and the father much surprised. He was in elegant morning costume, and looked both handsome and happy,-the old doctor thought, triumphant. "Pardon me, sir," said he, " for disturbing you at this early hour; but your numerous calls take you so much out, that one must take you when one can find you. My errand will doubtless surprise you, but I am very frank and open; my object in visiting you is to ask permission to pay my addresses to your daughter." "To do what, sir?" thundered the old doctor in a towering passion. "Are you not satisfied with trying to take from me my practice, but you must ask me for my child? I tell you, sir, nothing on earth would make me consent to your marriage with my daughter." 'But, sir," said Edward Radstock, turning to Maria, "I have your daughter's permission to make this request. I told her of my intentions last night, and she authorized me to say that she approved of them." Maria," exclaimed the father, almost choking "is this true?" with rage, "My dear papa, I am in no hurry to get married, but if I did, I must say, that I should never think of marrying any one but Edward Radstock. I will not get married against your will, but I will never marry any one else; nothing will make me." "Ungrateful girl," muttered Mr. Thomas Walker, and next minute he sank back in his chair in a fit of apoplexy. "Open the window, raise the blinds," said the young man, preparing with promptitude and earnestness to take the necessary remedies, "be not alarmed. It is not a dangerous attack." Maria quietly obeyed her lover, quite aware of the necessity of self-possession and presence of mind in a case like the present. In half an hour Mr. Walker was lying in a large, airy bedroom, and the young man had left, at the request of Maria, to attend a patient of her father's. It was late at night before Edward was able to take a moment's rest. What with his own patients, and those of his rival, he was overwhelmed with business; but at eleven o'clock he approached the bedside of the father of Maria, who, with her dear Emily now by her side, sat watching. "He sleeps soundly," said Maria in a low tone, as Edward entered. "Yes, and is doing well," replied Radstock. "I answer for his being up and stirring to-morrow, if he desires it." "But it will be better for him to rest some days," said Maria. "But my dear Miss Walker," continued the young doctor, "what will his patients do?" "You can attend to them as you have done today," replied Maria. My dear Miss Walker, you, who know me, could trust me with your father's patients; you know, that when he was able to go about, I would hand them all back to him without hesitation. But you must be aware, that for your father to discover me attending to his patients, would retard his recovery. If I do as you ask me, I must retire from C immediately on his convalescence." "No, sir," said Dr. Walker, in a faint voice, "I shall not be about for a month; after making me take to my bed, the least you can do is to attend to my patients." If you wish it, sir-?" "I insist upon it; and to prevent any opposition, you can say we are going into partnership.' "But-" said Edward. 66 "Yes! because we cannot crush him, we take him as a partner," grumbled old Walker; never heard of such a thing; nice thing it is to have children who take part with your enemies." Nobody made any reply, and after a little more faint attempts at fault-finding, the old doctor fell asleep. About six months later, after a journey to Scotland, which made me lose sight of Maria, I drove up the streets of C- after my return to my native Greenwich, which, with its beautiful park, its Blackheath, its splendid and glorious monument of English greatness, its historic associations, I dearly love, and eager to see the dear girl, never stopped until I was in her arms. "How you have grown," said she, with a sweet and happy smile. "Grown! indeed; do you take me for a child,” cried I, laughing. "And you! how well and pleased you look; always at the bow-window, too; I saw you as I came up.' "I am very seldom there now," said she, with a strange smile. "Why?" "Because I live over the way," replied she, still smiling. "Over the way?" said I. "Yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things,-Maria Walker is now Mrs. Radstock." I could not help it; I laughed heartily. I was very glad. I had been interested in the young man, and the dénouement was delightful. The firm of Walker and Radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry, despite a great increase in the neighbourhood; but the experience of the old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all opposition. They proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength. Young Radstock was a very good husband. He told me privately that he had fallen in love with Maria the very first day he saw her; and every time I hear from them I am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a visit, shows himself first at the Bow-window. DIFFICULTY. THERE is an aim which all Nature seeks; the flower that opens from the bud-the light that breaks the cloud into thousand forms of beauty-is calmly striving to assume the perfect glory of its power; and the child, whose proud laugh heralds the mastery of a new lesson, unconsciously developes the same life-impulse seeking to prove the power it has felt its own. This is the real goal of life shining dimly from afar; for as our fullest power was never yet attained, it is a treasure which must be sought, its extent and distance being unknown. No man can tell what he can do, or suffer, until tried,-bis path of action broadens out before him; and, while a path appears, there is power to traverse it. It is like the fabled hill of Genius, that ever presented a loftier elevation above the one attained. It is like the glory of the stars, which shine by borrowed light, each seeming source of which is tributary to one more distant, until the view is lost to us; yet we inly know there must be a life-giving centre, and, to the steady mind, though the goal of life be dim and distant, its light is fixed and certain, while all lesser aims are but reflections of this glory in myriad-descending shades, which must be passed, one by one, as the steps of the ladder on which he mounts to Heaven. Man has an unfortunate predilection to pervert whatever God throws in his way to aid him, and thus turn good to evil. The minor hopes which spur to action are mistaken for the final one; and we often look no higher than some mean wish, allowing that to rule us which should have been our servant. From this false view rises little exertion, for it is impossible for man to believe in something better and be content with worse. We all aim at self-control and independence while in the shadow of a power which controls us, whispering innerly, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther," but how apt is selfindulgence to suit this limit to its own measure, and suffer veneration and doubt to overgrow and suppress the rising hope of independent thought. "I am not permitted to know this, or to do this," is the excuse of the weak and trivial; but the question should be, "Can I know, or do, this?" for what is not permitted we cannot do. We may not know the events of the future, or the period of a thought, or the Great First Cause, but we may hope to see and combine the atoms of things,-pierce the realms of space,-make the wilderness a garden,--attain perfection of soul and body; and for this our end we may master all things needful. There is nothing possible that faith and striving cannot do; take the road, and it must lead you to the goal, though strewn with difficulties, and cast through pain and shade. If each would strain his energies to gain what he has dared to hope for, he would succeed, for since that which we love and honour is in our nature, it is to be drawn forth, and what is not there we cannot wish. Our greatest drawback is, not that we expect too much, but that we do too little; we set our worship low, and let our higher powers lie dormant; thus are we never masters, but blind men stumbling in each other's way. As maturity means self-controlling power, so he who gains not this is childish, and must submit, infant-like, to be controlled by others. This guidance we must feel in our upward course, and be grateful for the check; but as we have each a work to do, we must look beyond help to independence. The schoolboy receives aid in learning that he may one day strive with his own power, for if he always depends on help he can never be a useful man. He who seeks for himself no path, but merely fol lows where others have been before, covering his own want with another's industry, may find the road not long, or thickly set, but he does and gains nothing. He who bows to difficulty, settling at the foot of the hill instead of struggling to its top, may get a sheltered place, a snug retreat, but the world in its glory he can never see, and the pestilence from the low ground he must imbibe. We may rest in perfect comfort, but the health that comes of labour will fade away. The trees of the forest were not planted that man might pass round and live between them, but that he might cut them down and use them. The savage has little toil before him, but the civilized man has greater power of happiness. Would a man be powerful, and bid his genius rule his fellow-men-he must toil to gain means; while his thought reads the hearts that he would sway, he must be led into temptation, and pass through pain and danger, ere he can know what another may endure. Would he pour golden truth upon the page of life? he must seek it from every source, weigh the relations of life, and concede to its tastes, that he may best apply it, for the proverb must be written in fair round hand, that common men may read it. Would he picture the life of man, or nature?- he must go forth with heart and eye alive, nor turn from the sorest notes of human woe, or the coarsest tones of vice; he must watch the finest ray of light, and mark the falling of the last withered leaf. Would he be actively benevolent?-winter cold, nor summer lassitude, must not appal him; in season and out of season he must be ready; injured pride, wounded feeling, must not unstring his energy while stooping to learn from the simplest lips the nature of those wants to which he would minister. In all accomplishment there is difficulty;-the greater the work, the greater the pains. There is no such thing as sudden inspiration or grace, for the steps of life are slow, and what is not thus attained is nothing worth. In darkness the eyes must be accustomed to the gloom, when objects appear, one by one, until the most distant is perceived; but, in a sudden light, the eyes are pained, and blinded, and left weak. At school, we found that when one difficulty was surmounted another was presented; mastering "Addition would not do,-we must learn "Subtraction:" so it is in life. A finished work is a glory won, but a mind content with one accomplishment is childish, and its weakness renders it incapable of applying that "From him that hath not shall be taken away even that he hath;"-his one talent shall rise up to him as a shame. A little sphere insures but little happiness. When There is a time of youth for all; but youth has a sphere of hope that, embracing the whole aim which man must work for, gives unbounded happiness. Thus God would equalize the lot of all where necessity would create difference; it is only when states are forced unnaturally that misery ensues. those who would seem to be men are children in endeavour, we see that God's will is not done, but a falsehood. The greatest of us have asked and taken guidance in their rising course, and owned inferiority without shame; but his is a poor heart that looks to be inferior ever: and shameful indeed it is, when those who are thus poor imagine or assume a right to respect as self-supporting men. How painfully ridiculous it is to see the lazy man look down on his struggling wife as the "weaker vessel," or the idle sinecurist hold contempt for the tradesman who is working his way to higher wealth by honest toil. Were the aims of living truly seen, no man would be dishonoured because useful. But wait awhile; the world is drawing near the real point, and we shall OLD Time has turned another page Of Eternity and Truth; He reads with a warning voice to age, And we have a task, to closely ask What the bosom and brain have learnt ? Oh, let us hope that our sands have run Oh, may we find that our hands have done Then a welcome and cheer to the merry New Year, While the holly gleams above us; With a pardon for the foes who hate, And a prayer for those who love us! We may have seen some loved ones pass We may miss the glow of an honest brow, With hearts all true and kind, Will their spirits blame the sinless mirth No, no! it were not well or wise To mourn with endless pain; There's a better world beyond the skies, Where the good shall meet again. Then a welcome and cheer to the merry New Year, While the holly gleams above us; With a pardon for the foes who hate, And a prayer for those who love us! Have our days rolled on serenely free Do we still possess the gifts that bless, Are the creatures dear still clinging near? Oh, if we do, let thanks be poured To Him who hath spared and given, And forget not o'er the festive board The mercies held from Heaven. Then a welcome and cheer to the merry New Year, With a pardon for the foes who hate, THE THAMES. LET the Rhine be blue and bright The Thames! the mighty Thames! Though it bear no azure wave, The Thames! the mighty Thames! Can ye find in all the world A braver flag unfurled Than that which floats above Oh! what a burning glow Has thrilled my breast and brow, With glory to its home, The Thames! the mighty Thames ! Did ribs more firm and fast The Thames! the mighty Thames ! They say the mountain child He grieves with smothered sighs Till his wearing spirit dies; My own, my native Thames ! THE KING'S OLD HALL. FEW ages since, and wild echoes awoke |