balm that Alice Herbert's heart could have received; and though it did not heal the wound, it tranquillized its aching.

Mrs. Herbert, though not rich, had not been altogether portionless, and her small fortune was all that Alice now condescended to call her own. There had been, indeed, a considerable jointure, but that Alice renounced from feelings that you will understand. Economy, however, was now a necessity; and after taking a passage in one of the cheapest vessels she could find bound for Quebec,-a vessel that all the world has heard of, named the St. Lawrence, she set out for the good city of Bristol, where she arrived in safety on the 16th day of May, 183-.

I must now, however, turn to the history of Henry Ashton.

It was just after the business in Canada was settled, that he entered a room in Quebec, where several of the officers of his regiment were assembled in various occupations,-one writing a letter to go by the packet which was just about to sail, two looking out of the window at the nothing which was doing in the streets, and one reading the newspaper. There were three or four other journals on the table, and Ashton took up one of them. As usual, he turned to the record of the three great things in life, and read, first the marriages-then the deaths; and, as he did so, he saw,-'Suddenly, at his house in Portland Plate, William Anthony Herbert, Esq.' The paper did not drop from his hand, although he was much moved and surprised; but his sensations were very mixed, and although, be it said truly, he gave his first thoughts, and they were sorrowful, to the dead, the second were given to Alice Herbert, and he asked himself, 'Is it possible that she can ever be mine? She was certainly much agitated when I left her!'

'Here's a bad business!' cried the man who was reading the other newspaper. The Herberts are all gone to smash, and I had six hundred pounds there. You are in for it, too, Ashton. Look there! They talk of three shillings in the pound.'

ters.

Henry Ashton took the paper and read the account of all that had occurred in London, and then he took his hat, and walked to head quarWhat he said or did there, is nobody's business but his own; but certain it is, that by the beginning of the very next week, he was in the gulf of St. Lawrence. Fair winds wafted him soon to England; but in St. George's Channel all went contrary, and the ship was knocked about for three days without making much way. A fit of impatience had come upon Henry Ashton, and when he thought of Alice Herbert, and all she must have suffered, his beart beat strangely. One of those little incidents occurred about this time, that make or mar men's destinies. A 'coasting boat from Swansea to Wiston came within hail, and Ashton, tired of the other vessel, put a portmanteau, a servant, and himself, into the little skimmer of the seas, and was in a few hours landed safely at the pleasant watering-place of Wiston super mare. It wanted yet an hour or two of

night, and therefore a post-chaise was soon rolling the young officer, his servant, and his portmanteau towards Bristol, on their way to London. He arrived at a reasonable hour, but yet, some one of the many things that fill inns, had happened in Bristol that day, and Henry drove to the Bush, to the Falcon, and the Fountain, and several others, before he could get a place of rest. At length, he found two comfortable rooms in a small hotel near the port, and had sat down to his supper by a warm fire, when an Irish sailor put his head into the room, and asked if he were the lady that was to go down to the St. Lawrence the next day? Henry Ashton informed him that he was not a lady, and that, as he had just come from the St. Lawrence, he was not going back again, upon

which the man withdrew to seek further.

Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock struck, and Henry Ashton pulled off his boots, and went to bed. At two o'clock he awoke, feeling heated and feverish; and to cool himself, he began to think of Alice Herbert. He found it by no means a good plan, for he felt warmer than before, and soon a suffocating feel came over him, and he thought he smelt a strong smell of burning wood. His bedroom was one of those unfortunate inn bed-rooms that are placed under the mediate care and protection of a sitting room, which, like a Spanish Duenna, will let nobody in who does not pass by their door. He put on his dressing gown, therefore, and issued ont into the sitting-room, and there the smell was stronger: there was a considerable crackling and roaring, which had something alarming in it, and he consequently opened the outer door. All he could now see was a thick smoke filling the corridor, through which came a red glare from the direction of the staircase; but he heard those sounds of burning wood which are not to be mistaken; and in a minute after, loud knocking at the doors, ringing of bells, and shouts of Fire! fire!' showed that the calamity had become apparent to the people in the street. He saw all the rushing forth of naked men and women, which generally follows such a catastrephe, and the opening all the doors of the house, as if for the express purpose of blowing the fire into a flame. There were hallooings and shoutings, there were screamings and tears, and what between the rushing sound of the devouring element, and the voice of human suffering or fear, the noise was enough to wake the dead.

Henry Ashton thought of his portmanteau, and wondered where his servant was; but seeing, by a number of people driven back from the great staircase by flames, that there was no time to be lost, he made his way down by a smaller one, and in a minute or two reached the street. The engines by this time had arrived; an immense crowd was gathering together, the terrified tenants of the inn were rushing forth, and in the midst Henry Ashton remarked one young woman wringing her hands, and exclaiming, "Oh, my poor young mistress! my poor young lady!'

'Where is she, my good girl?' demanded the young soldier.

'In number eleven,' cried the girl, 'in number eleven! Her bedroom is within the sitting room, and she will never hear the noise." 'There she is,' cried one of the by-standers who overheard; 'there she is, I dare say.'

Ashton looked up towards the house, through the lower windows of which the flames were pouring forth; and across the casement which seemed next to the very room he himself had occupied, he saw the figure of a woman, in her night dress, pass rapidly.

A ladder,' he cried, 'a ladder, for God's sake! There is some one there, whoever it be !'

No ladder could be got, and Henry Ashton looked round in vain.

'The back staircase is of stone,' he cried; 'she may be saved that way!'

Ay, but the corridor is on fire,' said one of the waiters; 'you'd better not try, sir; it cannot be done.'

Henry Ashton darted away; into the inn; up the stair case; but the corridor was on fire, as the man had said, and the flames rushing up to the very door of the rooms he had lately tenanted. He rushed on, however, recollecting that he had seen a side door out of his own sitting room. He dashed in, caught the handle of the lock of the side door, and shook it violently, for it was fastened.

'I will open it,' cried a voice from within, that sounded strangely familiar to his ear.

The lock turned-the door opened-and Henry Ashton and Alice Herbert stood face to face. "God of Heaven,' he exclaimed, catching her in his arms. But he gave no time for explanation, and hurried back with her towards the door of his own room. The corridor, however, was impassable.

"You will be lost! you will be lost!' he exclaimed, holding her to his heart.

'And you have thrown away your own life to save mine!' said Alice.

'I will die with you, at least!' replied Henry Ashton; "that is some consolation. But, no! they have got a ladder-they are raising it updear girl you are saved!'

He felt Alice lie heavy on his bosom; and when he looked down, whether it was fear, or the effect of the stifling heat, or hearing such words from his lips, he found that she had fainted.

'It is as well,' he said; it is as well!' and, as soon as the ladder was raised, he bore her out, holding her firmly yet tenderly to his bosom. There was a death-like stillness below. The ladder shook under his feet; the flames came forth and licked the rounds on which his steps were placed; but steadily, firmly, calmly, the young soldier pursued his way. He bore all that he valued on earth in his arms, and it was no moment to give one thought to fear.

When his last footstep touched the ground, a universal shout burst forth from the crowd, and even reached the ear of Alice herself; but, ere she could recover completely, she was in the comfortable drawing room of a good merchant's house, some way further down the same street.

The St. Lawrence sailed on the following day for Quebec, and, as you well know, went down in the terrible hurricane which swept the Atlantic in the summer of that year, bearing with her to the depths of ocean, every living thing that she had carried out from England. But on the day that she weighed anchor, Alice sat in the drawing room of the merchant's house, with her hand clasped in that of Henry Ashton; and, ere many months were over, the tears for those dear beings she had lost, were chased by happier drops, as she gave her hand to the man she loved with all the depth of first affection, but whom she would never have seen again, had it not been for THE FIRE.

And still, by times, the feet, in freedom's bliss, Working their gathering powers beneath the drape That shows the movement, though it screens the shape!

And near that mother is another face,

Suiting the scene-the mild, yet earnest sire
And happy husband, with his hope on fire
At what may be the future of his race-

A daughter now, and other pledges yet-
Star linked with star as never more to set!

Father and prince! how rich the homage falls!
Mother and queen is she-the favored one;
But chiefly where the birth-pang sharp has gone,
There Nature, the enthralling, most enthralls-

The inward woman tried and touched has been,
And her new name is prouder even than Queen!

"Tis not in any state to take away

The nature of our nature, or conceal;
The heart must throb or rot; the feelings feel;
Our bearing's the condition of our clay;
The diadem of glory decks the head,

Yet cannot the feet leave the earth they tread!

And thou, high sovereign lady-Mother now!

And thou dost know this, in thy inward thought: Nature, the teacher, hath this lesson taught, And all who watch thee, trace it on thy browThe new sweet charge that takes the heart to school, And makes I LOVE be stronger than I RULE.

Liege lady-Mother! yea, I judge it so,

And have in this withal the better hope, That, swaying, as thou dost, thou wilt give scope To fullest sympathy for those below

The humble throng of mothers, from whose womb
Britannia takes her greatness, or her doom!

Through the drear nooks where abject suffering lies
In shivering pain, or dread incertitude,
Where the dry nipple cannot give the food,
And the weak, gum-mocked infant moans and dies,-
There, as a mother of the mother think,
And link around thee still the closer link.

The poor produce with pain-and so do all ;
But ah! how much is added to the same!
How little of the nurse the hut can claim !
How few the comforts found within that wall!
A bed of straw perhaps, and cover thin,
And the keen draughts for ever breaking in!

Some neighbor grandame, kindly as she's old,
The only friend to lend, by times, a hand,
Brush up the floor-do any small command,
Hobbling from spot to spot with careful hold;

Yet what can she to help the greater woe?
How give those features which such home should
show?

Where is the caudle choice? the curtained charm?
Where each accompaniment we would espy?
The ever-wanted change, all clean and dry,
The wholesome gearing of the tiny form?
The father prideful as the scene reveals?
And the fond mother smiling as she feels?

There may, perchance, be other children, too,
All gathered close together in that shed;
And some they strive to climb upon the bed
And bring the little stranger to the view;

And now, anon, the place becomes all riot→→ The pale, thin hand vain beckoning to be quiet! Nor is this all-nor yet the worst-for soon

The needy wantons seek the cupboard door, And then it is the poor are truly poorThere is no dinner, though it be late noon! The babe, too, craves-and, yielding that request, She wishes for each mouth she had a breast!

Mother or Queen! 'tis trying Winter time,
The rain is wetting, or the frosts are cold,
The snow before the vision thickly rolled,
Cheerless the grate, and chill the window grime:
O mournful, therefore, in this season's fright,
The wife who has not wherewith to delight!

Lo, thy own baby; take it on the knee

And watch the wistful glances upward cast; How much of hope is there! and trial past! And every woman feels as fervently;

The great law conquers that outweighs all law And where's the mother can from it withdraw?

Nor doth this mighty thraldoma stop even there:
The father, brother, sister---every tie,
Near or remote, in the affinity

Of kindred, intertwisting, hath its share,--

And thus still on, as still the claim extends,
Till all the human host become as friends!

As Queen, Wife, Mother--thou, O madam, then,
Hast noble state, and offering, to thee given,
One of the few, as set apart by Heaven
To wake high wish, and cherish it again;
And now to bind this duty closer still,
Thy own sweet babe will but the better skill!

It were indeed most treason-like to doubt;
And yet, withal, the heart may be betrayed,
And follow on---and follow but a shade!
Though fair the promise, still no fruit come out!
Proud words and holy phrases all o'erthrown,
And, hideous IDOL!-SELF be only known!

O! woman, mortal!-weakly like us all,

Be but the MOTHER and there is no dread; Those soft attentions o'er the infant shedThe heed that nothing evil may befall

Each precept sage-each admonition kind,
The heart enlarge, till all a share may find.

As thou would'st watch the time-up-growing shoot,
Trace the weak virtues, strengthening every day,
See reason opening to its proper sway,
And every motive strike from wholesome root!
As thou, the Royal Nursling, would'st befriend,
So generous might'st thou work the wider end':

O'twere blessed sight to see this scene revealed,
The Queen, true mother of the millions all!
Though in her Palace-Home, to yet recall
The many deep ills round about concealed;
To make the doing good, and aiming well,
The chief Ambition wherein to excel.

What are our party strifes, to such great aims!-
If those be disappointed-these succeed!
Ah! very wantonness, and dross indeed!
Virtue will show the more deserving claims;
Take, then, thy baby---Mother! to thy breast,
And, looking there---REMEMBER ALL THE REST.
J. D. D.

CHAPTER 1. On one of those clear, cold days of December, which so frequently occur in our climate, two very young women were walking on the fashionable promenade of New York. In the person of the elder of these females there was exhibited nothing more than the usual indications of youth and health; but there were a delicacy and an expression of exquisite feeling in the countenance of her companion, that caused many a plodding or idle passenger to turn and renew the gaze, which had been attracted by so lovely a person. Her figure was light, and possessed rather a character of ærial grace, than the usual rounded lines of earthly beauty; and her face was beaming more with the sentiments of the soul within, than with the ordinary charms of complexion and features. It was precisely that kind of youthful loveliness that a childless husband would pause to contemplate as the reality of the visions which his thoughts had often portrayed, and which his nature coveted as the only treasure wanting to complete the sum of his earthly bliss. It truly looked a being to be loved without the usual alloy of our passions; and there was a modest ingenuousness which shone

in her air, that gently impelled the hearts of others to regard its possessor with a species of holy affection. Amongst the gay throng, however, that thoughtlessly glided along the Broadway, even this image of female perfection was suffered to move unnoticed by hundreds; and it was owing to the obstruction offered to the pas sage of the ladies, by a small crowd that had gathered on the side-walk, that a gentleman of uncommon personal endowments enjoyed an opportunity of examining it with more than ordinary attention. The eldest of the females drew her companion away from this impediment to their passage, by moving towards the opposite side of the street, and observing, as they crossed, with an indifference in her manner :

"It is nothing, Charlotte, but a drunken man; if people will drink, they must abide the consequences."

"He does not seem intoxicated, Maria," replied the other, in a voice whose tones corresponded with her appearance; "it is some sudden illness."

"One that, I dare say, he is accustomed to," said Maria, without having even taken such a look at the sufferer as would enable her to identify his color; "he will be well enough after he has slept."

"But is the pavement a place for him to sleep