ten thousand pounds' worth of jewels you then wore. He concealed both yourself and your jewels where I cannot tell. Your father shed tears for his daughter, and some more for the jewels, so exquisitely set. One day he very naïvely observed in my hearing, that the circumstance connected with the robbery which pained him most, was that the jewels would be disposed of at half price to some Jew, and that his handsome settings, so elaborately worked, would be broken up and melted by the receiver for fear of discovery.

"It was a hard thing to have all that trouble for nothing, -it was a hard thing to have such a daughter, and to be so fond of her,' and the good man burst into tears.

"It seems your father was right in his conjectures, as Leoni could only raise sufficient cash on the booty to enable him to show out at Venice for four months. The palace of his ancestors had been sold, and was then for hire; he took it, and as I hear, restored his name on the cornice of the inner court, not daring to put it up on the great gate. As he is not decidedly known as a sharper to more than three or four persons, his house became once more the resort of many distinguished foreigners, who were of course plundered by his associates. Perhaps it was the dread of being discovered which prevented him from sharing in the spoils, for he was very soon ruined once more. Probably he merely tolerated the pillaging system pursued by those villains in his house, for he is in their power, and he dares not break with those he most detests. At present he is, as you are aware, the professed lover of the Princess Zagarola, a lady who, though once handsome, is now withered and dying fast of a complaint in the chest. It is supposed she will leave all her property to Leoni, who pretends to be violently in love with her, and to whom she is passionately attached. He is watching the hour when her will shall be in force. You will then be rich again, Juliet. He must have told you of it—a little patience and you will fill the place of the Princess in her box at the opera-you will appear on the promenade in her carriage-a slight change in the arms is all that is necessary-you may lay your head upon the pillow on which she breathed her last-you may even wear her dresses and jewels."

Henryet would have run on in this cruel strain, but I heard no more, I fell upon the floor in violent hysterics.

(To be continued.)

-0

TO THE LADY

WHO SENT ME A VALENTINE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.

SWEET lady, thanks! my stream of life

Ran brighter when I read the line
That told me there was still a heart
That could respond to mine:
Years vanished, and I felt the joy
That thrilled me when a happy boy.
I know thee not-may never know
My eyes may vainly rove o'er all
That meet me in the daily paths,
Nor on thee chance to fall;
But Fancy will extend to me
A glass, in which thy form to see.

I shall combine all lovely looks,

All graceful shapes, and hues ideal,
And o'er the bright, enchanting whole,
Gaze till I deem it real.

I'll listen to the gentlest tone,

And fondly deem 'tis sure thine own.

And I will wear it as a badge,

The ribbon blue, that sweetly bound
The expression of thy kindred thoughts,
Those words of magic sound;
Words of the master-lyre, that tells
The secrets of Love's treasure-cells.

I cannot claim such welcome praise;
My poor desert is far below

The rank of honour which thy verse
So freely would bestow;

Yet round my forehead let me twine

All garlands wreathed by hands like thine.
Lady! should Fortune e'er reveal

My valentine, my fair unknown,
Say, will thy voice repeat the words
Confessed to me alone?

Ah! wilt thou then, till life departs,
Still wear me in thy heart of hearts?'

THE HAPPY HOME.

I LOVE the hearth where evening brings
Her loved ones from their daily tasks,
Where Virtue spreads her spotless wings,
And Vice, fell serpent! never basks;
Where sweetly rings upon the ear

The blooming daughter's gentle song,
Like heavenly music whispered near,
While thrilling hearts the notes prolong.

D.

For there the father sits in joy,
And there the cheerful mother smiles,
And there the laughter-loving boy,

With sportive tricks, the eve beguiles;
And love, beyond what worldings know,
Like sunlight on the purest foam,
Descends, and with its cheering glow,
Lights up the christian's happy home.
Contentment spreads her holy calm
Around her resting-place so bright,
And gloomy Sorrow finds a balm,
In gazing at so fair a sight;
The world's cold selfishness departs,
And Discord rears its front no more,
There Pity's pearly tear-drop starts,
And Charity attends the door.

No biting scandal, fresh from hell,

Grates on the ear, or scalds the tongue;
There kind remembrance loves to dwell,
And virtue's meed is sweetly sung;
And human nature soars on high,
Where heavenly spirits love to roam,
And Vice, as stalks it rudely by,
Admires the christian's happy home.
Oft have I joined the lovely ones
Around the bright and cheerful hearth,
With father, mother, daughters, sons,
The brightest jewels of the earth:
And while the world grew dark around,
And Fashion called her seuseless throng,

I've fancied it was holy ground,

And that fair girl's a seraph's song.
And swift as circles fade away,
Upon the bosom of the deep,
When pebbles, tossed by boys at play,
Disturb its still and glassy sleep,
The hours have sped in pure delight,
And wandering feet forgot to roam,
While waved the banners of the night
Above the christian's happy home.
The rose that blooms in Sharon's vale,
And scents the purple morning's breath,
May in the shades of evening fail,

And bend its crimson head in death;
And earth's bright ones amid the tomb,
May, like the blushing rose, decay;
But still the mind, the mind shall bloom,
When time and nature fade away.

And there, amid a holier sphere,
Where the archangel bows in awe,
Where sits the king of glory near,
And executes his perfect law,
The ransomed of the earth, with joy,
Shall in their robes of beauty come,
And find a rest without alloy,

Amid the christian's happy home.

THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK.

A CANADIAN TALE.

DESCENDING to me by hereditary right, the time-piece that was my father's and my grandfather's before me, is now in my possession, and occupies a prominent place in the vesture of my study. How often have I sat and gazed upon its timeworn countenance, listening to its regular and monotonous ticking, and only longing that it could speak, and tell me what it had seen in its younger days! Doubtless it has gazed on many a scene of bloodshed and slaughter, of revelling and mirth. Doubtless it has lifted its hands in horror at some enacting tragedy, never failing to sound its customary alarm. At any rate, whoever has walked upon the earth for an hundred years, or even if he has been confined for so long a time in one position, must have been the witness of much that would now be interesting. Oh that the old clock could speak! How many bright and sparkling eyes have been turned to its paternallooking face, only to lose their vivacity, by seeing that it pointed its hand to the dreaded IX! How many

to our story.

But

There

Other authors describe their heroes and heroines; why should not I describe mine? It is encased in an upright box, some eight feet in height, two in width, and the same in depth; so that when it is erect, with its black metal face peering through its glass covering, it resembles more an Egyptian mummy, than a chronicler of time. Its machinery is of that complicated character, which is an unfathomable mystery to modern tinkers, who are altogether unable to regulate its labyrinthine tortuosities. are a few antique figures carved upon its summit, covered with time-worn and moth-eaten gilding. The hands are composed of some polished metal, kept bright by weekly scrubbings. The sarcophagus is made of an exceedingly fine grained wood, stained and varnished; but this may have been done by its later proprietors. The inner space is capacious enough to admit the body of an ordinary man; but when the door is closed, it would seem impossible that a child could be concealed within it. There it stands, in yonder corner, ticking away with imperturbable gravity, although it knows very well that it is the subject of my present lucubrations.

I have said that it was once the property of my grandfather. Good old man! He has been dead but a few years, and I have often seen the venerable time-piece in his own house. He had

been a soldier in the revolutionary war, and always had some story to tell concerning his perilous rencontres; but I observed that he invariably stopped, as the bell of the old clock sounded the hour of nine; and although he were in the very centre of an interesting story, I was unable to get another word from his lips, until the ensuing evening, when he would take it up exactly where he left off.

I have hinted, too, that there was a story connected with the old clock. Fancy then, indulgent reader, that you are gazing into a snug little room, in a country farm-house. The old clock stands in one corner, and in the other a smooth and nicely-curtained bed. A bright fire is blazing on the hearth. A small stand is before it, on one side of which sits my venerable grandmother, "spectacles on nose," industriously knitting on a pair of woollen stockings. In the corner is her white-haired partner, with a short pipe in his mouth, "revelling in an atmosphere of his own creation." Opposite to him, occupying an old oaken chair, sits-your humble servant. was younger then than I am now; I believe I had not seen twelve summers; and the old man delighted to amuse his favourite grand-child with his tales of the war.

Well, imagine a long and unbroken silence. Nothing disturbs the monotony of the scene, save the occasional leap of my grandame's ball to the floor, or the upraised finger of the old man, as an unusually large volume of smoke issues from his lips. At length, "it was my cue to speak."

"Grandfather, tell me a story."

"What about, child?"

"Oh, about war.'

Silence again ensues. The old man seems meditating what event to relate. At this critical juncture, the old clock, having given its customary warning, lifteth up its hammer and strikes. This seems to touch a chord in the old man's heart. His eye brightens, a smile illumines his withered cheek, the pipe goes to its rest, and he opens his lips.

"I will tell you something about that old clock, boy; something you have never heard."

A preparatory hem; a stirring of the fire, and a snuffing of the candles by the matron, and he proceeds.

"Years, years ago, boy, even before your father was born, a little log cabin was the only dwelling within a great distance. Had you lived in those days, your eye would have rested upon nothing, on either hand, save lofty forests, and the gray summits of towering hills. They alone remain as they were in the