ended his life upon the 17th of November, | 1814. A simple stone, erected at the cost of Aenneli, marks the spot where Godfrey Mind rests after his joyless, weary pilgrimage. ANNIE ELNIDGE: A TALE FOR PARENTS. SOME years ago, I was in the habit of occasionally leaving the large city where I lived, for the purpose of visiting a relation, who possessed and cultivated an extensive farm in one of the midland counties. Mr. Eluidge was a man of Middle age, rich and well educated. He had been for some years married to a pious and amiable young woman, to whom he was tenderly attached; the only drawback to their happiness being the want of a family. They were as I said, rich, and they were also liberal and hospitable; but the style of their housekeeping was more homely and old fashioned than one is in the habit of meeting in these railroad days. They inhabited a spacious tall-chimneyed wooden-gabled manor-house, in whose ample kitchen master and mistress used to sit down to their evening meal at the head of a long table, filled with their laborers and servants. They did not often, I believe, eat in company with their dependents, but they keep up the old custom of being present at the kitchen supper in order to see that every one was properly served, and behaved with due decorum. I remember particularly one visit that I paid to the Falls, for so Mr. Einidge's farm was called; he was in the fields when I arrived, and his wife received me in a pretty parlour, well furnished with music and books. In the evening Mrs. Elnidge with a pleasant smile said to me: "My business as a farmer's wife now begins. Here are newspapers and magazines. I hope you will be able to amuse yourself for a while." As she spoke, I heard the sound of wheels creaking and horses trampling, mingled with the loud voices of the laborers, and the shrill ones of the shepherd boys-all returning from their days labor. "What!" I said to Mrs. Elnidge, "are you going amongst all those people ?" "Oh yes," she replied, "I always see that they are properly attended to." I proposed to accompany her, and we went into the kitchen, now filled with workpeople. All arose from their seats and saluted Mrs. Elnidge with respectful cordiality; but I remarked that her presence did not seem to cast any res training gloom on the laughter and cheerful conversation going on. Suddenly however, every voice was silent, every head uncovered, and a freezeing stillness fell on the merry party. Mr. Elnidge entered, and while he remained, not a word was spoken by his people save in a very subdued tone. Supper being ended, I returned into the parlor with my host and hostess: and as my intimacy with them was such as to warrant perfect freedom of speech, I remarked to Mr. Elnidge the striking difference between his wife's reception and his own. He smiled. "You think then that these people do not like me, because they fear me?" "I think," said I "that they love your wife much better." "And they are right to love her, for she is all kindness and gentleness, and full of indulgence for their faults; but believe me, they are more attached to me than they think. I know I am severe, I never forgive a first fault, but I try to be flexibly just. Indulgence is a weakness in him who exercises it, and an injury to him who receives it" Mrs. Elnidge smiled. "Yes" said her husband "what I say is true. How many good servants are spoiled by having their first offence overlooked. How many chil dren are ruined and rendered intolerable plagues because their parents, forsooth, have not sufficient moral courage to punish them." "What" said his wife, "If it should please Providence to grant us the blessings of children, would you treat them with the same rigour that you use towards your servants." "Most certainly I should." When he said this, he believed it, for he had never known the softening power of paternal love. Mrs. Elnidge looked sad; and I hastened to change the topic of conversation. Next day I took leave of my friends; and soon afterwards setting out on a distant voyage, I did not repeat my visit to the Falls till after the lapse of several years. During my absence I learned that Mr. Elnidge at length become the father of a little girl. I wrote to congratulate him, and the impression which our last conversation had left was so stong on my mind, that I ventured to claim some indulgence for the little tender creature, whom I feared he would treat with injudicious harshness. I regretted to perceive in the letters which I had from him, that his principles of severity were by no means relaxed. At length I found myself once more within the pleasant groves and meadows of the Falls. It was evening and supper-time when I entered the well-remembered kitchen there was the same long table surrounded by workpeople, and the master and mistress in their accustomed places. I soon perceived that something was changed.— They received me with the most cordial joy, and The master's presence no longer imposed silence and restraint; a lovely little girl of seven years old flitted about incessantly, now playing with the servants, now climbing on the knees of her smiling father. In the course of the evening I said to Mrs. Elnidge, in a low voice : "Well, I think your sweet little daughter seems to have softened her fathers severity." "Don't say so to him," she replied, "It is a fact, but he is quite unconscious of it; he fancies himself as inflexible as ever, but his love for his child is all-powerful." A few evenings afterwards as the workmen were returning, I heard the calm severe voice of Mr. Elnidge say: "I will hear no more about it; he is an illconducted boy." "Please sir to consider for a moment," said the steward: "his old mother has no one but him to support her. He will replace the two sheep that he allowed to stray away. We will all help him and for pity's sake, sir, don't turn him off, for then no one in the neighborhood will almost absurd inconsistency of human rature. hire him." Another lesson which I learned that evening was, the extreme difficulty, not to say impossibility, of speaking to parents about their children's defects. "That is not the question," replied Mr Elnidge "I care very little for the loss of two sheep, but I will not retain in my service a good-for-nothing boy, who goes to sleep instead of minding his flock; or perhaps does worse, and spends his time in stealing his neighbors' fruit." Mrs. Elnidge and I approached, and saw a a little shepherd-boy named Andrew, standing before his master, trembling, and weeping bit- I terly. "Dear husband, don't you think.” Mr. Elnidge interrupted her immediately: "Don't give me the pain of refusing you, my dear. It is useless to ask me to forgive the boy -I have dismissed him." "Oh! pardon, sir," stammered the child, "indeed it was not for myself, it was for-" "Take him away, and let there be an end to this," said his master, in a tone that admitted of no reply. The boy went away, sobbing as if his heart would break, and all the others sat down to supper. The meal was a sad one. Little Annie did not as usual play and dance around the table; she sat on a footstool at her mother's feet, and I remember that from time to time she took furtivly some hazel-nuts out of the little pocket of her apron, and threw them into the fire. At length her father bent over her and said, "You're not merry to-night, my darlingWhat ails you ?” "Nothing, papa," replied Annie, turning very red. "What were you doing just now?" "Nothing papa." "How is that? I thought you were throwing something-nuts, I think-into the fire." "No papa," replied the little girl trembling," I have not any nuts." "What! why here they are in your pocket!" Annie pouted her pretty little lips, and her eyes filled with tears. "How is this?" said her father-" you are telling me an untruth!" The child's whole frame trembled, she burst into a passionate fit of crying, and exclaimed "Oh, papa, don't send me away! don't send me away ?" At Her father folded her in his arms, embraced and caressed, and promised to forgive her. length she sobbed out "It was that I-that I-wanted very muchto eat some nuts, and I told Andrew to get me some, and while he was looking for them in the wood-his sheep went astray." "So," said the mother in a severe tone, "you were the cause of the poor boy's disgrace!" "Come, come," said Mr. Elnidge—don't scold her, she won't do so any more." "But papa,-Andrew-I shall be so sorry if you send him away." | I ventured after little Annie had gone to bed, to observe to her father how very lightly he had passed over the grievous sin of which she had been guilty. I said that although by no means an advocate for treating children with severity, thought the crime of lying should not be passed over without punishment and grave displeasure. I also said that I feared they would find it a bad plan to allow little Annie to despatch the servants on secret errands of her own. I suppose I was injudicious in making these remarks, for they were by no means well received by either of my friends. In a day or two I returned to my residence in the next town, and months passed on, when late one evening a servant galloped up to my door and handed me a note. It was from Mr. Elnidge, and contained only these words : "My child is dying-come, and bring a physician." Ordering my horse to be saddled instantly, I ran for my own physician, and causing him to mount the horse of the servant who had brought the message, in a few minutes we were galloping at full speed towards the Falls. On arriving, we were shown to the bedchamber, and there a piteous sight awaited us. Annie lay in her mother's arms, her face livid, and her eyes starting from her head: she was writhing in convulsive agony, and uttering now and then pierc ing cries. Her mother, weeping bitterly, asked her some questions which the child did not answer; and her father kneeling before her, was almost as pale as she, while his dark eyes were fixed in motionless agony. The doctor entered, and without speaking, took Annie in his arms, laid her on the bed, and examined her closely There was an awful pause, broken at length by his saying : "This child has been poisoned!" A cry of horror burst from the lips of every one present for the servants had collected in the room,-but Mr. Elnidge thinking only of his daughter, said," What is to be done? The doctor ordered an emetic, and while he was preparing and administering it, I went into the kitchen to question the domestics, who had been ordered to return thither. Just then a labourer entered and said "'Tis all over, he is dead!" All were silent, until the labourer in reply to my eager questions, confessed that the boy, before he died, had told him that at Miss Annie's earnest request, he had collected wild mushrooms in the woods, that one of the servants had cooked them, and that they had both eaten heartily of them in secret. I sent for this servant, but she had disappeared, and I returned to the unhappy child's room. I told the doctor what I had learned, and he showed me a quantity of small portions of mushrooms which Annie had thrown up. At that moThis little scene certainly surprised me, for I ment she was calm, and lay motionless on the did not then know so well as I do now, the utter and l bed; but never shall I forget the agonized faces "Well, well, darling, call him back to supper, and tell him that he may remain." "Thank you, good pappy," cried the child, kissing him, and then jumping off his knee, "I'll go tell him." VOL. IV.B of the father and mother as they stood gazing on the dying form of their only child. The doctor beckoned me to the other side of the room, and said in a whisper : "The child has but a quarter of an hour to live: try to remove her parents, for the last convulsions will probably be frightful." Low as was the voice in which these words were spoken, Mr. and Mrs. Elnidge heard them distinctly, for in some states of excited feeling, the sense of hearing becomes strangely acute : the father spoke not, but fixed his despairing glance more firmly on his child; the mother threw herself on her, and kissing the cold convulsed lips, with passionate fervor exclaimed:-"My child! my child! they shall not take me from you!" And so the last fearful moment approached, ushered in, as the doctor had predicted, by dreadful agonies. I spare my readers the description of the parents' woe, aggravated as it was by the bitter, bitter consciousness, that the catastrophe was mainly owing to their own culpable and cruel indulgence, in glossing over the first manifestation of evil in their loved and lovely child. Mrs. Elnidge did not long survive the shock, but died, trusting to the atoning mercy of Him who forgave the sin of Absalom's father. Mr. Elnidge lived for many years, a sad and blighted man, but greatly changed in character. All his sternness, as directed against accidental and slight transgressions of his orders had vanished; while any approach to theft or falsehood in these under his rule, was always visited with his severest displeasure. 5. And now, my mother, sing to me; 6. Yes, dearest mother, sing to me once more, Mine eyes are closing for their last long sleep. Dear father, thou art come to bid Farewell, Comfort that lov'd one, do not let her weep. 7. The mother press'd her lips upon his brow, Forced her pale, quivering lips to part. 8. At length she sung, until his brow became Peaceful and brighter as in days of yore, And never did her voice, though always sweet, Rise in such strains of melody before. 9. When roused at last unto the fearful truth, Again she pressed her lips upon his brow, And weeping, said, I've sung him unto death; O Lord, 'tis hard beneath thy rod to bow. 10. Why didst thou die, my summer child, Yet still she lingered, as a spirit pale, For aye she missed his laugh, so clear and gay, "Let not sleep," says Pythagoras, "fall upon thine eyes till thou hast thrice reviewed the transactions of the past day. Where have I turned aside from rectitude? What have I been doing? What have I left undone that I ought to have done? Begin thus from the first act, and proceed; and in conclusion, at the ill which thou hast done be troubled, and rejoice for the good." take care that it is with you, not at you. When you endeavour to make others laugh, A polite man, like a poet, is born, not made. Money lost is deplored with genuine tears. THE LONGEST NIGHT IN A LIFE. Ir was one of those old fashioned winters in the days of the Georges, when the snow lay on the ground for weeks, when railways were unknown, and the electric telegraph had not been dreamed of save by the speculative Countess of Loudon. The mails had been irregular for a month past, and the letter-bags which did reach the post-office had been brought thither with difficulty. The newspapers were devoid of all foreign intelligence, the metropolis knew nothing of the doings of the provinces, and the provinces knew little more of the affairs of the metropolis; but the columns of both were crowded with accidents from the inclemency of the weather, with heart-rending accounts of starvation and destitution, with wonder ful escapes of adventurous travellers, and of still more adventurous mailcoachmen and guards. Business was almost at a stand still, or was only carried on by fits and starts; families were made uneasy by the frequent long silence of their absent members, and the poor were suffering great misery from cold and famine. The south road had been blocked up for nearly a month, when a partial thaw almost caused a public rejoicing; coaches began to run, letters to be dispatched and delivered, and weather bound travellers to have some hope of reaching their destination. Among the first ladies who undertook the journey from the west of Scotland to London at this time, was a certain Miss Stirling, who had, for weeks past, desired to reach the metropolis. Her friends assured her that it was a foolhardy attempt, and told her of travellers who had been twice, nay, three times snowed up on their way to town; but their advice and warnings were of no avail; Miss Stirling's business was urgent, it concerned others more than herself, and she was not one to be deterred by personal discomfort or by physical difficulties from doing what she thought was right. So she kept to her purpose, and early in February took her seat in the mail for London, being the only passenger who was booked for the whole journey. The thaw had continued for some days; the roads, though heavy, were open; and with the aid of extra horses, here and there, the first half of the journey was performed pretty easily, though tediously. The second day was more trying than the first; the wind blew keenly, and penetrated every crevice of the coach; the partial thaw had but slightly affected the wild moorland they had to cross: thick heavy clouds were gathering round the red rayless sun; and when, on reaching a little roadside inn, the snow began to fall fast, both the guard and coachman urged their solitary passenger to remain there for the night, instead of tempting the discomforts and perhaps the perils of the next stage. Miss Stirling hesitated for a moment, but the little inn looked by no means a pleasant place to be snowed up in, so she resisted their entreaties, and, gathering her furs more closely around her, she nestled herself into a corner of the coach. Thus for a time she lost all consciousness of outward things in sleep. A sudden lurch awoke her; and she soon learned that they had stuck fast in a snow drift, and that no efforts of the tired horses could extricate the coach from its unpleasant predicament. The guard, mounting one of the leaders, set off in search of assistance, while the coachman comforted Miss Stirling by telling her that as nearly as they could calculate they were only a mile or two from "the squire's," and that if the guard could find his way to the squire's, the squire was certain to come to their rescue with his sledge. It was not the first time that the squire had got the mail bags out of a snow wreath by that means. The coachman's expectations were fulfilled. Within an hour, the distant tinkling of the sledge bells was heard, and lights were seen gleaming afar; they rapidly advanced nearer and nearer; and soon a hearty voice was heard hailing them. A party of men with lanterns and shovels came to their assistance; a strong arm lifted Miss Stirling from the coach, and supported her trembling steps to a sledge close at hand; and almost before she knew where she was, she found herself in a large hall brilliantly lighted by a blazing wood fire. Numbers of rosy glowing childish faces were gathered round her, numbers of bright eager eyes were gazing curiously upon her, kindly hands were busied in removing her wraps, and pleasant voices welcomed her and congratulated her on her escape. Ay, ay, Mary," said her host, addressing his wife. "I told you that the sleigh would have plenty of work this winter, and you see I was right." "As you always are, uncle," a merry voice exclaimed. "We all say at Hawtree that Uncle Atherton never can be wrong." "Atherton! Hawtree!" repeated Miss Stirling in some amazement, "and uttered in that familiar voice! Ellen, Ellen Middleton, is it possible that you are here?" A joyful exclamation and a rush into her arms were the young girl's ready reply to this question as she cried, "Uncle Atherton, Aunt Mary, don't you know your old friend, Miss Stirling ?" Mrs. Atherton fixed her soft blue eyes on the stranger, in whom she could at first scarcely recognize the bright-haired girl whom she had not seen for eighteen or twenty years; but by and by, she satisfied herself that, though changed, she was Ellen Stirling still, with the same sunny smile and the same laughing eyes that had made every one love her in their school days. Heartfelt indeed were the greetings which followed, and cordial the welcome Mrs. Atherton gave her old friend as she congratulated herself on having dear Ellen under her own roof; more especially as she owed this good fortune to Mr. Athertone's exertions in rescuing her. "It is the merest chance, too, that he is at home at present," she said; "he ought to have been in Scotland, but the state of the roads in this bleak country has kept him prisoner here for weeks." "And others as well," Ellen Middleton added; but both children and grown people are only too thankful to have so good an excuse for staying longer at Bellfield." And then, laughing, she asked Aunt Mary how she meant to dispose of Miss Stirling for the night, for the house was 28 full already as it could hold. "Oh," said her aunt, we shall manage very well. Bellfield is very elastic." She smiled as she spoke; but it struck Miss Stirling that the question was, nevertheless, a puzzling one, so she took the first opportunity of entreating her to take no trouble on her account; a chair by the fire was really all the accommodation she cared for, as she wished to be in readiness to pursue her journey as soon as the coach could proceed. "We shall be able to do better for you than that, Ellen," Mrs. Atherton answered cheerfully. "I cannot, it is true, promise you a 'state-room,' for every bed in the house is full, and I know you will not allow any one to be moved for your convenience; but I have one chamber still at your service, which, except in one respect, is comfortable enough. "Haunted, of course," said Miss Stirling gaily. "Oh, no, no, it is not that! I had fitted it up for my brother William, when he used to be here more frequently than of late, and it is often occupied by gentlemen when the house is full; but as it is detached from the house, I have, of course, never asked any lady to sleep there till now." "Oh, if that be all, I am quite willing to become its first lady tenant," said Miss Stirling heartily. So the matter was settled, and orders were given to prepare the Pavillion for the unexpected guest. the bar at all, and I will send my maid with the They parted; the door was locked outside; the key taken out; and Miss Stirling, standing by the window, watched her friend cross the narrow black path, which had been swept clear of snow to make a dry passage from the house to the pavillion. A ruddy light streamed from the hall door as it opened to admit its mistress, and gave a cheerful friendly aspect to the scene; but, when the door closed and shut out that warm comfortable light, the darkened porch, the pale moonlight glimmering on the shrouded trees, and the stars twinkling in the frosty sky, had such an aspect of solitude as to cast over her a kind of chill that made her half repent having consented to quit the house at all, and let herself be locked up in this lonely place. Yet what had she to fear? No harm could happen to her from within the chamber; the door was safely locked outside, and strong iron stauncheons guarded the window; there could be no possible danger. So drawing ber chair once more to the fire, and stirring it into a brighter blaze, she took up a little Bible which lay on the dressing table, and read some portions of the New Testament. When she laid down the book she took out the comb that fastened up her long, dark silken tresses-in which, despite her five-and-thirty years, not a silver thread was visible-and, as she arranged them for the night, her thoughts strayed back to the old world memories which her meeting with Mary Atherton had revived. The sound of the clock striking two was the first thing that recalled her to her present life. By this time the candles were burned down almost to the socket, and the fire was dying fast. As she turned to fling a fresh log into the grate her eyes fell upon the dressing-glass, and in its reflection she saw, or at least fancied she saw, the bed curtains move. The evening passed pleasantly; music, dancing, and ghost stories made the hours fly fast. It was long past ten-the usual hour of retiring at Bellfield-when Miss Stirling, under her hostess's guidance, took possession of her out-door chamber. It really was a pleasant cheerful little apartment. The crimson hangings of the bed and window looked warm and comfortable in the flashing fire-light; and when the candles on the mantel-piece were lighted, and the two easy chairs drawn close to the hearth, the long-parted friends found it impossible to resist the temptaShe stood for a moment gazing at the mirror, tion of sitting down to have, what in old days expecting a repetition of the movement; but all they used to call a "two-handed chat." There was still, and she blamed herself for allowing nerwas much to tell of what had befallen both, of vous fears to overcome her. Still, it was exerchequered scenes of joy and sorrow, deeply in- tion, even of her brave spirit, to approach the teresting to those two, whose youth had been bed and withdraw the curtains. She was rewarded passed together; there were mutual recollections by finding nothing save the bedclothes folded of school days to be talked over; mutual friends neatly down as if inviting her to press the snowand future plans to be discussed; and midnight white sheets, and a luxurious pile of pillows that rung out from the stable clock before Mrs. Ather-looked most tempting. She could not resist the ton said good-night. She had already crossed the threshold to go, when she turned back to say, "I forgot to tell you, Ellen, that the inside bar of this door is not very secure, and that the key only turns outside. Are you inclined to trust to the bar alone, or will you, as William used to do, have the door locked outside, and let the servant bring the key in the morning? William used to say that he found it rather an advantage to do so, as the unlocking of the door was sure to awake him." Miss Stirling laughingly allowed that though, generally, she could not quite think it an advantage to be locked into her room, still she had no objection to it on this particular occasion, as she wished to rise in reasonable time. "Very well, then, you had better not fasten mute invitation to rest her wearied limbs. Allowing herself no time for further doubts or fears, she placed her candle on the mantel-piece, and stepped into bed. She was very tired, her eyes ached with weariness, but sleep seemed to fly from her. Old recollections thronged on her memory; thonghts connected with the business she had still to get through, haunted her; and difficulties that had not occurred to her till now arose up before her. She was restless and feverish; and the vexation of feeling so, made her more wakeful. Perhaps if she were to close the curtains between her and the fire she might be better able to sleepthe flickering light disturbed her, and the moonbeams stealing between the window-curtains cast ghostly shadows on the wall. So, she carefully |