THE CHRISTIAN NATURE SPEAKS. Peace, peace, thou faithless, sorrowing human heart! The eyes that wept for Lazarus gaze on thee. He walks this suffering earth; he marks our steps, I. Narrow is my thorny way; On my shoulders heavenly hands Are resting, and behind me stands An angel, lest I step astray. II. Ever, argent wings outspread, Cast their shadow on my lifeEver 'mid the stormy strife Am I by the angels led! III. In the lonely hour of prayer, When the senses, all refined, I have heard and seen them there IV. Heard them singing, while my Lord Heard the rustle of their wings Heard, through heaven's half-open door, Joyous notes, that evermore Rise to greet the King of Kings! THE ANGELS SING. Weep not, O thou Christian dear: The crowning anthem of our King! December, 1853. TO THE PORTRAIT OF H. R. H. ALBERT EDWARD PRINCE OF WALES. How proud the title, beauteous boy, is thine, Whose sires are thine! Oh! dead or marble-cold From wild Bohemia's brave old king for both your shields ! How rare the host revealed by memory's light, Of those dark ages when the warrior's name E'er conjured 'mid their frantic hopes and fears, Young Prince, shed influence sure upon thy opening years. MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND. BURNT-WOOD. WEA L. (A Story of my Village.) BY MRS. WHITE. In the whole of Kent (which is saying a good deal for it) there is no prettier village than our own. If a pedestrian, you come upon it through a bridle-path, lying between gentle slopes, covered (in summer time) to the very crown with waving corn and red clover patches; and thence through one of those green and narrow lanes "where the bee sucks" from woodbine and wildrose blossoms his epicurean feast, overarched with the boughs of ash and wych elms; while here and there old grotesque pollards, frescoed with lichens, and wreathed with a delicate tracery of ivy, vie with their leafy neighbours in picturesque effect. This lane brings you to the church, an old grey building, with a square tower and signs of indisputable antiquity, and ers. then the village street is before you, with its whitewashed and vine-covered cottages, each standing in its little garden, with the hum of bees about it, and the scent of herbs and flowAll around, on the pleasant hillsides,`and stretching into the valleys at their feet, are cornfields and pasture-lands, hop-gardens and orchards, with occasionally wide-spread demesnes and dark belts of woodland, interspersed with modern mansions, church spires, old manors, farmhouses, and here and there a windmill, while threading in and out amongst these objects one may trace the sinuous and far-wandering streams -the lifesprings of all this verdure. Close by the church stands the At-Leeze Almshouses, as they are called, in memory of their founders, Hamond At-Leeze and Maude his wife, who gave them" for the salvation of their souls and those of their ancestors," to decayed widows for ever; quaint-looking structures, with projecting frame-work, pointed gables, and overhanging fronts, all so hooded with ivy, and clasped about with honeysuckle and roses, that from Ladyday to Michaelmas 'tis as much as one can do to get a peep at their lattice-windows and stone porches. At the period of my story the At-Leeze family was not quite extinct amongst us. Old Roger At-Leeze, the proprietor of Burnt-WoodWeal, boasted his lineal descent from them, and was in consequence regarded by the peasantry (who have a lingering prejudice in favour of feudal custom) as a far more important personage than any of the more modern residents. would so materially have made up for this want. Proud, improvident, and with as intense a spirit of emulation as if his affairs were in the most prosperous condition, instead of making economy an object of his commencing arrangements, he dashed off with his usual carelessness of expense. His teams rivalled every one's in point of size and sleekness, the farm implements were of the newest and most approved fashion, the fittings up of the dairy more like the arrangements of a nobleman's ornamental farm than those of a practical, hard-working, every-day farmhouse; he kept his gig, joined the club hounds, took out a game licence, and provided himself with unexceptionable fishing tackle, as necessary adjuncts of his new occupation. Old men looked on and shook their heads at his folly, and gravely remarked, "It was impossible it should last." One thing, however, was in his favour: his wife, though a delicate-looking woman, was one of those persons in whom circumstances of difficulty and trial arouse an unexpected spirit of resistance, and for years she stood between her children and the ruin their father's conduct rendered inevitable, and opposed her personal The farm was one of the largest in the neighbourhood, but the house differed little from many more in the vicinity except in an appearance of greater age-one of those red brick fabrics, with a double tier of long and narrow casements, so numerous that they serve to advertise the date of the building, as at least antecedent to the tax on light. There were mossgrown orchards about it, and a flower-garden in front, and, as far as you could see, lawn-like meads covered with cattle, and dotted with haw-energy, carefulness, and forecast, to his reckless thorns and other trees that love moist places. expenditure and neglect; but it was fearful odds! Everything about Roger At-Leeze's farm had a thriving, well-to-do look; no half-dilapidated barns and broken fences, no unhinged gates and decaying hurdles; every article was kept in repair, or replaced before the want became evident; but then, as his neighbours said, "he could afford it ;" and, as wealth begets wealth, no wonder his horses were so sleek, and barns so full, and crops so everlastingly abundant. To all his riches, however, Roger At-Leeze had no male inheritor. One granddaughter was his sole remaining relative, and in her was centred all the ambition as well as affection of the old man's nature-and of the first he possessed not a little-he hoarded out-of-date memories, when the Crevequirs and D'Auranches had intermarried with his ancestors, and, as he noted the exceeding loveliness of his grandchild, and counted in secret the wealth he calculated upon leaving her, he began to ask himself why might not she mate with some such, and not throw away her beauty and riches upon those whom, wanting her gentle blood and ancient pedigree, he looked upon as her inferiors. The want of attention on the part of their master soon begat indifference in his servants, and at length it became absolutely necessary to withdraw the eldest son (a youth of eighteen) from the study of a profession in which he was making rapid progress, in order that he might superintend the business his father's careless habits left a prey to every species of fraud and imposition. It was a severe trial to Dalton Palmer, this sacrifice of his hopes; but the situation of his mother and sisters reconciled the act to his heart, if not to his ambition; and his affection for them enabled him to bear (at least uncomplainingly) the disgust and disappointment he naturally felt at this overthrow of his personal prospects. Warm-hearted, and intelligent, his countenance was a reflection of these attributes ; and his fine person, and agreeable manners, were additional recommendations in his favour. With the inhabitants of Elm-street he soon became an especial favourite, but with none more so than with Mr. At-Leeze. A previous intiIn the meanwhile, Alice At-Leeze, perfectly macy with his family and their near neighbourunconscious of and indifferent to her grand- hood brought them frequently together; and the father's ambition, planned for herself a very docility with which the young man received his different destiny. The farm adjoining Burnt- advice relative to the land under his manageWood-Weal was tenanted by a gentleman of the ment, and the alacrity with which it was carried name of Palmer, who, having run through the into effect (though very natural in one who had greater part of a large fortune in experimental no knowledge of what he had in hand, and therespeculations and personal extravagance, lured fore gratefully accepted instruction), was a tacit by the rapid wealth accumulated at the period flattery to the old gentleman's love of dictation, (the height of the last war) by agriculturists, had very composing to his other prejudices; and, rashly ventured his remaining capital in the pur- forgetful of the natural consequences of such an chase of a farm, without any practical know-intimacy, Dalton Palmer became a frequent and ledge of the business, or even the lay stock looked-for visitor at Burnt-Wood-Weal. of persevering and painstaking industry that At first he came expressly by invitation to chat an hour in the winter evenings, or take a hand | tions as formerly; which the latter, piqued at his at draughts or cribbage when Alice wasn't in the mind, and, while she sat at work, Dalton would take her place as her grandfather's adversary, and, with his eyes and thoughts too often wandering from the game, allow the old gentleman to felicitate himself upon his superior skill in winning; but after awhile, in the twilight of the summer evenings, you would see him sauntering down the lane that divided his father's grounds from those of their neighbour, or leaning over the garden-gate, or at the open window of the parlour at Burnt-Wood-Weal, and his auditor was sure to be Alice. Sometimes he would meet her returning from the "At-Leeze Almshouses," a favourite visit of hers, and, as they walked through the village together, the old wives would look after them with many smiles and nods, indicative of what they thought would be the end of it. In the meanwhile, all the carefulness and industry of the son did little more than supply the father's extravagance. His dissipation in creased with the knowledge that the close of it was at hand; but it took another character, and the gay, expensive man of the world sunk slowly into the debauchery of low life, and sought in habits of intemperance a passing oblivion of his situation. The scenes that this propensity gave rise to in his home would frequently leave poor Dalton too humiliated and depressed to pay his accustomed visit to the At-Leezes; and then both the old man and his grandchild were at a loss to know what virtue had gone forth from their hearth that they no longer felt the same calm satisfaction in it themselves that formerly existed there. Alice, especially, would wonder why she no more felt that delight in reading aloud, or singing to her grandfather, or in listening to his old stories, that used to make her evenings pass so pleasantly before they had known Dalton Palmer. Now even the graceful employments of her leisure were taken up listlessly, or altogether discarded, and even to her old grandfather she was changed; and, instead of finding her (when he returned from his evening saunter round the grounds) watering the flower-beds, or waiting at the front orchard-gate or at the doorstep to meet him, with his armchair ready placed outside the porch, that they might watch the sunset together, or listen to the nightingale in the adjoining copse, or enjoy the delicious perfume of the gilly-flowers and carnations as the dew fell on them and pressed out all their odour-now somehow she was never in the way when he came home, unless, indeed, another accompanied him, and then she would steal timidly down from the window, where she had been watching through the twilight to catch but a shadow of that form that filled her mind's eye continually. It was strange that, about this time, and when so far as looks and tones could communicate feeling, he had made it evident to Alice that he loved her, Dalton Palmer began to relax in his visits, to wait, indeed, for the old man's invita voluntary coolness, and fancying that, as the young man grew older, he affected his father's stand-off manners, soon ceased altogether, and Dalton came no more to Burnt-Wood-Weal. Nor could Alice, any more than her grandfather, account for his condet; her heart told her that she had been wronged, and, with an instinct of womanly pride, she tried hard, poor girl! to make her old pleasures and employments regain their past ascendancy, and fill her mind to the exclusion of his image, but in vain. At length a rumour of his father's affairs spread through the village; horses and gig had been sold; and a quantity of stock covertly disposed of. Things were evidently assuming a painful crisis, and Alice At-Leeze, with the intuitive perception of her sex, at once divined the cause of Dalton's behaviour, and, like a true woman, added it to the calendar of his virtues. In some way the falling off of his intimacy had been productive of a mutual estrangement between their families; the consciousness of her own feelings had withheld Alice from calling, and domestic wretchedness, as well as a sense of their falling circumstances (while it rendered Mrs. Palmer and her daughters keenly alive to neglect), deterred them from standing on their old prerogative, and thus, except at church, they never met. Day by day, as Mr. Palmer's perplexities became more embarrassing and inextricable, the violence of his temper knew no boundsscarcely an hour sober; whenever a confused perception of his circumstances occurred to him, he would vent hie besotted rage on the unhappy members of his family, but most especially on the wife and son to whose vigilance he owed so long a respite from bankruptcy. On one of these occasions (for by this time he had completely blunted all the better feelings of his nature), he was so lost in the paroxysm of his senseless anger, that he attempted to add blows to his ferocious language; and, when Dalton interposed to protect his beloved mother, the violence intended for her felled him to the earth. Quivering with suppressed passion, and a keen sense of humiliation and wrong, the young man sprang to his feet, pressed one burning kiss on the pale forehead of his half-fainting mother, and in the madness and excitement of the moment left the house, never more to return to it as his home. The whole scene was so unimagined, so sudden, and terrible, that for some moments it completely paralyzed the senses of the miserable mother and her children; but as evening closed in, and Dalton did not return, a vague feeling of anxiety stole over them, a feeling that no one imparted to the other, and yet all equally felt. For a time Mrs. Palmer combatted her fears by imagining that the ebullition of his feelings had induced him to walk farther than usual; but when hour after hour passed away-when their accustomed time of retiring arrived, and the night deepened into the long hours before midnight-the anguish of her soul could be suppressed no longer, but found a voice in tears |