Now, this was a very bold speech, much bolder than any Mr. Maitland had ever been in the habit of making in opposition to any of his wife's wishes, but in this case he was deeply interested, and being prepared for a scene, he had screwed up his courage to the sticking place, and was resolved to stand his ground manfully; in proportion to his boldness was the wrath of his lady; she felt that upon this struggle depended her empire— "to be, or not to be,"-victor or vanquished: therefore, calling all her forces into the field, she burst forth with a torrent such as might have overwhelmed the most powerful enemy.

"She had little suspected that, when he married her, it was merely to obtain a governess and chaperon for his daughter."

Then, as a last effort of power, she declared that he should not bring Ellen to his house while she continued mistress of it.

This was too much; she had drawn the rein too tight; it snapt, and the tame husband she had so long led with absolute and unquestioned sway, suddenly threw off all his trammels, and in spite of tears and hysterics, resolutely declared that the following day he would himself set out to bring home his daughter; and he kept his resolution-he went, and Ellen returned with him. From that day forth Mr. Maitland's rule was undisputed in his own household.

And it was the Postman who was one of the principal instruments in all these different circumstances; but for that worthy functionary the fair fiancée would have been suffering under all the pangs of "hope deferred;" the widow might have remained in ignorance of her loss, for a time at least; the nephew would have lain in the debtor's prison, while the miser counted over his thousands, and tens of thousands, unknowing of his misery; and lastly, had it not been for the Postman, the pretty Mrs. Maitland might have still led her husband in his galling and ungilt chain, while his fair and gentle daughter's charms would have been left unseen, except through the spectacles of her venerable maiden aunt.

Reader, when next you hear the Postman knock at your door, may the letter he brings you be the herald of good tidings; so may you learn to welcome "the Postman's Knock."

THE WELCOME BACK.

BY ELIZA соок.

SWEET is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us; Where hands are striving, as we come, To be the first to greet us.

When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, And care been sorely pressing:

'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path,

And find a fireside blessing.

Oh, joyfully dear is the homeward track,
If we are but sure of a welcome back.

What do we reck on a dreary way,
Though lonely and benighted,

If we know there are lips to chide our stay,
And eyes that will beam love-lighted?"
What is the worth of your diamond ray
To the glance that flashes pleasure,
When the words that welcome back betray
We form a heart's chief treasure?
Oh, joyfully dear is our homeward track,
If we are but sure of a welcome back.

12*

BY

THE DREAM.

A SONNET.

ALEXANDER BALFOUR, ESQ.

It was no foolish dream of fairy land,
A paradise that ne'er on earth had been,
With bowers of bliss entwined by Fancy's hand'
Ah, no!-it was a well-remembered scene:
It was the broomy bank, the heath-clad hill,
On which I climbed, when life and love were

new;

The meadow, watered by the crystal rill,

Where, whistling blithe, I brushed the morning dew;

Again I heard the whispering zephyr sigh,
Soft mingling with the music of the grove;
Beheld the glories of the twilight sky,

While Laura listened to my tale of love!
Why did I wake, to leave my native glen?
O, gentle sleep, return, and let me dream
again!

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CROCK OF GOLD."

WHEN streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And meekness writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung-
In the heart of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,

None, none but an angel of God can declare
I now can forgive and forget."

But if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steeped,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will de-

part,

Though scorn on injustice were heaped;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still,
At once to forgive and forget.

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,

To blot out all perils and dangers behind,
And but for the future to live.