their mutual affection was the best guarantee of domestic happiness. Mary, of course, could bring her husband but little property, but she brought him a warm heart and helping hands. Everything looked bright and brightening to them at the expiration of two years: happy in each other's love, and in their little Edward, who was the pet and plaything of Martha almost as much as of his own parents.

"Martha frequently visited Mary in her new home, and it was here that she first met Lawrence Mills, then a midshipman in the navy, but soon after their mutual introduction promoted to a lieutenancy. As I cannot romance, I will pass over, my dear Isabella, the interval until Martha became the affianced bride of the handsome officer. Shortly after, he was ordered to sea, and Martha prepared to spend the period of his intermediate absence in her usual employments at home. But her happiness was soon interrupted by the illness of Mary's husband, which at length settled into a consumption, and after lingering for nearly twelve months he died in the arms of his wife. His affairs, which had been so prosperous during his season of health, had become sadly deranged in the course of his protracted illness, so that on his death Mary found herself possessed of but a mere pittance. Again she had an asylum in her aunt's house, which was, however, not now the scene of happiness of former times. Her delicate frame had been sorely worn out by long watching and anxiety at a deathbed's side, and the dissolution of her husband seemed to have completed the blow. Still she found it needful to apply closely to her needle for the support of herself and child. To be sure Martha was not backward in aiding her cousin, nor did she altogether fail to contribute in cheering up, and somewhat to restore Mary to a condition which hardly any one could have hoped for."

"But mother," said Isabella," where was Lawrence Mills, all this time?"

"He was still absent; you must be aware that a cruise may continue for two or three years, and it was now only two since he had left. Martha had heard from him several times, and these letters were doubly prized through the trials that afterwards passed upon her. The hope of again seeing him helped to support her through every scene of distress, until even this flatterer ceased to whisper comfort, and then, indeed, we cannot wonder if life began to look dark and drear to her."

"And mother, did Martha's mother have to work in her old age?"

"Ah! now I come to the saddest part of my story. While Mrs. Warren had her little cottage, she could live comfortably, without work. Her small garden yielded the vegetables she needed, and her other wants were simple, so that her little income was sufficient to keep her above want. One night, not long after the return of Mary to her old home, the family were awakened by the suffoca

tion of smoke in the room: it was discovered the floor was on fire, and they had barely time to escape with their lives. Martha caught up the child, then three years old, and saved him with difficulty. When they had in a measure recovered from the shock next day, they discovered that they were homeless, and nearly pennyless. No doubt they received assistance and met with sympathy from their friends; but they also set immediately to work for themselves. It was now that the true worth of Martha began fully to be shown. As the genuine diamond can be distinguished from the mock, not so much from its capability of reflecting the sunbeams, as from its superior brilliancy in the dark; so real merit and value is most readily discerned in adversity. The sad events that now followed each other so rapidly, in the once happy family, would almost tempt one to pronounce the account of them fabulous, did not experience teach that reality sometimes surpasses fiction."

"What other misfortunes befel them, mother? Surely their condition by this time was sufficiently hopeless."

"It was sad, but not hopeless; for they were still blessed in each others affection and in the reflection that they had not wantonly brought down evil upon their own heads, and these things can lend comfort even in a hovel. They easily found a temporary asylum among their neighbours, but for two of them it was not long needed. Mrs. Warren fatigued herself at and after the fire, which, together with perturbation of mind, brought on inflammation of the brain, of which she died, a great martyr to suffering. From like causes Mary ere long followed her aunt to the grave.”

"What did Martha do now, mother, left as she was, without a home, and a child to support?"

"Ah! that was the great inducement to effort. Without wasting time in useless repinings, she strove resolutely to earn a livelihood. She obtained the use of a small cottage on easy terms, and here, with her little charge, she prepared to make herself as comfortable as means would allow. She opened a school, which was soon filled, as she was universally thought well of, her trials having brought her much better forward than any pretension she would ever have attempted to put forth could have done. Lawrence had now been gone for a long while; but for at least one whole year Martha had heard nothing of him. She still anxiously looked for his return, and the hope that continued for so long served to buoy up her drooping spirits amid the past disasters and repeated blows." "Did he never return, mother?"

"Yes, he returned; but not to Martha. She, who had looked for him so anxiously and confidingly-she, who in all her trials had placed her most lingering earthly hopes on his appearing, was doomed to be disappointed even here. Martha had borne misfortune and loss with fortitude, sore bereavement,

and reiterated strokes of affliction; but desertion struck her down. Happily for her, she was obliged to make great exertions; for it required the utmost endeavours and constant attention to keep herself and her little boy, whom she loved to name her little orphan nephew. Besides her school, she had, therefore, to ply nimbly and diligently the tiny needle, hour after hour, and night after night. when little Edward, in sleep's arms, was unconscious of the efforts of old Aunt Martha,' as you call her. Her health began, at length, to decay. Her beaming eyes grew dull and languid; her light step was now a slow and measured tread; her form lost its roundness and graceful symmetry; a stoop took the place of the erect carriage of former days; and, in short, Martha Warren was no longer handsome."

"But, mother, did she never see or hear from Lawrence Mills?" said Isabella, to whom the idea of his desertion seemed so cruel.

"When little Edward was about eight years old, he entered his aunt's room one morning, thinking she was late in making her appearance, and found her lying on the floor. He ran for assistance, crying that Aunt Martha was dead.' It was soon discovered that she had fainted; and, as it was followed by a severe illness, nothing singular was supposed to have occurred. But she had seen in the papers the marriage of' Captain Lawrence Mills' to a lady of title. Strange as it may appear for one so sedate and wise, Martha had never ceased altogether to hope for his return to her till now. So true was her own heart-her construction of the feelings of other hearts so liberal and confiding. There was, to be sure, nothing definite in her anticipations of re-union; but when this final bar was placed to any such vain dreaming, the blow came like a thunderbolt, and year after year, it might be seen that the departure of her gracefulness made gradual and rapid strides."

"But, mother, how did Edward grow so rich? I am sure I would never have thought Mr. Martin could ever have been so poor."

"He entered a counting-house in York when quite young, and soon recommended himself to his employers by his steady and polite habits. He showed aptitude and superior talent, becoming in time junior partner, and at last, sole proprietor of the establishment. Hence his wealth and elegant country residence. Remember, he from the very first assisted his aunt (for so he still names her, and in the most endearing accents), often speaking, too, of his early life, and ever ready to lend a helping hand to the deserving, especially if struggling with adversity."

But still, mother, I cannot think that Aunt Martha is so amiable now as you would seem to believe."

"My dear child, misfortune, disappointment, cruel desertion, and repeated illness, bring on premature old age. At a period when many people appear to

JULY, 1846.

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be in the prime of life, she was worn out with toil, care, and anxious hopes. Her temper gradually gave way with the infirmities of body."

"But I should have thought that one so handsome at one time, and so good, would have had many offers; and I am sure I should not have waited for the deceitful Mills with such constancy."

“There were several who would have gladly wedded Martha when she was young and beautiful, and even after she had lost much of these advantages; but, from the time of her engagement to Lawrence, she would never listen to any proposals. Besides, after a time, her affections became crushed, never to be restored. Through strivings and privation, through sorrow and sickness, in every situation and circumstance of life, her love for him remained fervent aud devoted. Can you ask now why Mr. Martin puts up with her oddities? Knowing, as he does, the trials of her youth and of her middle age, and indebted as he is to her, can you again wonder that he readily overlooks all her infirmities of temper that he respects, reveres, and loves old Aunt Martha,' as if she was indeed the greatest lady in the land'-as if she were in reality his very parent?" "One more question, mother, I will ask no more-did Aunt Martha ever see Lawrence Mills again?"

"Never. A few years ago he died, and his widow has since got another husband."

"Well, mother, I shall always love Aunt Martha better after this; but I am sure I should never have imagined that she had ever been handsome and gentle; but who knows but I may be as ugly an old woman-oh, horrors!" and Isabella ran down stairs laughing at the thought of becoming a wrinkled, grey, decrepid old woman.

THE most common forms used by orators and authors to illustrate their speeches, or enliven their writings, are metaphors and similitudes. In the choice of these and their uses, most persons offend. Images should be very sparingly introduced. Their proper place is at all times, however, only in poems and orations; and their use is to move pity, terror, admiration, anger, compassion, resentment, by representing something very affectionate, or very dreadful, very astonishing, very miserable, or very provoking, to our thoughts. They give a wonderful force and beauty to the subject where they are painted by a masterly hand;

but, if they are either feebly drawn, or unskilfully placed, they rouse no passion but that of contempt and indignation.

Metaphors and similitudes so far differ that the one is an allusion to words, the other to things, and both possess great beauty if properly applied.

Similitudes ought to be drawn from the most familiar and best known particulars of the world. If anything is dark and obscured in them, the purpose of using them is defeated; for that which is not clear itself can never give a true light to anything that wants it. It is the idle fancy of some poor brains to run out perpetually into a course of similitudes, in order, as they conceive, to imprint more deeply any subject on the mind. They confound their matter by the multitude of likenesses, and so, making the subject like so many things, it is at last like nothing at all. There is another great fault some commit in the use of similitudes-that is, drawing their comparisons into a great length, and minute particulars, where it is of no importance whether the resemblance holds good or not. The true art of illustrating any subject by similitude, is, first to pitch upon such a resemblance as all the world will agree in, and then ouly touch upon its most prominent points, and most familiar likeness. This will secure the author from all stiffness and formality in similitude, and deliver us from the nauseating repetition of as and so, which so-so writers-so to call them -are continually sounding in their speeches, and writing in their works.

Metaphors require great judgment and consideration in the use of them. They are shorter than the similitude, where the likeness is rather implied than expressed. The signification of one word in metaphors is transferred to another, and we talk of one thing in the terms and properties of another. But there must be a common resemblance, some original likeness in nature, some correspondence of easy transition, or metaphors are confused and shocking.

The beauty of them displays itself in their easiness and propriety, where they are naturally introduced; but where they are forced and crowded, too frequent and various, and do not arise out of the course of thought, but are constrained and pressed into the service, instead of making the subject more lively and cheerful-more expressive and clear-they make it sullen, dull, and obscure. You must form your judgment upon the best models of the most celebrated writers, where you will find the metaphor in all its grace and strength, shedding a lustre of beauty on the work; for it ought never to be used but when it gives greater force to the sentence, and illustration to the thought, and insinuates a silent argument in the allusion. The use of the metaphor is not only to convey the thought in a more pleasing manner, but to give it a stronger impression, and enforce it on the mind. When this is not regarded, they are vain and trashy trifles, and in the due observance of this, in a pure, chaste, natural expression, consist the justiess, beauty, and delicacy of style.