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posedly;_" seventy-four is no age for surprises, even joyful ones- Sir,” (turning to Norman, who stood studying, all lovers will guess how earnestly, the parents on whose fiat hung his life), “my wife had set her heart on reaching home on her father's day of jubilee. We had a quick passage and a safe one, God be praised! to Liverpool, and travelling day and night were set down by coach this morning at B- How to get on in time was the difficulty—but the back woods have made us good walkers, and here we are, not too late for a grace-cup of thanksgiving to Him who has brought us safe to our father's door, and to friends, who will make us welcome for his sake! Please, sir, to pave the way for our meeting.”

Norman hailed the omen, and came as deliberately as joy would let him, into the room. “There are strangers without, sir, who wish to speak with you; and as they have tidings from New Brunswick, perhaps your friends will consent to spare you, though unwillingly.”

“ From New Brunswick!” exclaimed the old man, hastily rising, then sinking down again from painful agitation,—you have seen and spoken to them,-is all well? Norman, my son, tell me truly.”—“ All well, even as your heart could wish—but there are those without, who could tell you better, far better than any words, about those you love !"_“ Are they still without, oh, bring them in, pray - our friends will

excuse.” “ But will you promise ?” —the old man cast a bewildered gaze around—caught a glimpse of Lilly's beaming face, as it peeped eagerly in at the half-open door, and exclaiming, “ My bairn! my bairn!” sank back insensible on his chair !

We bore him gently out to the open air, whose reviving freshness, and still more, the voice and aspect of his darling daughter, soon restored him to himself. Who could describe their meeting, half as well as one throb of long-severed hearts will bring it home to every bosom? Suffice it to say, it was a meet consummation for such an Anniversary!

ASPASIA.

A SKETCH OF FEMALE CHARACTER.

Critics be still! approach with silent awe,
And from Aspasia's lips receive the law!
Censor of books, men, music, plays, romances,
Paintings, busts, speeches, poetry, and dances.
'Tis true, her figure is not over fine,
'Tis true, her voice is somewhat masculine ;
So much the better to perform her task,
Read, cite, denounce, and thunder from her mask:
Besides, for preachments in the learned tongues,
Surely a lady should have learned lungs !

Lo! on a sofa, where she sits, a throne Approached by few, and filled by her alone, She reigns a queen, with self-complacent air, Or like some justice in his elbow chair ;

With eye severe, as though all London heard, And worshipped at the fiat of her word! Not too loquacious of the lore divine, She casteth not her goodly pearls to swine; But if a youth, unconscious of the plume She wears, should spread instruction round the room, She eyes him first, with an indignant mien, As guilty of high treason to his queen. Then, watching well her time—“Sir, if you please, “ So says not Lucian or Thucydides, “ Good authors in their days, but now it seems “ Laid by as idle and forgotten dreams“ It needs no fancy, no conjecture vain, “ The Latin text permit me to explain ; “ Unless our fair attention you bespeak, “ And wish to quote the unambiguous Greek.” Dumb with surprise-pale fear his cheek inspires He looks submission; wonders and retires. Then she advances from the Delphic cell Where rest her lightnings—where her thunders dwellFirst clears from comment the laborious text, Points the satiric dart, and wings it next Home to her victim; soars on pinions fleet To the dim bounds where light and darkness meet ; And weaving o'er the argument her web, Permits her voice to sink, her triųmphs ebb.

’T was my good chance, a concert to attend With her fair self, and many a fairer friend; With some of wit, sense, feeling, taste possest, By virtue honoured, and by fancy blest ;Where the charmed heart, will half forget its wound, Bounds to, and worships each melodious sound. Rich, full, and sweet, was music's copious swell; Anon as evening's zephyr soft it fell, Pierced the whole range of choral symphony, But drew no tear from proud Aspasia's eye. The crowds are gone-performers disappear, But still their music lingers on my ear: I ask her, her opinion—simply say, “ Such living sounds we hear not every day: ” She answers with a pshaw! and does declare She had small pleasure, small enjoyment there; In truth she would not have known what to do, But that her friends were all as weary too; And for the strain, if choose you, you may hear Such strains each day of the revolving year! “ But was it not an oratorio Of far-famed Handel's ?”- Why, it might be so; But she was sure, had Handel on his throne Been there to judge, he'd not have known his own. This and that fiddlestring were out of tune, And much too hoarsely grumbled the bassoon; The flutes and hautboys made too shrill a noise ; Besides, the chorus had no equipoise.

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