with the concussion. At length a terrific breaker struck her upon the weather quarter-a tremendous crash followed-a second and a third breaker rolled on and struck her-she reeled a moment-the spray hid her from sight, and after a short interval nothing was to be seen but her planks floating upon the agitated expanse. Before the rope could be fastened round the body of one of the unrescued sailors, the shock came-the deck opened the frame of the vessel was rent asunder-and the three unhappy men sunk into an unconsecrated

grave.

The crew of the life-boat had succeeded in saving ten out of fifteen, besides the bereaved mother and her fatherless infant. They had preserved their lives at the momentary hazard of their own. Melancholy though it was to behold so many of their fellow-creatures descend into the bosom of the dark waters, there to sleep their last sleep amid a new and strange community, they had, nevertheless, the satisfaction derived from the consciousness of having rescued twelve of the unfortunate persons, though five had perished. Having done all that human skill and intrepidity could do in the hour of peril for the salvation of human life, they turned the prow of their boat towards the shore. Their progress was rapid, because they had both wind and tide in their favour, though the storm continued to rage with unabated fury. They ran, however, before the wind, and the life-boat leaped over the billows, which pursued the buoyant fugitive, with their frothy crests reared and threatening to overwhelm her; but they could not overtake her, as she bounded lightly onward, and at length reached the shore without having scarcely shipped a sea during her

return.

The fishermen and their companions were received by the inhabitants of Lowestoff with earnest congratulations; the unfortunate seamen who had been rescued from the wreck were conducted to the inn, where they were comfortably clothed and fed, and provided with money to proceed to their several homes. The captain's widow was taken into the house of a charitable lady, with whom she has finally become domesticated as housekeeper, serving her with that fidelity which gratitude prompts and honesty ensures. The infant which was saved with its mother from the wreck, is now a beautiful girl, fast growing up into a handsome woman.

TO LAURA.

THE fading leaves are falling now,
The fields survive their flowers;
Ere long will come the whirling snow

And winter's gloomy hours.

Ere thus my life is ebbing fast

My heart outlives its joy;

And soon will come the scythe-winged blast

That hastens to destroy.

But spring will soon restore each leaf;
The flowers will smile again :

And earth forget her transient grief

In summer's gentle reign;

So may my heart to heavenly bowers
The grave-gloom spring above;
And roam, mid joy's delicious flowers
With thee in endless love.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills, the setting sun-
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light.

MORE lovely than any sunset, whether in Grecian or in northern climes, is the placid close of a mildly expiring life. "Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace." There is a beauty, therefore, for those who have a heart to appreciate it, even in solitary old age, or on a companionless dying bed; but how much more interesting is the sight of an affectionate old couple tottering to the grave together, who have been lovely in their lives, and in death are undivided. I have seen such a sight as this: it is among the earliest and strongest of my recollections: and never do I hear the well-known line of the bard of Erin

There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream,

but I immediately think of the aged and venerable couple who lived together in one house, and with one heart, for upwards of fifty years, and slowly sank together, with an unabated unity of affection, into one grave; and I cannot but suppose that they found the last days of their loving life quite as sweet as " love's young dream."

Р

It is a scene worth preserving, lacking as it may all poetical circumstance or embellishment.

The couple to whom I refer, and whose image I am now endeavouring to present to the world's eye, belonged to the most unpoetical class in society, and dwelt in a region the most unromantic that it is possible to imagine : they were among the very humblest of the middle class, and their abode was in one of the eastern suburbs of the great metropolis, somewhat beyond that delectable region called Mile-End. The house in which they lived still remains, but so surrounded with buildings of recent erection, that it is hardly to be recognised. When I first knew it, it stood alone in a dull and silent lane, which was seldom used save as a thoroughfare to some marshes that lay along the river's side. From the front of the house you had a smoky prospect of the steeples and domes of the great city, and from the back you might see the ships coming up or going down the river. The dwelling had once been a small farm house; it was built with a dingy red brick, which time, and smoke, and damp, have now rendered almost black. When I knew it, it had casement windows, which, having been but lately replaced by sash windows, give the poor old house the melancholy gloomy aspect of a superannuated dandy clad in cast-off finery of a recently by-gone fashion. When Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the name of my old friends, lived there, although the house might have somewhat faded from its pristine glory, yet the place looked respectably old, and particularly well adapted to its inhabitants. It had a pretty papered parlour for Sunday use, coldly furnished with a thin Kidderminster carpet, a few high-backed, black mahogany chairs, and a pair of scanty, old chintz window curtains, thin and transparent

as muslin. There was also a glazed corner cupboard, which contained the Sunday tea-things. This apartment was only used to drink tea in on Sundays; there being for common use another room of that amphibious kind, between parlour and kitchen, as may yet be seen in villages and small country towns, having a kitchen range, a brick sanded floor, elm chairs, a deal table, and stout blue stuff window-curtains. Every thing was brightly and beautifully clean.

Mr. Smith had a place in the India-house, as porter, or something of that kind. He had held it for many years, and latterly it was mercifully made almost a sinecure to him; for he did not like to retire, though his services could not amount to much-the task of walking there and back again, in his old age, being quite enough for a day's work; but he liked to look on and see that things were done properly. He used to wonder what would become of the East-India Company and the great house in Leadenhall-street when he should no longer be able to give them the benefit of his presence and advice. His personal appearance was particularly neat, and his address courteous beyond his station. He wore a brown bob wig, and a uniform snuff-coloured suit, which the people all along Whitechapel and Mile-end-road were as familiar with as with the return of morning and evening. Mrs. Smith was as neat as her husband. Having once seen, it would be impossible for any one to forget, her snow-white mob-cap, plaited round her placid face with such an exquisite adaptation, that it seemed difficult to say whether the cap was made for the face, or the face for the cap. They had not many neighbours, or many acquaintances, but all they had spoke and thought very highly of them; yet when you