seemed as though I felt the twinging of my toes, and involuntarily I put down my hand to the spot they should have occupied, only to find it vacant. Once, too, when my strength was fast returning, after waking from a refreshing slumber, I sprang out of bed, as had formerly been my custom, entirely forgetting my loss, until I came down at full length on the floor.

When my health was perfectly restored, I gave orders for a wooden leg. A wooden leg! oh, insupportable, oh, heavy hour! It came home, and was buckled to my unfortunate stump. Must I endure all this," thought I, "must I drag about this vile piece of timber during the remainder of my existence? must I live on, a very remnant of human nature-an unnatural unity of flesh and timber, a walking scarecrow, a grotesque figure moving along on a cursed lump of wood?-truly I must!" My favourite amusement, the dance, must be abjured; I was for ever debarred from ambling in a lady's chamber;" or, rather, I could now do nothing else but amble. I soliloquized in a style something like Othello's :

"Oh, now for ever,

Farewell the music's sound! farewell the dance!
Farewell the gay quadrilles, and gallopades

That make existence pleasure, O, farewell!
Farewell the taper foot, and the sweet smile,
The soft voluptuous form, the dear delicious whirl,
The squeaking fiddle!-and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious waltz!
And, ob, ye mortal beauties, whose bright eyes

The immortal Jove's dread lightning's counterfeit,
Farewell! Alas, my dancing days are gone!"

I practised three days in my own room, with my new member, before I ventured abroad; alternately cursing duels, surgeons, and wooden legs. At length I sallied out, but had not proceeded many paces, ere I was annoyed beyond endurance at the thumping noise which was produced each time that my auxiliary limb descended to the ground. I was seized with a strange desire, an irresistible inclination to count the sounds that were emitted when my leg came in contact with the pathway. I strove to divert my attention from this circumstance, yet still every other minute I caught myself numbering my steps. "One, two, three," and so on."Confound the stump," said I, "if it would but move in quietness, I might perchance, enjoy a moment's forgetfulness of my misery; but every step reminds me of my misfortune, each thump increases my unhappiness." I strode away, without being able to get rid of the habit of reckoning my paces, until, almost unconsciously, I arrived at the abode of Julia D'Arlincourt. A bright idea struck me. "I will try her heart-I will put her fidelity to the test;" I said, "if she really loved me, the loss of a limb will not alter her feelings towards me, but she will cherish more tenderly the portion of me which still remains. If she scorn me, then farewell love, and farewell Julia D'Arlincourt." I rang the bell, and was shown in. I began to ascend the lofty staircase, and thought I should never reach the top. "One, two, three," I commenced-I never knew the quantity of stairs which led to her drawing-room before that day. heard, or fancied I heard, a giggling, as the servant announced my approach, and my face became of a crimson hue. I stumped in, and beheld

I

my rival, Herbert Danvers, the cause of all my sorrows, seated by the fair Julia's side. She proceeded to condole with me very ceremoniously, on what she termed my "shocking mishap," and ever and anon she turned from me, and cast a languishing glance on Danvers. My blood boiled tumultuously, and I determined to come to an explanation with her before I quitted the house. I requested a few minutes private conversation.— She looked at me with evident astonishment, and informed me that whatever communication I had to make, might be made before Danvers, who was entirely in her confidence. I put on one of my most pathetic looks. "Is it come to this?" said I, "well so be it then-she whose heart changes in the hour of misfortune, is no fit mate for me. Adieu then, Julia; I leave you for ever, and may you never have cause to repent of your perfidy." I rushed from her presence, and the clamour produced by the speed of my exit was greeted with a peal of laughter from my false mistress and my unfeeling rival. As I was about to descend the stairs, I heard him repeating the following words from one of Hood's ballads:

"Before you had those timber toes,

Your love I did allow,

But then you know you stand upon,
Another footing now."

---

I

"Inhuman villain!" muttered I; and in the hurry of my descent, I made a false step, and was precipitated headlong down stairs. I was assisted to rise by the servants, who I could plainly perceive, had much ado to keep their countenances. I darted into the street, and fled along with a velocity, which was absolutely terrific, considering my mutilated condition. The boisterous merriment of the populace accompanied me in my flight, but it had only the effect of adding to the rapidity of my progress. I reached my home. A large fire was blazing in the first room which I entered. I wrenched from my stump the infernal wooden leg, and thrust it into the flames. With a grim delight I beheld it gradually reduced to ashes. "Perish," I exclaimed, "vile caricature of a leg; never again will I be indebted to thee for support; never will I be doomed to drag about that horrid block of degradation!' What was next to be done? ordered a cork leg, and it was six weeks before I again ventured abroad, when I was enabled to move about something like my former self. I determined to quit London, and proceed to some distant place, where my misfortune might remain unknown, for I could not endure the thought of living where I might at any time hear my mutilation made the subject of discourse. I broke up my establishment in town, and having got rid of my servants, travelled alone to the place of my destination, which was situated so far from the metropolis, that I thought I should not stand the slightest chance of meeting with any one who could remind me of my loss. I took up my abode in a small, but beautiful village in Yorkshire, and was soon on terms of intimacy with the respectable portion of the inhabitants. At one dwelling I became a frequent visiter. The members of the family were all unaffected and amiable; and on the heart of a blooming girl, the only daughter of the master of the mansion, I soon began to imagine I had made a favourable impression. Time passed delightfully, and I was on the point of making a declaration, and asking permission to pay my addresses in form, when I was startled by an unexpected apparition.

I called one day, just to enquire after the health of the family, and pass a pleasant hour in conversation. The first person whom I beheld seated in the drawing-room, was an individual with whom I had formerly had a slight acquaintance in London. I shrank from his gaze, as I would have done from the eye of a ravenous beast. It was in vain: he instantly recognized me, and shook me cordially by the hand; whilst I would as soon have placed my fingers in a cauldron of molten lead as within his grasp. I, however, pretended to be glad to see him, and we entered into conversation. I contrived to keep him for awhile on subjects remote from the metropolis; but I found he would not be content until he began to talk of the events which had happened there previously to and since my deparHe achieved his purpose. I suppose he thought he had now got the discourse into the only channel which could afford me pleasure, for he rattled away with the utmost volubility scarcely allowing any one else to speak. I, in the meantime, was sitting in a state of indescribable torture; every moment expecting him to allude to some circumstance connected

ture.

with my misfortune. My expectations were realised. He was relating

the particulars of some affair, the exact date of which he had forgotten.Suddenly he broke out—“Hum, ah, let me see! yes, by Jove, so it was! I now remember perfectly-It happened just previously to the time when Mr. Vincent met with his unfortunate accident." "Accident-what accident?" was repeated by several voices. "Accident-oh, why his leg, to be sure-the time when he lost his leg." I waited for no more. Ieffected an instantaneous retreat from the house. It was my last visit, and on the morrow I bid adieu to the village for ever.

Several years have now passed since the period when I fought the fatal duel; I have grown callous to my loss, and can even laugh when I think of the over-sensitiveness which formerly tormented me. I have again become a resident in the metropolis; and have the consolation of thinking that the sacrifice of a limb in all probability prevented me from sacrificing my fortune. Julia D'Arlincourt became the wife of Danvers, and after a short career of extravagance and dissipation, he ended his existence in the King's Bench. I often meet my old flame, and have had sufficient proof that any proposals which might now be made by me, would be thankfully accepted; but, thank God, I am not to be tempted, and can take a warning from the fate of another. So it is, that what at the time seems our greatest calamity, is often destined to prove our greatest good. As for my new leg-I can at least console myself with the thought that my right foot is never troubled with corns, and that the shoe cannot pinch in that quarter.

AFFECTION'S TRIBUTE.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER.

BY ALBERT CASE.

Ir is a bitter and a dreadful task

Upon the heart to place the cloaking mask-
To smile when tears would best befit the face,

And hide the cheek where grief hath left its trace.

Why should we seek such objects to effect,

When hearts that joyed, affliction's waves have wreck'd! Once, when his friend by death's command was bowed

The Saviour bent his knee and wept aloud!

And thus do we, for one whose memory dwells
Deeply within our heart's most secret cells.
It is not mine to speak of all her worth-
She needeth not the feeble praise of earth.
Tranquil and calm, though clammy is her brow-
Her eyes are closed-her lips are bloodless now-
From out their portals passeth not a breath-
But tell me, mourner, say, can this be death?
Her voice is hushed in silence, and the sound
Of her glad tones is heard no more around:
You miss her footsteps, and the wonted smile
That played upon her parted lips the while :-
All these have vanished with her passing breath--
But tell me, mourner, say, can this be death?
Oh, no! to die is to forsake the earth-
Its pleasant things-its scenes of joy and mirth,
And enter, with unwilling steps, that dark abode
Where unbelief declares there is no life-no God!
But then, to close the eye-to yield the breath-
To change this earth for heaven-this is not death!
"Tis but the transit from a world of care

To one where joy and pleasure fill the air.

Thus hath one friend and sister passed to heaven,

Like some bright star upon the brow of even.
She hath not died—her spirit lives above,
In those bright regions of eternal love-
And from her home within the starry sky,
Looks, with a sister's fondness in her eye
On those whom she hath left upon the earth,
Endeared to her by ties of human worth.
Her influence steals upon our lonely hearts,
And brighter hopes, and dearer joys imparts.

When such friends die, why quell the rising sigh,

Or seek to keep the tear-drop from the eye?

'Tis nature's tribute-by affection due— And falleth only, for the loved and true.

6

MANAGEMENT OF DISOBEDIENT CHILDREN.

THE management of disobedient children is one of the most difficult of duties, whether at school or at home. In this branch of government, ignorance and bad temper run into mistakes, as certainly as water will run down hill. They cannot proceed rightly. It requires all possible prudence, calmness, consideration, judgment, wisely to govern a refractory child. It is a common saying, that anger should never be manifested towards the young or the insane. This, though true, is but a feeble expression of the truth. Feelings of wrath, madness, are as absurd and incongruous, in the management of a disobedient child, as they would be in a surgeon, when amputating a limb or couching an eye. Suppose we were to witness an operation upon the human eye, and the oculist, as he approached his work, should begin to redden in the face and tremble in the joints, to feel all the emotions and to put on the natural language of wrath; and should then spring upon his patient, like a panther, and strike his knife into the eyeball, at hazard;-should we call this Couching or Gouging? But are the moral sensibilities of a child less delicate in their texture, than the corporeal senses? Does the body require a finer touch and a nicer skill, than the soul? Is less knowledge and discretion necessary, in him who seeks to influence the invisible and immortal spirit, than in him who operates on the visible and material frame? Is the husk more delicately wrought than the kernel? No; as much more exquisite as the painting is, than the frame, or the jewel, than the casket, so much more excellent is the soul, than the body it inhabits; and he, who does not approach it in this faith, wants one of the essential prerequisites for acting upon it wisely. Firstly, then, let teachers discipline their own feelings to the holy work they have undertaken.

'Teachers have their severest trials with disobedient children. To instruct the beautiful, the affectionate, the intelligent, the grateful, is unalloyed delight. A school, composed entirely of such, would not be earth, but elysium. But to take an awkward, gawky, unclean, ill-dressed, illmannered, ill-tempered child, and to work up an interest in it, to love it, to caress it, to perform a full measure of duty to it ;-this draws upon all the resources of conscience, virtue, and religion. Yet, in the eye of true benevolence, of Christian duty, this class of children presents the dearest of objects, the first to be attended to, the last to be forgotten. They are at an immeasurable distance from the 'Image,' to whose similitude they are to be brought; and their restoration to the Divine likeness' is a work, only inferior, in quality and in difficulty, to an act of original creation.For such a great work, great efforts are requisite. A band of the highest motives must be summoned to the task. The teacher must stand, like an angel, by the wanderer, and reclaim his wayward steps. Love is one of the most potent agencies, with children who have never known the luxury of being loved. Perhaps the child has inherited a defective organization from vicious parents. We know that God has implanted hereditary tendencies in the constitutions of men, in order to furnish to parents a motive for obedience to his laws, and to punish those who transgress them, not only in their own persons, but in their love for their offspring. The liability to deteriorate goes with the capacity to improve. But, when a child suffers under this hereditary curse, is it a reason why the teacher should