A FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR.

BY ROSE ACTON.

Go! Winter bears thee from us. Flowers,
That crown'd thee once, are dead;
And hopes, thy spring-time raised to us,
Have, with thy beauty, fled.
Yet we would shield thy fading form

From murmurs of regret ;

Though many a heart that yearn'd for thee
Thy sojourn must forget.

Pass on thy way! thou leav'st a trace
Of other sorrows here :

Have we no griefs for wasted time?

Sighs for a mis-spent year?

Go! thou must now give place to one
That hath not mark'd our care-
That cometh to restore to earth

Its robe of beauty rare

To soothe the troubles sent by thee-
To calm the spirit wild-

To teach the task a cold world sets

Adversity's wan child.

Some light and unwrung hearts may know
But joy while thou art here;
And some may count the weary days
By Sorrow's blighting tear.

Thou hast pass'd by to humble us
By stern Affliction's hand-

To render desolate a place

In many a household band; Scattering misery around

On some once smiling spot,

While thou art linking friends, whose names

Were once remember'd not.

Go! the new year will read to us

A yet unopen'd page;

Perchance to sadden blooming youth

Perchance to lighten age.

'Tis meet that we should watch thee die With feelings kindly yet:

We know not that a future hour

We would not fain forget.
Ah, it is therefore we should mark
With fear thy form depart :
Time, in its changes, may but bring
A changed and care-worn heart;
And in remembrance of the smile,

We should forget the tear;
Nor turn with slighting from the past
To greet the coming year.

sciousness, although its cherub features would imitatively reflect the smiles it saw on the lips of others. The father's fears became certainties long before the mother could be brought even to entertain them; against reason and hope she argued, until the sad verdict of the physician pronounced her poor babe deaf and dumb. How differently did this heavy affliction affect the chevalier and his wife! It seemed to create in her a more passionate and tender love for her infant, and she would gladly have endeavoured to speak that consolation to her husband which she so much needed herself. But he avoided her presence, brooded in solitude over his disappointment, thought only of his child with that half pity, half aversion, with which one regards a monster, and almost arraigned heaven itself. For many months coldness and disunion took the place of the concord and affection which had formerly made that dwelling such a paradise. Nor was it until after some tolerably sharp remonstrances from Uncle Giraud, and a severe struggle with himself, that more of resignation began to mingle with the chevalier's grief; and his better feelings whispered how cruelly he was behaving towards his unoffending wife, who now more than ever needed the support and consolation of affection and sympathy, and how impious were such repinings as he had so long indulged in. Actuated by these convictions he sought Cecilia, and finding her watching the infant's slumbers knelt before her, and entreated her pardon for having, by a selfish indulgence of his own feelings, aggravated her sufferings, and then bent over the child to caress and bless it; but as he looked upon its innocent face feelings too deep for utterance swelled his heart; the future, the sad, lone future in store for it, flashed before him, and he could not bless it; for to his excited mind, it was cursed from its very birth: choking sobs heaved his breast, and again he rushed to his own room and to his solitary broodings.

No murmur was ever heard to escape the lips of Madame von Arcis; she watched over her poor child night and day with idolizing tenderness, but as silently as if she either shared its affliction, or had determined not to make use of the faculty denied to it. Frequently her voice was scarcely heard for days together; with her darling she communicated by signs, which the little one soon comprehended, and replied to in a way intelligible to the mother, though no one else could understand it. Most of the relatives who came to see them bemoaned the infant Camilla's sad fate, and lamented over and pitied her and her parents, thus aggravating the wounds they intended to heal; but uncle Giraud, who some people said had had a scolding wife, pretended to regard the deprivations of his grand-niece as no such great misfortunes, and between jest and earnest pointed out how amiable she must of necessity be, thus shut out from all evil, and the advantages it would be to her husband, should she live to get one, to have so quiet a wife, until the good old man often succeeded in beguiling the desponding parents of a smile.

The little maiden grew apace, and appeared healthy and vigorous. Her inquisitive mind showed itself in her large inquiring eyes, and in the curiosity with which she touched every fresh object that met her view: her first impulse was to rush towards anything that attracted her attention; but ere she reached it she would pause and look towards her mother, as if to ask advice or sanction. Madame von Arcis never quitted her, but watched her every motion, gathered every sign of intelligence, and strove by every device to cultivate, as far as it was practicable, her understanding and faculties. In furtherance of this view, she often invited children of her own age to play with her, and wept to see how her poor Camilla imitated with her lips the motions of theirs, although she knew not what they meant, or that any sound accompanied them. As these little ones grew older, and began to receive instruction, Camilla was often suffered to be present at the lessons, and watched each proceeding most attentively, taking up the books and pens, and striving to share in this as she did in their sports. A music lesson too was to her a source of lively interest; she would stand by the instrument, her eyes following every motion of the person playing, and her fingers involuntarily imitating it. Sometimes she ap peared to perceive that though her little companions addressed her by signs they communicated with each other through those, to her, inexplicable motions of the lips, and she would endeavour to avail herself of the same mode, but finding her attempts vain would retire sadly to a corner, and, leaving them to their sports, amuse herself with drawing such characters as she had seen them study, and then sit and gaze intently on them as if they contained some spell to loosen her senses. She had seen the children of a neighbour, before going to bed, kneel down and repeat their evening prayers, and impressed by the solemnity of their looks and action she too would kneel with folded hands, in graceful imitation; but her father happening once to see her, thus exclaimed, "Take her up, for heaven's sake! Such mockery is impious!"

"God will, I trust, forgive her if it is,” said the unhappy mother.

No trace of vanity or coquetry was ever visible in our unfortunate heroine, although as each succeeding year developed her face and form, she gave promise of exquisite beauty. By nature she was cheerful, active, and full of spirit; but her misfortunes, the constant contemplation of her mother's subdued sadness, and the effect of her father's coldness and avoidance, shaded and softened down all the more buoyant parts of her character, and melancholy floated like a light veil over the disposition which it could not hide. Very early she displayed a strong predilection for frequenting places of worship: actual religion it could not be, for what could she know of God? But it was that invincible instinct of the human soul which, if unperverted, leads it involuntarily to love holiness. "While yet a child I knew not God-but heaven!" were the words once written by a deaf and dumb person;

and who can say through what windows of the soul a love of holiness first enters into us?

A juvenile ball was about to be given by a neighbouring family, and Madame von Arcis wished to attend it as a first step towards accustoming her child to mingle in society; and accordingly she sought her husband to remind him of the invitation, and request him to accompany them. The chevalier received his wife with that politeness which had taken the place of all warmer feelings; but when he heard her request, the very thought of seeing his daughter exposed to the curious gaze of the world, and himself to its pity and unfeeling remarks, drove him half mad. "Her in society! in a convent rather. And her own mother wishes thus to expose the afflictions of the child she has given me!"

Cecilia sank on the nearest seat, and with difficulty restrained her tears, and repressed the bitter reply which sprang to her lips. For some time no word was spoken; the chevalier paced the room with rapid strides; at length, pausing and drawing a chair near his wife, he, with assumed calmness, told her that he was compelled to leave home for a while, in order to look after some property which he possessed in the south, adding that as the business was pressing he should depart on the following morning, and the period of his absence would be uncertain. When he paused for a reply, his wife could only bow her head in acquiescence; she was astonished at this sudden announcement, although she had long seen that something of the kind was coming. No objection could be urged to a journey so apparently necessary; but too well did she know that it was a mere pretext to cover the desire he felt to escape from the daily contemplation of an object which caused him such incessant grief and repining; his words seemed to ring in her ears like a funeral knell, and a vague, chilling sense of loneliness stole over her heart. "Tis true, they had long been in a manner estranged, but still he had been with them, and his presence conveyed a feeling of companionship and protection. Now they would be alone! No, not alone! Hastily quitting the apartment, she flew to her own room, and falling on her knees, prayed long, fervently, and humbly to Him, who alone can heal the wounded spirit, for strength, for resignation, and for blessings on her husband and child. Towards evening came a message from the chevalier, saying that he had ordered the carriage to be ready in an hour, and would then conduct her and her daughter to the ball. The mother dried her tears, and having hastily made her own toilet, went to preside over that of her daughter. Clad in a white robe of embroidered muslin, her sylph-like form encircled by a sash of white satin ribbon, her glossy raven tresses bound up with a wreath of corn-flowers, or wantoning on her snowy neck, and round her lovely features, her every movement replete with grace and energy, Camilla looked angelic, as, standing before the glass, she surveyed herself and smiled at the lovely vision she there beheld reflected. "My own, my beautiful, my poor child!" said

her mother, fondly kissing her again and again, unconscious that her husband stood watching them, until he spoke, to inquire if the carriage was ready, and then, without another word, offered her his arm, and taking Camilla's hand, led them down.

As this was the first time Camilla von Arcis had ever been seen beyond the narrow circle of her mother's intimate friends, the curiosity and interest with which she was regarded may easily be conceived. The mother was outwardly calm; the chevalier nervous and excited; but, as one after another complimented him on the grace and beauty of his child, he appeared to recover himself a little. Camilla, recognizing several of her young playmates, flew like a bird from one to the other to greet and caress them; but checked by the stiffness and formality of their party manners, presently returned to nestle closely to her mother, gazing with her large wondering eyes on the gaily-dressed throng; or, in obedience to a sign from her mother, giving her pretty hand to one, raising her coral lips to return the kiss of another, and smiling her peculiarly innocent, yet melancholy smile, in reply to the kind looks of the many who came, curious to gaze at a deaf and dumb girl, and went away enraptured with her. Madame von Arcis stole a glance at her husband, and he replied to it with a more cheerful smile than had lighted his countenance for years, and which fell on her heart yearning for affection, like the dew of heaven on parched ground.

Presently the music struck up; the children began to dance, and the parents to admire and compliment each other on the performances of their respective darlings. The lively tunes, the merry laugh and voice of childhood, the more sober hum of maturer conversation, the whispered flattery, the gay joke, the fun and hilarity of the little dancers, all mingled together in one gladsome sound. The chevalier heard it, and looked towards his wife and child; the one seemed lost in melancholy reverie; the other sat gazing at the merry dancers, with longing eyes, as young, as light-hearted, as formed for enjoyment as any there, and yet cut off from the world. Even while these thoughts occupied him, a young lad, with all a child's admiration of beauty, quitting his own partner, ran up to Camilla, and catching her hand, said, "Why do you sit still? Come dance with me." She smiled in answer to his smile; but not understanding him, shook her pretty head. "Wont you dance? Speak! Surely you are not the deaf and dumb girl!" continued the boy, and he looked at her with pitying wonder. Madame von Arcis bent over her daughter, under pretence of arranging the flowers in her hair, but in reality to hide her fast-falling tears; and when again she looked up, her husband was gone. Yes, he could bear it no longer, but had quitted the ball, hastened home on foot, finished his packing, and set off on his journey. We will not say that no pang of conscience smote his heart, as he rode away from his home; but whatever feelings might have arisen, he argued

himself into the belief that he was a victim, an, exile, driven forth to seek that happiness which home denied him, and salved his conscience with the thought that, when change and absence had a little alleviated the violence of his feelings, he should better be able to perform is duties as a husband and father.

Meanwhile Cecilia felt deeply wounded by this public slight from her husband; had he but hinted a wish to go, she would have complied at once; but to leave her and her child to return alone, was giving the world an opportunity of speculating on his morbid feelings. As the carriage jolted slowly over the stony road, and Camilla pillowed her head on her mother's shoulder, and slept, a thousand thoughts crowded the mind of Madame von Arcis; visions of the | past-of a joyous youth, a happy marriage, months of bliss, years of sadness-arose, and then memory gave place to imagination, and the future was shadowed forth, its fears like vast deserts, its hopes like small patches of herbage on the arid sand. "My child! my poor child!" she murmured, as she strained the sleeping girl to her bosom, "thy mother will never forsake thee-no, no, dear one! So long as it pleases God to spare my life, all that a mother's love can do for thee shall be done; but, should I die, there is a Providence ever watching over the least of created beings, and it surely will not forsake thee, sweet unfortunate. Yes, we are all in the hands of a merciful Almighty Father. Oh, may I ever have grace to say, "His will be done!"

They had come to a ford which had to be crossed; but the ferryman hesitated to take the carriage across in the dark the water was high and the tide strong, and he feared that the passage could not be effected with safety. But Madame von Arcis, who had crossed it a hundred times before, and was most impatient to reach home, in order to see as much as possible of her husband in the period which, she believed, still intervened before his departure, would take no denial. When they had about reached the middle of the stream, the current drove the raft out of its course, and the ferryman hastily summoned the coachman to his assistance, for not three hundred yards lower down was a kind of weir, over which the water fell like a cataract, and should they be drifted thither, nothing could save them. The coachman instantly responded to the call, and lent his whole strength to steady the raft. The night was dark, and a sleety rain drove in their faces, and nearly blinded them, as they laboured to stem the force of the stream and win the shore. Nearer and louder sounded the rush of the falling water; more and more imminent became the danger; they drove the pole into the bed of the river, and grasped it firmly as a kind of anchor; the raft was swung almost round it by the force of the current, the pole snapt in two, and the men fell heavily to the bottom of the raft. At this instant, surprised at the length of the passage, Madame von Arcis lowered the glass of the carriage. Loud as thunder now sounded the rush of the waters

and the spray fell like drenching rain; in a moment she saw their peril. "Georgot, can you, will you save us?" cried she.

The old man cast one look of doubt upon the black waters, one on the barely distinguishable shore, and replied, "With God's help I will endeavour. Get you upon my back, lady, and hold me fast by the neck, and I will carry the young Miss in one arm, and strive to swim with the other.

"And Jean?" said the lady.

"Must do the best he can for himself and the horses." “When you are saved, I will see after him." With this, the stout old ferryman plunged into the water with his double burden, and struck out manfully. But he had over-rated his strength, he was no longer young, and the shore was distant, and the current strong; desperately and bravely did he struggle, but the water baffled him, and flung him against a stone, which struck his head so violently, that the blood gushed out and blinded him. "Take the child!" he cried, "my strength fails me."

"Could you swim ashore if you had only her?" asked the mother.

"I know not-perhaps, yes!"

In another moment Madame von Arcis had loosened her hold, and dropped into the stream: her body was found on the following morn ing by those employed to seek it. Camilla was conveyed safely to land, and the coachman escaped.

Several years had intervened between the melancholy events above related, and the period at which we again resume the thread of our narrative; and a very brief summary of the events of those few years will suffice to enable our readers to follow yet awhile the history of these pages.

Camilla was, as we have before stated, brought safely on shore by the old ferryman, but in a state of insensibility from the combined effects of cold and long immersion in the water. She was conveyed home, and on her recovery, looked wonderingly around on the pitying faces of the domestics. As consciousness returned, her eager eyes sought that beloved countenance, which had hitherto ever been near to her; but not finding it, she started up, and breaking through all restraint, hastily flew from room to room in search of her beloved parent. Even while she was thus engaged, the dripping and lifeless form of her poor mother was brought in. The instant her eyes rested upon it, an instinctive sense of bereavement appeared to flash like lightning over her mind, and she threw herself on the cold, inanimate body, with a wild unnatural cry, embracing and clasping it, raising the head, and looking in vain into the glassy eyes for the glance of affection which always had beamed so fondly there. Vainly they endeavoured by signs and caresses to soothe, to withdraw her; she clung to all that remained of her mother with superhuman strength, uttering harsh, fearful shrieks, until insensibility for a time wrapt her senses in oblivion. To this suc