I found that the grave lady who looks as if she might have read daily lectures against coquetry and elopement to her children, was no other than the once celebrated Mary Ranchon, and that the gentleman in such undivided proximity was that Huguenot husband, who so greatly enhanced her happiness by his love, and her respectability by his wisdom. Should any person continue sceptical as to the truth of the facts herein related, he may see, should he travel in the land of steady habits, those same family portraits, gratis, and be told the name of the husband of Mary Ranchon.

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

To this sweet place for quiet.

"I come

Every tree

And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,

And thymy mound that flings unto the winds

Its morning incense, is my friend."-Barry Cornwall.

THERE were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water;-dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still
They seemed but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glowworm shed,

Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steeped the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,

A tale of Palestine.*-Meanwhile the bee

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon :

*The Talisman-Tales of the Crusaders.

But ere long

All sense of these things faded, as the spell

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong On my chained soul;-'t was not the leaves I heard ;— A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirred,

Through its proud floating folds :-'t was not the brook Singing in secret through its glassy glen ;—

A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen

Pealed from the desert's lonely heart, and shook
The burning air.—Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flashed where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadowed by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swelled freely out,
Sent through an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue;
And harps were there—I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.—
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track,
What called me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!-and they passed,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast;
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendors gone,
My heart so leaped to that sweet laughter's tone.

GOD IS LOVE.

SWEET the sound of Nature's voice,
Where the crystal waters flow
Swiftly down from distant hills,
Murmuring music as they flow.

Sweet the breath of summer gale,

Sweet the fall of summer shower, When the breeze of evening bears

Perfume from each dewy flower.

When, amid unfading bowers,
Ever blooming, ever gay!
Indian birds of golden wing

Sing their happy lives away;

Sweet, where Eastern climes are bright,

Ere the day begins to fade, There to watch the yellow light,

Glist'ning through the palm-tree's shade,

Sweet, beneath those cloudless skies,

Peace below, and light above, There to wander forth, and feel God is light, and God is love.

Sweet-but, ah! What temples there
Meet the inquiring wanderer's eye!
Are these Indian shrines as pure
As the breeze, the flowers, the sky?

In this soft sequestered spot,
All is lovely, all is bright;
Woods adorned with deepest green,
Mountains bathed in liquid light;

Well may such a scene inspire
Hopes, a grovelling world above;

But within those temples fair
No one knows that God is love.

N