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1852.] Veiltte. We will, then, make a merry night of it. It is not often that so mourn ful a history consecrates the annual dedi cation of our Lit ue Veille. From Arthur’s Home Gazette. HEART-SHADOWS. It was a cold night —quite cold, the snow fleecing down, and the hail rattling against the windows. The wild storm king was out with the blast, intent on mirthful mischief. The old clock ticked cheerily, and the fitful shadows waved unsteadily on the wall. The winter was without, out the summer of peace rested in my heart. 1 sat in the great arm-chair, in the fire twilight, alone, and in a reverie, half dreaming, as it were, my past life over again. The golden boyk of memory lay unclasped before me; every thought, every feeling of by-gone hours traced in effctoeably there. All sorrows, all intermingling and forming, link in link, a beautiful chain, without which life would be incomplete. We w’ere friends, Alice and I, early friends and true ones; she was older and far gentler, with mild, loving eyes, and soft, shadowy, dark hair. 1 was young and thoughtless, and I h;td treasured up in my heart an idol, one worshipped and adored. I dwelt in a beautiful dream, leaking and sleeping, and iny guardian spirit was ever Alice. Alas ! how rudely was that dream broken —how inexpressibly sad the knowledge that it could never come again ; and yet all life is but a dream. Beautiful in soul was she, and they called her Alice Faye, but to me she was only Alice, darling xAlice. We were wandering, two hearts in one, through the beautiful Present, seeking not to un veil the rugged world of Futurity, and knowing and believing that to the Past were confided all estimable things. Oh, our Father! Thou who knowest the frailty of all earth’s flowers, lend, oh! lend us aid to withstand the frosts of adversity; the chilly, wintry winds that crush the already bruised and broken reed. How vivid is that memory rising be fore me now—the memory of our parting. It was a beautiful, radiant day, late in the summer. Alice and 1 had been in company with some youthful friends, and now, arm in arm, were returning through the wood. We bent our steps towards our favourite haunt—a hushed, sweet spot, where the grass grew long and luxu riant, and the wild vine trailed its crim son bloom-flowers, dark, yet bright, amid the flowers that begemmed the earth. Oar accustomed seat was beside a shel ving rock, overhung with the graceful honeysuckle and clambering roses, its rude face half hidden by the beautiful objects clinging around it. The wild locust, laden with its pure blossoms, and SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE. the poplar, silver-limbed, threw a pleasant shade over it. Here, the earth seemed more kind and smiling, and, among all fond memo ries, this is to me the holiest and best beloved. We sat silently; Alice’s hand elapsed fast in mine, and her head leaning down upon my shoulder, so confidingly, so caressingly. The sun-light was glimmer ing through the glossy leaves, and the rich snowy blossoms of the locust were dropping softly—softly down around us. It was then that we first awakened from our happy dream life—for the first time ventured to peep into the unknown futurity, i felt that life was, indeed, bui a “walking shadow,” and bursting into tears, hid my face amid Alice’s bright tresses. “Don’t cry, Ruby, darling,” whispered Alice, very soft, calling me by an endear ing name of childhood; “don’t cry, it will not be for a long time —not very long.” Her own voice trembled a little, al though she tried hard that it should not. “Ah, Alice,” said I, “a dim foreshad owing of the future is twining itself around my spirit—that great future, which is a strange world to u<. Pci haps wo may doubt each other’s sincerity.” “No, no, Ruby, dear Ruby,” replied Alice, winding her arms closer around me, “we’ll never doubt each other. Our dearest hopes are anchored in the great sea of the world; but they will remain steadfast. Oh! we’ll never be estranged, Ruby.” “Never!” i echoed, and, yet through the mazes of the forest, there seemed to float a voice, strangely mournful, repeat ing that vow of eternal friendship, breath ing a warping for our sanguine hopes, a knell for our parting hour. Alas! how slowly, how sadly, have the years past since then, for doubt and mistru-t gliding in severed that sacred chain where we thought it was the strong est. We met again in after years, but the world—the world had taught us how to crush the wild, wayward throbbings of our hearts. We were living —and yet dead; living as the breath giveth life, yet dead to all the gentler influences, the holier emotion of that love once so dear to us. And the youthful years that had shadowed us so kindly with their wings, withdrew to weep over the ashes of our former friendship. * * * * The fire was gleaming faintly in the chimney, my reverie was ovei—and yet I felt so sad, so lonely, sitting there. I thought I felt a soft touch upon my shoul der —heard a gentl9 voice whispering a name of other years —Ruby ! I was glad someone had said it; it was a sweet re menibrance in a time of sorrow. Some body whispered loving words, somebody knelt beside me and pressed a soft cheek to mine. I returned the pressure —I wept, yet I knew not why. I only re member that Alice was kneeling there beside me, my own Alice, and that we were friends again. It was so sweet, so strangely sweet, to have her there as of old, the same love light in those kindly eyes, the same holy beauty resting on that placid brow, I fancied that it was all a dream, and I dared not move, lest the entrancing spell should b:eak. That joyful meeting is marked forever with a “morning star” in the heaven of my existence. And now, each budding hope, each undefined fear, give I hence forth to the sacred keeping of our Father, our Protector, and our God. In the hushed and holy stillness of the night, when the stars and flowers keep watch over earth, and every soul ascends on trembling wings to the Throne of Him above, I fall asleep quietly to dream of the angels and of Alice Faye. Even so hath He ordained, that w’e shall give a smile for every new sunbeam born to the earth, a tear for every blos som untimely withered. For every heart hath a sunlight, every onl a shadow. CAUGHT IN THE FACT. A certain notable housewife had ob • rvod that her stock of pickled cockles 1, 1 '.,as running remarkably low and spoke to the cook in consequence, who alone had access to them. The cook’s charac ter was at stake ; unwilling to give warn ing with such an imputation on her self denial, not to say honesty, she neverthe less felt that confidence between her mis tress and herself was at an end. One day the jar containing evanescant condi ment being placed, as usual, on the dres ser, while she was busily engaged in bas ting a joint before the fire, she happened to turn suddenly round, and behold, to her great indignation a favourite magpie, remarkable for his conversational powers and general intelligence, perched by its side and dipping its beak down the open neck with every symptom of gratifica tiont. The mystery was explained—the thief detected. Grasping the ladle of scalding grease which she held in her hand, the exasperated cook dashed the whole contents over the hapless pet, ac companied by the exclamation —“Oh, d—e, you've been at the pickled cockles, have you ]” Poor Mag, of course, was dreadfully burnt; most of his feathers came off, leaving his little round pate, which had caught the principal part of the volley, entirely bare. The poor bird moped about, lost all spirits, and never spoke for a year. At length, when he had pretty w T ell recovered, and was be ginning to chatter again, a gentleman 279