"What in the name of the--do you want now." "Coach be gone, please zur." "Gone! Is there a chance of my overtaking it?" "Bless 'ee, noa, zur; not as Jem Robbins do droive. He be vive mile off be now." "You are certain of that?" "I warrant 'ee, zur." At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensation for all my sufferings past. "Boots," said I, "you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chambermaid to call me--" "At what o'clock, zur?" "This day three months, at the earliest." P--. _New Monthly Magazine_. [***] A welcome re-action seems to have taken place in the conduct of the _New Monthly Magazine_. The present is an auspicious New-year's Number. It is, moreover, embellished with a fine Bust Engraving of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. [1] "There are not two bricks in your accursed town," said the tragedian, "but are cemented with the blood of an African." * * * * * THE PENITENT'S RETURN. _By Mrs. Hemans_. Can guilt or misery ever enter here? All! no, the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim, The hallow'd Porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, And wins him o'er to virtue. WILSON. My father's house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark'd before. Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair, O'erwhelming to my sight? All solemnized it seems, And still'd and darken'd in each time-worn hue, Since the rich clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams. And this high elm, where last I stood and linger'd--where my sisters made Our mother's bower--I deem'd not that it cast So far and dark a shade. How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was was there At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair: Now those grey locks are gone. My soul grows faint with fear,-- Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod. I tremble where I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here. Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted! 'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The in-born gladdening light. No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from Nature's melodies estranged, Thou hear'st their tones with dread. Therefore, the calm abode By thy dark spirit is o'erhung with shade, And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid.