make that ebony lake their home--
To vanish, and become at last
A parcel of the awful Past--
The hideous, unremembered Past
Which Time, in utter scorn, has cast
Behind him, as with unblenched eye,
He travels toward Eternity--
That Lethe, in whose sunless wave
Even he, himself, must find a grave!

EPITAPH ON A RESTLESS LADY.

The gates were unbarred--the home of the blest
Freely opened to welcome Miss C----;
But hearing the chorus that "Heaven is Rest,"
She turned from the angels to flee,
Saying, "Rest is no Heaven to me!"

MY LADY-HELP.

OR AUNT LINA'S VISIT.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

"You are in want of an efficient person to assist you in taking charge
of your domestic affairs, Enna," said a maiden aunt of mine to me one
evening. I pulled my little sewing-table toward me with a slight
degree of impatience, and began very earnestly to examine the contents
of my work-box, that I might not express aloud my weariness of my
aunt's favorite subject. I had been in want of just such an article as
an "efficient person" ever since I had taken charge of my father's
_menage_; and after undergoing almost martyrdom with slip-shod,
thriftless, good-for-nothing "_help_," as we Americans, with such
delicate consideration, term our serving maids, I had come to the
conclusion that indifferent "_help_" was an unavoidable evil, and that
the best must be made of the poor, miserable instruments of assistance
vouchsafed unto the race of tried, vexed housekeepers.

"I have just thought," continued my aunt, "of a very excellent person
that will suit you in every way. Lizzie Hall, the one I was thinking
of, has never been accustomed to living out. Her father is a farmer in
our place, but having made a second marriage, and with a young family
coming up around him, Lizzie very properly wishes to do something for
herself. I remember having heard her express such a desire; and I have
no doubt I could persuade her to come to you. She is not very
young--about eight-and-twenty, or thereabouts."

I listened to my Aunt Lina's talk with, it must be confessed,
indifference, mingled with a little sullenness, and quieted my
impatience by inward ejaculations--a vast deal of good do those inward
conversations produce, such mollifiers of the temper are they. "So,
so," said I to myself, "my Aunt Lina's paragon is a '_lady-help_.' Of
all kinds 'of help' the very one I have endeavored most to avoid; it
is such a nondescript kind of crea