A BOOK FOR THE YOUNG. 

DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON. 

By A LADY. 

1856. 

Saint John, N. B. , Printed By J. & A. McMillan, Phoenix House, 78, Prince Wm. Street. 

TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON. 

MADAM, --

With every feeling of deference and respect, do I beg to offer mygrateful acknowledgments for your kindness in according me the honorof your influential name, in offering my Little Book to the public;and I can only regret my humble efforts are not more worthy yourpatronage. 

I have the honour to be, Madam, Your obliged and obedient servant, SARAH FRENCH. 

PREFACE. 

COURTEOUS READER, In offering a second effort from her pen, the Writer begs, mosthumbly, to deprecate all criticism; for much of which, there will, doubtless, be found ample room. 

This little book has been written in the hope that notwithstanding itsmany imperfections, it will not be altogether useless to those forwhom it is especially intended, --the Young; and should the Authoressfail in effecting all the good she desires, she trusts, she may takerefuge under the negative merit, of not having written one word that_can_ do _harm_. 

If it be objected to, that the Poetry is not original; it is, shewould beg to say, not only good, but far better than that which, hadit depended on her own efforts, could have been in its place. It willbe seen that the Book was intended to have been brought out forChristmas and New Year's Days: this desirable end could not beaccomplished, but as recommended to do, she has inserted the "Addressto the Young. "

CONTENTS

An Address to the Young, The Dying Horse, Coquetry, Lines on seeing in a list of new Music "The Waterloo Waltz, "The Boy of Egremont, Lines written on the Prospect of Death, An Embarkation Scene, The Execution of Montrose, A Ghost Story, Lord Byron, Self Reliance, Idle Words, The Maniac of Victory, God doeth all things well, How old art thou, Time, The Young Man's Prayer, AN ADDRESS TO THE YOUNG. 

A heartfelt greeting to you, my young friends; a merry Christmas and ahappy New Year to you all. Of all the three hundred and sixty-fivedays none are fraught with the same interest--there is not one onwhich all mankind expect so great an amount of enjoyment, as those wenow celebrate: for all now try not only to be happy themselves, but tomake others so too. All consider themselves called on to endeavour toadd to the aggregate of human happiness. Those who have beenestranged, now forget their differences and hold out the hand ofamity; even the wretched criminal and incarcerated are not forgotten. 

Yes, to both the Christian and the worlding, it is equally the seasonfor rejoicing. Oh yes! view them in any of their bearings, joyful arethe days that mark the anniversary of the Redeemer's Nativity, and thecommencement of the New Year. Fast as the last twelve months have spedtheir circling course, yet they have, brought changes to many. Numbersof those we so gaily greeted at their beginning, now sleep in thesilent dust, and the places they filled know them no more! And we arespared, the monuments of God's mercy; and how have we improved thatmercy, I would ask? or how do we purpose doing it? Have such of us ashave enjoyed great and perhaps increased blessings, been taught bythem to feel more gratitude to the Giver of all good. If the sun ofprosperity has shone more brightly, has our desire to do good been inany way proportionate. Has God in his infinite wisdom seen fit to sendus trials, --have they done their work, have they brought us nearer toHim, have they told us this is not our abiding place, have they shownus the instability of earthly happiness? Have you reflected for onemoment, amidst your late rejoicings, of the hundreds whose hearthshave been desolated by cruel but necessary war, and then with a fulland grateful heart humbly thanked the God who has not only spared youthese heavy inflictions, but preserved all near and dear to you. 

Oh ye young and happy! have you looked around you and thought of allthis, and then knelt in thankfulness for the blessings spared you?Remembering _all this_, have ye on bended knees prayed, and fervently, that this day may be the epoch on which to date your resolves to beand to do better. Oh, may the present period be eventful, greatlyeventful, for time and eternity. 

Let us pause awhile ere we commence another year, and take aretrospective glance at the past. Can we bear to do so, or will dayafter day, and hour after hour, rise up in judgment against us? Can webear to bring them into debtor and creditor account, --what offsets canwe make against those devoted to sin and frivolity?

Has every blessing and every mercy been taken as a matter of course, and every pleasure been enjoyed with a thankless forgetfulness of thehand from which it flowed? If such has been the case, let it be so nolonger; but awake and rouse ye from your lethargic slumber, be true toyourselves, and remember that you are responsible beings, and willhave to account for all the time and talents misspent and misapplied. Reflect seriously on the true end of existence and no longer fritterit away in vanity and folly. Think of all the good you might havedone, not only by individual exertion, but by the influence of yourexample. Then reverse the picture and ask if much evil may notactually have occurred through these omissions in you. 

To many of you too, life now presents a very different aspect to whatit did in the commencement of the year. A most important day hasdawned, and momentous duties devolved on you. The ties that bound youto the homes of your youth have been severed, and new ones formed, ayestronger ones than even to the mother that bare you. Yes, there is onewho is now _dearer_ than the parent who cherished, or the sister whogrew up with you, and shared your father's hearth. Oh! could I now butimpress upon your minds, how much, how _very much_ of your happinessdepends on the way you begin. If I could but make you sensible howgreatly doing so might soften the trials of after life. Trials? I heareach of you exclaim in joyous doubt, What trials? I am united to theobject of my dearest affections; friends all smile on, and approve mychoice; plenty crowns our board: have I not made a league with sorrowthat it should not come near our dwelling? I hope not; for it mightlead you to forget the things that belong to your peace. I shouldtremble for you, could I fancy a life-long period without a trouble. You are mortal and could not bear it, with safety to your eternalwell-being. This life being probationary, God has wisely ordained it achequered one. Happy, thoroughly happy as you may be now, you are notinvulnerable to the shafts of sorrow;--think how very many are theinlets through which trial may enter, and pray that whenever andhowever assailed, you may as a Christian, sanctify whatever befallsyou to your future good. 

But while prepared to meet those ills "the flesh is heir to" asbecomes a Christian, it is well to remember that you may greatlydiminish many of the troubles of life, by forbearance andself-command, for certain it is, that more than one half of mankindmake a great deal of what they suffer, and which they might avoid. Yes, much of what they endure are actually self inflictions. 

There is a general, and alas! too true an outcry, that trouble is thelot of all, and that "man is born to trouble as the sparks flyupward;" but let me ask, Is there not a vast amount made by ourselves?and do we not often take it up in anticipation, too often indulge andgive way to it, when by cheerful resignation, we might, if not whollyavert, yet greatly nullify its power to mar our peace. Mind, I nowspeak of self-created and minor troubles; not those coming immediatelyfrom God. Are we not guilty of ingratitude in acting thus; in throwingaway, or as it were thrusting from us the blessings he has sent--merelyby indulging in, or giving way to these minor trials. It may be saidof these sort of troubles, as of difficulties, "Stare them in theface, and you conquer them; yield to, and they overcome you, and formunnecessary suffering. "

If we could only consider a little when things annoy us, and reflecthow much worse they might be, and how differently they would affect useven under less favourable circumstances than those in which we areplaced; but instead of making the best of every thing, we only dwellon the annoyance, regardless of many extenuations that may attend it. 

As one of the means to happiness, I would beg of you, my fair youngBrides, not to fix too high a standard by which to measure either theperfections of your beloved partners or your own hopes of being happy. Bear in mind that those to whom you are united are subject to the sameinfirmities as yourself. Look well to what are your requirements aswives, and then prayerfully and steadily act up to them, and if yourhopes are not built too high, you may, by acting rightly andrationally, find a well spring of peace and enjoyment that _must_increase. Think what very proud feelings will be yours, to find youare appreciated and esteemed for the good qualities of the heart andendowments of the mind, and to hear after months of trial, the _wife_pronounced _dearer_ than the _bride_. 

Look around at the many who have entered the pale of matrimony beforeyou, equally buoyant with hope; with the same loving hearts and thesame bright prospects as you had, --and yet the stern realities of lifehave sobered down that romance of feeling with which they started; yetthey are perhaps more happy, though it is a quiet happiness, foundedon esteem. Oh, you know not the extent to which the conduct I haveurged you to pursue, may affect your well-being, and that of him towhom you are united. 

And now with the same greeting I commenced with, will I take myleave--a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, and may eachsucceeding return find you progressing in all that can give you peaceand happiness, not only here but hereafter!

THE DYING HORSE. 

 Heaven! what enormous strength does death possess! How muscular the giant's arm must be To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all His furious efforts, fix him to the earth! Yet, hold, he rises!--no--the struggle's vain; His strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length He lies with neck extended; head hard pressed Upon the very turf where late he fed. His writhing fibres speak his inward pain! His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire! Oh! how he glares! and hark! methinks I hear His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins. Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge, See! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod With the velocity of lightning. Ah!-- He rises, --triumphs;--yes, the victory's his! No--the wrestler Death again has thrown him And--oh! with what a murdering dreadful fall! Soft!--he is quiet. Yet whence came that groan, Was't from his chest, or from the throat of death Exulting in his conquest! I know not, But if 'twas his, it surely was his last; For see, he scarcely stirs! Soft! Does he breathe? Ah no! he breathes no more. 'Tis very strange!

 How still he's now! how fiery hot--how cold How terrible! How lifeless! all within A few brief moments!--My reason staggers! Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard, Who canst for every thing assign a cause, Here take thy stand beside me, and explain This hidden mystery. Bring with thee The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven And impiously ascribes events to chance, To help to solve this wonderful enigma! First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners, Where the vast strength this creature late possessed Has fled to? how the bright sparkling fire, Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes Has been extinguished? Oh--he's dead you say. I know it well:--but how, and by what means? Was it the arm of chance that struck him down, In height of vigor, and in pride of strength, To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell me: Nay shake not thus the head's that are enriched With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books, From nights of study, and the magazines Of knowledge, which your predecessors left. What! not a word!--I ask you, once again, How comes it that the wond'rous essence, Which gave such vigour to these strong nerved limbs Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled This noble workmanship of nature, thus To sink Into a cold inactive clod? Nay sneak not off thus cowardly--poor fools Ye are as destitute of information As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts!

 The _subject of my thoughts_? Yes--there he lies As free from life, as if he ne'er had lived. Where are his friends and where his old acquaintance Who borrowed from his strength, when in the yoke, With weary pace the steep ascent they climbed? Where are the gay companions of his prime, Who with him ambled o'er the flowery turf, And proudly snorting, passed the way worn hack, With haughty brow; and, on his ragged coat Looked with contemptuous scorn? Oh yonder see, Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun They lie, and heed him not;--little thinking While there they triumph in the blaze of noon. How soon the dread annihilating hour Will come, and death seal up their eyes, Like his, forever. Now moralizer Retire! yet first proclaim this sacred truth; _Chance_ rules not over Death; but, when a fly Falls to the earth, 'tis _Heaven_ that gives the blow. 

 --BLACKETT. 

COQUETRY. 

It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on thebanks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an opencasement, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis andhoney-suckle. The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps notso much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, whichplainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there thantime alone could have done. The younger, an interesting girl ofnineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were bothdressed in deep mourning. The room which they occupied, though plainlyand simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance. 

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in theEast Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means ofsupport than a small annuity and her pension. An old servant of herown had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchasedhis discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he hadbeen brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his nativeplace, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain's death wroteto Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot, but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding bysaying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonableterms. Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it. Though acommon looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making afew alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering, was transformed into a pretty cottage. The work required was anadvantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thusprevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respectstoo, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to thelittle village in which we find her--and the good she found to do, wasthe greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive: for though hermeans were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay beforeher. 

Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and though her trial was hard, veryhard to bear, she remembered from whom it came, and not a murmurescaped her. Devotedly attached to her husband, she deeply lamentedher loss, still she sorrowed not as one without hope: she had theconsolation of knowing few were better prepared for the change; andshe strove to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her grief wouldhave been augmented, were not such the case. But she felt that hershield had been taken from her; and knowing how precarious was her ownhealth, she saw how desolate would be her child, should it please Godto remove her also, but a true Christian cannot mourn long; and as thetears of agony would force themselves down her cheek, and her feelingsalmost overpower her, she flew to her bible and in its graciouspromises to the afflicted, found that support and consolation, themere worldling can neither judge of, nor taste. Some delay, though noactual doubt, as to ultimately obtaining her pension, had causedinconvenience, as all their ready money had been absorbed in thealterations of their house, though they had observed the utmosteconomy, and demands were made which they had not at the time funds tomeet. Ethelind was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against all, trusting something would turn up, --and so it did; for while discussingthe matter, a letter came, with an enclosure, from an old schoolfellow, begging them to procure her board and lodging in the villagefor a few months, intimating how much she would like it, if they couldaccommodate her themselves. The terms for the first quarter werehighly remunerative and they gladly acceded to Miss Trevor'sproposition, and the few requisite preparations being made, we will, if our reader pleases, go back to the evening when mother and daughtersat awaiting the arrival of their new inmate. 

Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice Trevor, but Ethelind was loudin her praises. They sat in anxious expectation much beyond the usualtime for the arrival of the stage, and were just giving her up for thenight, when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and a post chaise droveup, out of which sprang a young lady who in another moment was claspedin Ethelind's arms, and introduced to her mother, who welcomed hermost kindly. 

"Oh what a little Paradise!" said Beatrice, looking round her, "howhappy you must be here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep outside eredaylight is gone;" so saying, she darted through the French casement, on to the lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge. "Well Ideclare, this is a perfect Elysium, I am so glad I made up my mind tocome here, instead of going with the Fultons to Cheltenham. "

"I am indeed rejoiced that you are so pleased with our retreat, mydear Miss Trevor, it is indeed a lovely spot. "

"No Miss Trevor, if you please, my dear madam: it must be plainBeatrice, and you must regard me as you do Ethelind, and be a motherto me; for I know I greatly need a monitress; for you will find me, Ifear a sad giddy mad-cap. "

Mrs. Fortescue smiling benignly promised acquiescence, and taking herhand, which she grasped affectionately; led her into the next room, where tea was waiting. After which, Ethelind took her up stairs, andshowed her the little bedroom prepared for her. They remained heresome time, chatting over their old school days, till summoned toprayers. On taking leave for the night, Mrs. Fortescue begged if atall heavy in the morning, that Beatrice would not hurry up. But shearose early, much refreshed and delighted with all she saw. Ethelindsoon joined her, and offered to help her unpack, and arrange herthings, while the only servant they had, prepared the breakfast. 

Soon as the morning meal was over, and little necessary arrangementsmade, Ethelind proposed a ramble, which was gladly acceded to on thepart of Beatrice. They passed through an orchard into a lane, and asthey crossed a rustic bridge, the village church came in view. It wasa small gothic structure, standing in the burial ground, and as theyapproached it, Beatrice was struck with admiration at the beds offlowers, then blooming in full perfection on the graves; this is avery beautiful, and, by no means, uncommon sight in South Wales; butshe had never seen it before. "Well, I declare, this is lovely;really, Ethelind, to render the charm of romance complete, you oughtto have a very interesting young curate, with pale features and darkhair and eyes. "

"And so we have, " said Ethelind, "and had he sat for his picture, youcould not have drawn a more correct likeness; but I regret to say, Mr. Barclay's stay is not likely to be permanent, as one of Lord Eardly'ssons is to have the living, soon as the family returns from theContinent, which we are all sorry for; as short as the time is, thatMr. Barclay has been among us, he is generally liked, and from hismanner, we think the curacy, little as it is, an object to him; thougheven now, he does a great deal of good, and you would hardly believeall he has accomplished. I wish he were here, for I am sure you wouldlike him. "

"I think, " said Beatrice, "it is well he is not, for I might fall inlove with him, and then--"

"And then, what?" asked Ethelind. 

"Why it must end in disappointment to both; for if he is poor and I ampoor, it would be little use our coming together; but were I rich, asI expected to have been, then I might have set my cap at your youngcurate, and rewarded his merit. "

"Oh!" said Ethelind, "he deserves to be rich, he would make such gooduse of wealth, for even now, he is very charitable. "

"Charitable!" re-echoed Beatrice, "a curate, on perhaps less than ahundred a year, must have a deal to be charitable with. Absurd: Igrant you he may have the heart, but certainly not the means. "

"I know not, " said Ethelind, "but I hear continually of the good hedoes, and his kindness to the poor, and doubt if the HonourableFrederic Eardly will do as much. "

"Out upon these proud scions of nobility, I have not common patiencewith the younger members of the aristocracy, taking holy orders solelyfor the sake of aggrandizing the elder branches of the family; theyare rarely actuated by pious motives. "

"We had only one service a-day till Mr. Barclay came, and now heofficiates morning and evening, besides managing to do duty, in theafternoon, for a sick clergyman, who lives five miles off, and has alarge family, two of whom our worthy curate educates, --"

"No more, " Ethelind, or my heart will be irrecoverably gone; but whatlarge house is that I see among the trees?"

"That is Eardly House. "

"And do the family ever reside there?"

"They have not, since we have been in this part of the world, but whenin England, I am told, they spend part of every summer here. "

"And if they come, they will spoil both our pleasure and our privacy;say what you will, great people are a nuisance in a small village. "

"To those who are situated like us, I grant it is unpleasant, but theymay do a great deal of good to their poor tenants. But, hark, it isstriking two, --our dinner hour, --mamma will wonder what is become ofus; there is a short cut through the Park, which we will take, it willsave, at least, a quarter of a mile. " So through the Park they went, and as they left it, to cross the road, a gentleman suddenly turnedthe corner, and Mr. Barclay stood full before them. 

"Why, Mr. Barclay, " exclaimed Ethelind, "where, in the name of wonder, did you come from? did you rise from the lake, or drop from theclouds? I thought you were many miles away. "

"And so I expected to be, " said he, shaking hands with her, and bowingto Beatrice, "but circumstances wholly unexpected, compelled me toreturn. "

"And are you going to remain?"

"For some months, I believe. "

"I am really glad to hear it, and so, I am sure, will mamma be; but inthe agreeable surprise your unlooked for return gave, I forgot tointroduce Miss Trevor. " The conversation now took a general turn, andMr. Barclay accompanied them to their door, where he only staid toshake hands with Mrs. Fortescue, and then took his leave, promising toreturn in the evening. 

As may naturally be supposed, many weeks followed of delightfulintercourse; Mr. Barclay, when ever it did not interfere with hisduties, was the constant attendant of Ethelind, and Beatrice; he spentevery evening at Mrs. Fortescue's cottage, affording much speculationto the village gossips, as to which of the two young ladies wouldultimately become the curate's choice. With their aid he carried outhis much cherished object of establishing a Sunday School, andeverything was going on quietly, till, at length, an unusual bustlewas observed in the village; artizans of every description were sentfrom London, and the news was soon spread, that after the necessaryrepairs and preparations were completed, the family might be expected. 

This was anything but welcome intelligence to Ethelind and Beatrice, who feared all their enjoyment would be disturbed. When Mr. Barclaycame in the evening, he confirmed the report and little else wastalked of. 

"It is really provoking, " said Ethelind "I am quite of Beatrice'sopinion, and think great folks anything but desirable in such a smallplace, at least, to people circumstanced as we are. "

"I am of opinion, " said Mr. Barclay, "you will find it quite thereverse. "

"Shall you remain as curate, " asked Mrs. Fortescue. 

"Frederic Eardly purposes to make poor Bennet his curate. "

"But if he is so ill he will not be able to do the duty, " saidBeatrice. 

"It is not hard, and Eardly is well able to do it himself. "

"But will he, " said she, "I really feel curious, to see how thisembryo bishop will get on, as I suppose nothing less is the object ofhis taking orders. "

"Oh, Miss Trevor, judge not so harshly. Is it not possible that insingleness of heart, he may have gone into the Church, unmindful ofall but the sacred calling? I do not pretend to judge, but I believeno worldly honour or pecuniary consideration influenced his choice, asI know his grandfather left him quite independent. "

"Oh, don't tell me, Mr. Barclay, it is very unlikely; but it isnatural that you should take his part because--"

"Because, what?" responded Mr. Barclay, "do you think money orinterest would prompt me to say what I don't think or mean?"

"No, " said Beatrice, "I think you the last person in the world totruckle to the great, --but no more of this; what kind of a being isthis Frederic Eardly?"

"I am a poor judge of character, besides, you would hardly give mecredit for being impartial. They say he is spoilt by his mother andsisters, by whom he is perfectly idolized and to whom he is, inreturn, devotedly attached. "

"Come, that and helping poor Bennet, are certainly very redeemingtraits; but will his giving him a preference be doing justice to you, who have done so much, and will it not--" here feeling she was goingtoo far, she coloured. 

Mr. Barclay too, was much confused; and Beatrice was greatly relievedwhen Mrs. Fortescue turned the conversation. She had long remarked toherself, there was a mystery about Mr. Barclay which she could notunderstand. There was, at times, a reserve she attributed to pride. Ifnot well born, he was quite _au fait_ in all the usages of well-bredsociety. He never spoke of his family, but Mrs. Fortescue once askedhim if he had any sisters, when he replied, "Two, such as any brothermight be proud of;" but, while he spoke, the blood mantled in hisforehead, and fearing it might result from pride, she dropped thesubject, and, for the future, avoided saying anything that mightrecall it, trusting that, in time, she might win his confidence. 

Almost unconsciously to herself, was Ethelind, under the garb offriendship, indulging a preference from which her delicacy shrank. Shecould plainly see a growing attachment in Mr. Barclay to Beatrice, andcould not, for a moment, suppose he could be insensible to herfriend's fascinations, which certainly were very great. She was themore convinced that Mr. Barclay loved Beatrice, for his mannersevidently changed, and, at times, he was absent and thoughtful, andshe sometimes fancied unhappy. Once it struck her, his affectionsmight be engaged elsewhere, and that Beatrice had shaken his faith toher to whom it was plighted. She observed Beatrice using all herefforts to attract and win Mr. Barclay, and yet she doubted if shewere sincere. Many things in her conduct led to this conclusion, andshowed no little coquetry in her disposition. Be it as it may, she metMr. Barclay's attentions more than half way, and seemed never in suchspirits as when with him; at any rate, poor Ethelind's delicacy tookthe alarm, and she resolved to crush her own growing attachment in thebud, and hide her feelings in reserve, and so great was herself-command, that her love for Mr. Barclay, was unsuspected by allsave her mother. 

As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning one evening from a long walk, and being very tired, they sat down on a bank facing the Towy to restthemselves, and watch the setting sun sink behind the undulatingmountains that almost surrounded them. They were, for some minutes, soabsorbed in the scene before them, that neither spoke; at lastBeatrice exclaimed:--

"What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and Mr. Barclay never took itinto your heads to fall in love with each other; you would make such acapital clergyman's wife. "

"Beatrice!" said Ethelind, "why talk thus; do you mean to say that youhave been insensible to his attachment to you?"

"I do not mean to say that, " replied she, "but I can assure you, thatif there is such a feeling, it is only on his side. "

"And yet, you have not only received, but met his attentions with suchevident pleasure, and given him such decided encouragement. "

"Now, Ethy, how could I resist a flirtation with such an interestingcharacter?"

"Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the pain you might inflict byleading him to suppose his affection was reciprocated. "

"Never, my consciencious little Ethelind, he is too poor, nay, toogood, for me to think seriously of becoming his wife. "

"Oh, Beatrice! I thought you had a more noble heart than to triflewith the affections of such a man, particularly now there is a chanceof recovering your property; you might be so happy, and make him sotoo. "

"And do, you think, if I do recover it, I should throw myself away ona poor curate, and that I should like to lead such a quiet hum-drumlife. No, my dear girl, I was never made to appreciate such goodnessor imitate it either. "

"Then, of course, you will alter your conduct, ere you go too far, andnot render him wretched, perhaps for life. "

"Of course, I shall do no such thing, his attentions are too pleasing;it does not appear he will be here long, so I must make the most ofthe time. "

"Oh, Beatrice, think what havoc you may make in the happiness of aworthy man; look at his character; see his exemplary conduct; andcould you, for the paltry gratification of your vanity, condemn him tothe pangs of unrequited love. He has now, I fear, the ills of povertyto struggle against; did you notice his emotion when speaking of hismother and sisters? perhaps they are dependant on him, --you must not, shall not trifle with him thus. "

"And why not, dearest Ethelind; I shall really begin to suspect youlike him yourself; oh, that tell tale blush, how it becomes you. "

"I think, " said Ethelind, "any one would colour at such anaccusation. "

"Well then, to be honest, I have no heart to give. "

"No heart to give! surely you are not engaged, and act thus?"

"I am, indeed. "

"Cruel, heartless Beatrice, " said Ethelind, "you cannot mean what yousay. "

"I do most solemnly affirm it; but I will tell you all bye and bye:now I cannot. I am smarting too much under you severe philippic, youshall indeed know all, --but, " said the thoughtless girl, "let us gohome, as your mother will be waiting tea, and Mr. Barclay with her. "

"How can you face one you have so injured, " said Ethelind, "I couldnot. "

"When you see a little more of the world, you will call these littleflirtations very venial errors. "

"I hope, " said Ethelind, "I shall never call _wrong right_, or _rightwrong_; neither, I trust, shall I ever act as if I thought so. "

They reached home, and found tea ready, but Mr. Barclay was not there, nor did he visit them that evening, but about eight o'clock Mrs. Fortescue received a note, begging her to excuse him, as he had somuch to attend to, preparatory to the family coming to the Park. 

They saw no more of him during the week. On Sunday, he looked, Ethelind thought, very pale. Coming out of church he spoke to hermother, and she thought there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke, as if concealing some internal emotion. They made many conjectures asto the cause of this extraordinary conduct, but both Mrs. Fortescueand Ethelind felt certain there must be some good reason, as capricehad, never since they had known him, formed any part of his conduct;they were, therefore, obliged to come to the conclusion, that if theyknew it, they would find he had good reason for his conduct. 

To Ethelind, when he met her alone, his manner was friendly as ever, but she fancied he had often avoided them, when she and Beatrice weretogether; sometimes she suspected he doubted Beatrice's sincerity. Hesent books and fruit to Mrs. Fortescue, as usual, but rarely went tothe cottage, and if he did, always timed his visits, so as to go whenthe younger ladies were out. He would however, saunter home withEthelind, if alone, after the duties of the Sunday School, and consulther on many of his plans; in short, he daily became more like hisformer self. 

The fact was, that the day on which Beatrice and Ethelind held thediscussion, he had started to meet them, but feeling tired, sat downto rest on the very same bank they afterwards occupied: but the sunshining fully on it, he had retreated behind a large tree, and havingfallen asleep, was awakened by their talking, and thus became anunintentional auditor of their conversation. 

It was a thunderbolt to him, to hear Beatrice acknowledge herselfpositively engaged, and yet wilfully resolve to encourage hisattentions, and thus trifle with his feelings. Before Beatrice came, he had been much pleased with the unaffected manner of Ethelind, whosecharacter he highly respected; but her reserve made him conclude shewas indifferent to him, but how did she rise in his estimation, as heheard the conversation. Not a word of her advice to Beatrice was loston him, and he only wondered he had not done her more justice; howgrateful he felt for the noble indignation she expressed at herfriend's levity, and the honest warmth with which she took his part, and strove, as it were, to prevent his being betrayed by the heartlesscoquetry of Beatrice. He regarded all that had occurred as a specialintervention of Providence to save him from future misery. His regardfor Beatrice was daily increasing and believing her good and amiable, he desired to win the affection, which he fully thought wasreciprocal; and how did the discovery of her treachery dash the cup ofhappiness from his lips; but as it was because he believed her trulyamiable that he loved her, he thought, now the veil was drawn aside, he should soon get over his disappointment. But, unworthy as she was, she had so entwined herself in his heart, that it was no easy task totear her image from it--however, he was strong-minded, and soonreflected that instead of grieving, he ought to be thankful for hisescape. Ethelind saw he was wretched, and fancied Beatrice was, somehow or other, the cause. She pitied him, and prayed for him, but itwas all she could do; but she was not sorry to hear Beatrice say shehad an invitation to Miss Fulton's wedding, which she was determinedto accept. The night previous to her departure, Mr. Barclay, unasked, remained to tea, and when he took leave, he put a letter into the handof Beatrice, which she slipped into her pocket, she thought, unseen byany one, but Ethelind saw it, though she took no notice, nor didBeatrice mention it Before retiring to rest, she read as follows:--

 "MY DEAR MISS TREVOR, "I should ill act up to that fearless line of duty my sacred calling prescribes, were I not, as a friend, to urge you to reflect on your present line of conduct, and ask you to pause on it, ere you wreck, not only the happiness of others but your own, at the shrine of inordinate vanity. Shall I honestly own, that mine has narrowly escaped being wrecked; and that, from your own lips, I learnt such was the case. Believing you good and amiable, as you seemed, I was fascinated, and allowed my feelings to outrun my judgment, and yet I can hardly say that such was the case, for I thought you all a woman should be. Let me warn and entreat you, on all future occasions, as you wish to be happy, to deal fairly and truly with him who may seek to win your affection. I was an unwilling listener to your conversation with Miss Fortescue, the other day, and there, from your own lips, learnt that while engaged to another, you scrupled not to receive and encourage my attentions; and more than that, you declared your resolution, of holding out hopes you never meant to realize. Had I known you were bound to another, whatever my feelings had been for you, I had never sought to win your love, but I fully believed you ingenuous as you seemed. Had you not met the advances so sincerely made by me, with such seeming pleasure, whatever the struggle might have cost me, it had passed in silence. I will candidly own, that while my respect is lessened, I cannot forget what my feelings towards you have been. Time alone can heal the peace of mind you have so recklessly wounded; but I again advise you to reflect seriously on the past, and be assured, that she who pursues such a line of conduct as you have done, will ever find it militate against her own happiness, as well as that of others; and I fear, it has done so in the present instance, for while smarting under the bitter feelings your behaviour called forth, I wrote to an intimate friend, and spoke of my disappointment, and the struggle I had to obtain such a mastery over myself, as would prevent it interfering with my duty. Unfortunately, that friend was the very man to whom you are engaged; which I did not know at the time, nor am I prepared to say if I had, how I should have acted. George Graham is an honourable fellow, who believed you as faithful as himself. Thus has your thoughtless, nay, I will go farther, and say highly culpable levity, sacrificed the happiness of two as honest hearts as ever beat in the human breast; I would say I pity you, but I can hardly expect your own peace to have suffered. 

 "Mine is a responsible and sacred calling; and feeling it to be such, I want, when I marry, a woman who will _aid_, not _hinder_ me in my arduous duties; I have, as far as human infirmity permits, done with the world and its pleasures; but I am but mortal, and who knows to what frivolity, nay to what sin, but for the merciful interposition of God, you might have led me; and that, while bound to teach and guide others, I might, in my daily conduct, have contradicted the truths I was bound to enforce. 

 "On first coming to reside here, I was much pleased with Miss Fortescue, and I felt that with her, I could be happy, but her reserve made me fancy her indifferent to me, and I judged she could not return my love; and while her conduct increased my esteem, I resolved that I would not forfeit her friendship by persevering in attentions, I feared, she cared not for. You came: your beauty struck me; your fascinating manners made an impression I could not resist; your seeming pleasure in my attentions misled me, and my heart was enslaved ere my judgment could act. But no more! you have yourself, undrawn the veil, and humbly do I thank the merciful Providence that has thus over-ruled things, and interfered to save me from--, I hardly know what. You can scarcely wonder that I avoided you, after what I heard; and it was not till to-day I could sufficiently command my feelings, to stay at Mrs. Fortescue's, and see you; it is not that I still love you, for I cannot love the woman I no longer respect. I do not hate you; but I do sincerely pity you, and humbly, and fervently do I pray that you may, ere too late, see the errors of your conduct. You, by your own confession, deem coquetry a venial error; can that be such, from which come such cruel and mischievous results. But no more. I forgive you most freely, and shall ever fervently pray that you may see and feel how inimical to peace _here_, as well as _hereafter_, is such conduct as you have shown. 

 "Ever your sincere friend, F. B. "

No words can do justice to the agony of Beatrice's feelings, as sheread the foregoing letter. She was thunderstruck; here was a blow toher happiness, how completely was she caught in her own toils; shecould but feel the retribution just. Of all men, she knew, GeorgeGraham to be one of the most fastidious, and that of all things heheld the most despicable, she well knew, was a coquette. She loved himwith passionate devotion, but knew, if the effort cost him his life, he would cast her from his affections. She was almost maddened withthe thought. She did indeed feel that Mr. Barclay was amply revenged, and in feeling every hope of happiness was lost, she could judge towhat she had nearly brought him; though she perhaps forgot that he hada support in the hour of trial to which she could not look, for shehad wilfully erred. It had always been her practice to go daily to thevillage post office, consequently, no suspicions could arise on thepart of Ethelind, as they would have done, had she seen the frequencyof her friend's receiving letters. She rose early, and went themorning she was to leave. She started, as the well known writing mether eye on the address: her limbs trembled, and she feared to open thepacket put into her hands. Her own letters were returned with theaccompanying note:--

 "FAITHLESS, BUT STILL DEAR BEATRICE, "Farewell, and for ever! May you never know the bitter pangs you have inflicted! I may be too fastidious, but I could never unite my fate with yours; the woman I marry I must respect, or I can never be happy; and miserable as I shall be without you, I feel that I should be still more wretched did I unite my fate with yours. My whole heart was, and is yours only, and had your feelings been what they ought, you would have spurned the paltry gratification of winning the affection you could not return, I sail for India to-morrow; to have seen you would be worse than useless; as we can never now, be anything, to each other. --Once more, adieu!

 "Your once devoted, "GEORGE GRAHAM. "

Beatrice's eyes were red with weeping when she returned from thevillage. She hesitated whether or not to show Ethelind the letters;but she well knew her disposition and that although she highlydisapproved her conduct, still she would feel for her, and she neededconsolation; accordingly, calling her into her bed room, she put bothepistles into the hand of her friend, begging her to try and read themthrough before the carriage came that was to take her away. Ethelindwas little less astonished than Beatrice had been, and truly did shefeel for her mortification. Many and bitter were the tears she shed onreading Mr. Barclay's letter, for she well knew how strongly he musthave felt. Most thankful, too, was she that, by striving to overcomeher own attachment she had spared herself from having it evensuspected. Without a remark she returned the letters to Beatrice, whocould only beg to hear from her, and she promised to write, when thepost chaise drove up, and after affectionately embracing Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind, she was soon out of sight. 

Mrs. Fortescue was, for some days, very poorly, and at length took toher bed. Mr. Barclay was daily in attendance, affording her all thereligious consolation in his power, but he saw, although resigned, there was something on her mind; and was not mistaken. She felt herearthly race was well nigh run, and she was anxious as to Ethelind'sfuture fate. She knew God had said, "leave thy fatherless children tome, " and she felt she could do so, and she knew also, that it waswritten, "commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it topass;" he had said, and would he not surely do it? She was one on whomsorrow had done a blessed work. 

Mr. Barclay calling one morning, found Ethelind out. It was anopportunity he had long desired, and having read and prayed with Mrs. F. , he told her he feared some anxiety was still pressing on her mind. 

"Yes, " said she, "though I feel it to be wrong, I cannot help wishingto be permitted to linger a little longer here, for Ethelind's sake, though I know that God is all sufficient, still it is the infirmity ofhuman nature. "

"Make your mind easy on that head, my dear Mrs. Fortescue, for ifEthelind will but trust her happiness with me, gladly will I becomeher protector. "

"Oh, Mr. Barclay how thankfully would I trust my child in suchkeeping, but would your means support the incumbrance of a wife. "

"Believe in my truth, at such a moment; I have sufficient for both. "

"Almighty God, I thank thee!" exclaimed the invalid. 

Mr. Barclay now insisted on her taking her medicine, which had such asoothing effect that she soon after fell into a peaceful slumber. Hesat sometime musing, when Hannah, who had alone been helping Ethelindnurse her mother, came in, and Mr. Barclay rose to go. 

He met Ethelind at the door, and finding she was going to her mother, told her she was asleep, and asked to speak with her in the parlour. Only requesting permission to be assured that he was not mistaken asto Mrs. Fortescue not being awake, she promised to join himimmediately. 

"Ethelind, " said he with some emotion, "will you, dare you, trust yourhappiness with me? Can you be contented to share my lot, and help mein the discharge of my duties. Will the retired life I lead, beconsonant with your tastes and wishes. Tell me honestly; you, I know, will not deceive me. Your mother, I fear, is seriously ill, and if, asI sometimes dare hope, you love me, let us give her the satisfactionof seeing us united ere she is called hence. "

"Mr. Barclay, " said Ethelind, soon as she could speak, "were Idifferently circumstanced, gladly would I unite my fate with yours, but with your present limited means, I should only be a burden. Youhave, perhaps, a mother and sisters dependent on you, with whosecomfort I might interfere. "

"They are, " said he, "perfectly independent of me; but tell me if Ihave that interest in your affections that alone can make me happy, tell me the truth, I shall not respect you the less. "

"Oh, Mr. Barclay, I shall be but too happy, " said Ethelind, burstinginto tears, "but can I really believe you. "

"I was never more earnest, and I will add, more happy in my life; butmy Ethelind, " continued he, "your mother's health is so precariousthat I must insist on your consulting her, and naming an early day tobe mine. "

"But I cannot, will not leave her; no, we must wait. "

"You shall not, my sweet girl, leave your respected parent. No, whileit pleases God to spare her life, you shall not be separated from herone hour; she shall live with us, But I shall write to my mother andsisters, who must witness my happiness;--but you are agitated, dearest, do you repent or desire to rescind?"

"Oh! no;" said Ethelind, "but this is so unexpected. Oh, let me go tomy beloved mother, pray do, Mr. Barclay, " said she, drawing away thehand he still strove to retain in his. 

"Have done with Mr. Barclay, and call me Frederic. " Waiting only tillshe assented to this, he took his leave; and Ethelind went, with aheart overcharged with joy, to her mother, who had just awakened froma tranquil slumber. It is needless to say how truly thankful Mrs. Fortescue was. Her child's happiness seemingly so well secured, shehad only now to prepare for the solemn change that she felt was notfar distant. 

From this time, however, her health gradually amended, and the day wasfixed for the union of Ethelind and Mr. Barclay. He settled that theyshould, for the present, reside at the Rectory. Ethelind's countenancebrightened, for she fancied she had solved part of the mystery, andthat Mr. Eardly was not yet coming, and till his arrival they would bepermitted to reside there. 

The evening before the ceremony was to take place, Mr. Barclay came inwith two ladies. One, a benign but august looking personage; theother, a sylph-like, beautiful creature of eighteen, whom heintroduced as his mother and younger sister. Ethelind timidly butgracefully received them. Their kind and easy manner soon removed thelittle restraint there was at first, but she was still bewildered, andcould hardly fancy she was not dreaming; their appearance, too, increased rather than diminished her wonder, for they were mostelegantly attired. After allowing a short time for conversation, shewent out and fetched her mother, and all parties seemed delighted witheach other. After sitting some time, Mr. Barclay, looking at hismother, rose, and taking Ethelind's hand, said, "now, my disinterestedgirl, allow me to introduce myself as Frederic Barclay Eardly!"

"Can it be possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind at once, and with the utmost surprise, while Lady Eardly and her daughter satsmiling and pleased spectators. 

"Yes, my dear Ethelind; but the deception has been very unpremeditatedon my part, as you shall hear. Arriving in England alone, I came down, merely intending to look round, having had some reason to bedissatisfied with Mr. Jones, the acting curate, by whom, when I got tothe inn, I was supposed to be the new curate, and as such, I believe, received very differently to what I should have been as the rector;and anxious to know exactly the state of my parishioners, thought, inthe humble capacity, they had taken me, I might better do this. Incalling to see your mother, who, I thought, from her previous gooddeeds in the parish, was likely to be an efficient adviser, I wasinvited to tea, and from the conversation of both you and her, Ifound, that while as the curate I should have free intercourse at thecottage, as the Hon. Frederic Eardly the doors would be closed on me;added to this, was a lurking hope that I might, eventually, gain youraffections, and know that you loved me for myself alone. Your reservehowever, dispelled, for a time, that illusion. Beatrice Trevor cameand threw out lures I could not resist, and I was fairly entrapped;however, I will not dwell on what has led to such happy results. Bennet, alone, knows my secret. "

Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave. She had brought a splendidwedding dress for Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing theplain white muslin she had herself prepared. 

A union founded on such a basis, could not fail to bring as much realhappiness as mortals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, couldexpect. Frederic Eardly passed many years of usefulness in his nativeplace, aided, in many of his good works, by his amiable wife. Butthough blessed with many earthly comforts, they were not without theirtrials, they had a promising family, but two or three were earlyrecalled; and in proportion to their affection for these interestingchildren, was their grief at the severed links in the chain of earthlylove. The mother, perhaps, felt more keenly than the father, but bothknew they were blessings only lent, and they bowed submissively. 

Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wroterepeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or tenyears afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on herdeath-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenthbirth-day. She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but theletter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errorsinto which she had fallen, and their sad results. She had, it wouldseem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone, and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly, and once more had she injured the peace of others. Farther she mighthave gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a mostvirulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beautywas gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past. Her afflictionwas most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had herlife been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct. 

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, ifpossible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters'principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts todirect their steps aright, might be crowned with success. Her prayerswere heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellentmother. 

LINES, ON SEEING IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, "THE WATERLOO WALTZ. "

BY A LADY. 

 A moment pause, ye British fair While pleasure's phantom ye pursue, And say, if sprightly dance or air, Suit with the name of Waterloo? Awful was the victory, Chastened should the triumph be; Midst the laurels she has won, Britain mourns for many a son. 

 Veiled in clouds the morning rose, Nature seemed to mourn the day, Which consigned before its close Thousands to their kindred clay; How unfit for courtly ball, Or the giddy festival, Was the grim and ghastly view, E're evening closed on Waterloo. 

 See the Highland Warrior rushing Firm in danger on the foe, Till the life blood warmly gushing Lays the plaided hero low. His native, pipe's accustomed sound, Mid war's infernal concert drowned, Cannot soothe his last adieu, Or wake his sleep on Waterloo. 

 Charging on, the Cuirassier, See the foaming charger flying Trampling in his wild career, On all alike the dead and dying, See the bullet through his side, Answered by the spouting tide, Helmet, horse and rider too, Roll on bloody Waterloo. 

 Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire; Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth, Oh shivered be the recreant lyre, That gave the base idea birth; Other sounds I ween were there, Other music rent the air, Other waltz the warriors knew, When they closed on Waterloo. 

THE BOY OF EGREMONT. 

The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adoptedthe mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan. They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, whosurviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family. 

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the riversuddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than fourfeet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidityequal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, calledthe Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility thanprudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destructionwhich awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was thefate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasmwith a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew hisunfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompaniedRomille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and withdespair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootlessBene, " to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, hadbefallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow. "

The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. Butbootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, thoughimperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayeravails not?

 --_Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven_

 Lady! what is the fate of those Whose hopes and joys are failing? Who, brooding over ceaseless woes, Finds prayer is unavailing? The mother heard his maddening tone, She marked his look of horror; She thought upon her absent son, And answered, "endless sorrow. "

 How fair that morning star arose! And bright and cloudless was its ray; Ah! who could think that evening's close, Would mark a frantic mother's woes, And see a father's hopes decay?

 Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern Hath stopped thee in thy mad career; And thou, who hast made thousands mourn. Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear, And long, in helpless grief, deplore Thy only child is now no more. 

 Long ere the lark his matin sung, Clad in his hunting garb of green, The brave, the noble, and the young, The Boy of Egremont was seen! Who in his fair form could not trace, The youth was born of high degree; He was the last of Duncan's race, The only hope of Romillé. 

 In his bright eye the youthful fire Was glowing with unwonted brightness; Warm in friendship, fierce in ire, Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness. His mother marked his brilliant cheek, And blessed him as he onward past; Ah! did no boding feeling speak, To tell that look would be her last. He held the hound in silken band, The merlin perched upon his hand, And frolic, mirth and wayward glee Glanced in the heart of Romillé. 

 And oft the huntsman by his side, Would warn him from the fatal tide, And whisper in his heedless ear, To think upon his mother's tear, Should aught of ill or harm befall Her child, her hope, her life, her all; And bade him, for more sakes than one, The desperate, dangerous leap to shun. He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer. And all his counsel to the air, And laughed to see the old man's eye, Fix'd in imploring agony. 

 Where the wild stream's eternal strife, Wake the dark echoes into life, Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes, Lost in its everlasting foam; And swift the channeled water rushes, With ceaseless roar and endless storm; And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high, Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky; And o'er the dim and shadowy deep, Yawning, presents a deathful leap. The boy has gained that desperate brink, And not a moment will he think Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears That are entwined in his young years. 

 The old man stretched his arms in air, And vainly warned him to forbear: Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay, And mark the dread abyss beneath; Destruction wings thee on thy way, And leads thee to an awful death. 

 He said no more, for on the air Rose the deep murmuring of despair; One shriek of agonizing woe Broke on his ear, and all was o'er; For midst the waves' eternal flow, The boy had sank to rise no more. 

 When springing from the dizzy steep, He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky, The affrighted hound beheld the deep, And starting back, he shunned the leap, And by this fatal check he drew Death on himself and master too. 

 But those wild waves of death and strife Flowed deeply, wildly as before, Though he was reft of light and life, And sunk in death to rise no more. 

 And he was gone! his mother's smile No more shall welcome his return. Ah! little did she think the while, Her fate through life would be to mourn! And his stern sire; how will he brook The tale that tells his child is low! How will the haughty tyrant look, And writhe beneath the hopeless blow! While conscience, with his vengeance sure, Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure. Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye Shall shed the sympathizing tear; Hopeless and childless shalt thou die, And none shall mourn above thy bier. Thy race extinct; no more thy name Shall proudly swell the lists of fame. 

 Thou art the last! with thee shall die Thy proud descent and lineage high; No more on Barden's hills shall swell The mirth inspiring bugle note; No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell, Its well known sounds shall wildly float. Other sounds shall steal along, Other music swell the song; The deep funeral wail of wo, In solemn cadence, now shall spread Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow, In requiem dirges for the dead. 

 Why has the Lady left her home, And quitted every earthly care, And sought, in deep monastic gloom, The holy balm that centres there? Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook On those deserted scenes to look, Where she so oft had marked her child, With all a mother's joy and smiled, For not a shrub, or tree or flower, But brought to mind some happy hour, And called to life some vision fair. When her young hope stood smiling there. 

 But he was gone! and what had she To do with love, or hope, or pride, For every feeling, warm and free, Had left her when young Duncan died; And she had nought on earth beside. One single throb was lingering yet, And that forbade her to forget; Forget! what spell can calm the soul? Should memory o'er its pulses roll Through almost every night of grief, We still hope for the morrow; But what to those can bring relief, Who pine in endless sorrow. 

 --EMMA TUCKER. 

LINES WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

 Sad solitary thought! that keeps thy vigils, Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind; Communing lonely with his sinking soul, And musing on the dim obscurity around him! Thee! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call At this still midnight hour, this awful season, When on my bed in wakeful restlessness, I turn me, weary: while all around, All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness, I only wake to watch the sickly taper that lights, Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death I feel press heavy on my vitals; Slow sapping the warm current of existence; My moments now are few! e'en now I feel the knife, the separating knife, divide The tender chords that tie my soul To earth. Yes, I must die, I feel that I _must_ die And though to me has life been dark and dreary Though smiling Hope, has lured but to deceive, And disappointment still pursued its blandishments, Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me, As I contemplate the grim gulf, --

 The shuddering blank, the awful void futurity. Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme, Romantic schemes and fraught with loveliness; And it is hard to feel the hand of death Arrest one's steps; throw a chill blast O'er all one's budding hopes, and hurl one's soul Untimely to the grave, lost in the gaping gulf Of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence, And who will think of Henry? ah, none! Another busy world of beings will start up In the interim, and none will hold him In remembrance. I shall sink as sinks A stranger in the crowded streets of busy London, A few enquiries, and the crowds pass on, And all's forgotten. O'er my grassy grave The men of future times will careless tread And read my name upon the sculptured stone; Nor will the sound, familiar with their ears, Recall my vanished memory. I had hoped For better things; I hoped I should not leave This earth without a vestige. Fate decrees It shall be otherwise, and I submit. Henceforth, oh, world! no more of thy desires, No more of hope, that wanton vagrant hope; Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul, With emulative haste, looks to its God, And prunes its wings for heaven. 

 --KIRKE WHITE. 

AN EMBARKATION SCENE. 

A short time since, I found among other papers, one containing anaccount of the embarkation of a few detachments to join theirrespective regiments, then engaged in the Burmese war, in India. Itwas written almost verbatim, from the description by one, who was notonly an eye witness, but who took an active part in the proceedings ofthe morning. As so very many similar and trying scenes are occurringat the present time, among our devoted countrymen, leaving for theCrimea, it may not be wholly uninteresting now; as it is founded onfacts, which alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by parallelfacts and circumstances. 

Having business at Gravesend, I arrived there late at night, and tooka bed at an Inn in one of the thoroughfares of that place; I retiredearly to rest, and was awakened in the morning by the sound of martialmusic; and ever delighting in the "soul-stirring fife and drum, " Ijumped out of bed and found it was troops, about to sail for India; Itherefore, dressed myself and strolled down to the beach to witnesswhat, to me, was quite a novel sight, the embarkation. 

It was a clear bright morning in June, and the sun was shining in fullsplendor, while the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames reflected backall its dazzling effulgence. The river was studded with shipping, andto add to the beauty of the scene, two or three East Indiamen had justanchored there, and as I viewed them majestically riding, I couldeasily fancy the various feelings their arrival would create, not onlyin the breasts of those who were in these stately barks, but of thehundreds of expectant friends, who were anxiously awaiting theirreturn. With how many momentous meetings was that day to be filled. How many a fond and anxious mother, who had, perhaps, for years, nightly closed her eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a fewhours to clasp him to the maternal breast. Here, too, might bepictured, the husband and father returning, not as he left his wifeand children, in the vigour of health and manhood, but with his cheekspallid and his constitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropicalclimate. Some few had, doubtless, realized those gorgeous dreams ofaffluence and greatness which first tempted them to leave their nativeland. I once knew one myself, whose hardy sinews had for nearly sixtyyears, braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to_endure_ life, not to _enjoy_ it. He told me, he had left England atthe early age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out grown his youngfriendships. Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place ofthose domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed totake root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his youngbreast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than theinterest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East IndiaCompany's Service. On his departure, he earned no parent's blessingfor him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept andprayed. As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler, like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what waspassing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, whoonly three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which shenow returned, to join her husband, --the long affianced of her earlychoice. For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, butit was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in theschool of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place. 

But the Blue Peter, [1] gently floating in the scarcely perceptiblebreeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for afar different purpose. It told not of restoring the fond husband tohis wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; itwas, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties;for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be bornemany miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they holddear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, notall the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore theirspirits to their wonted tone. 

 [1] A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail. 

There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted ofabout one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though onlyrecruits, were particularly soldier-like in appearance. There wasthroughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, whichseemed to say, "Away with private feelings! we go on glory's errand, and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!" Yet tofancy's eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face. We mighttrace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, thatwould say, "With the deportment of the _hero_, we have the feelings ofthe _man_. One young officer was there, belonging to a differentregiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiableweaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize thehusband or the father. He had not even pains of the lover to contendwith. Glory was indeed _his_ mistress, the all absorbing rulingpassion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not ofaught, but glory!"

Panting to distinguish himself with his corps, he would gladly haveannihilated time and space to have reached it, without spending somany tedious months in making the voyage. Led away by his militaryardor, he thought not of his anxious parents; little recked he of hismother's sleepless nights, and how her maternal fears would fancyevery breeze a gale, and every gale a storm, while he was subject totheir influence. 

Among those waiting to embark, was one who had just parted from hiswife and children; care and anxiety had set their marks on him. He wasa man of domestic habits, and was now, perhaps, to be severed foryears, from all that gave any charm to life; but the fiat forseparation had gone forth, and was inevitable! Soon would immenseoceans roll between them; their resources, which, while they weretogether, were barely sufficient for their wants, were now to bedivided; and the pang of parting, severe enough in itself, wassharpened by the fear that poverty and privation might overtake them, ere he could send remittances to his family. 

A post chaise now came in sight, when an officer stepped forward, asit drove to the water's edge, and assisted a lady to alight from it. Her eyes were red with weeping and her trembling limbs seemed scarcelyable to support her sinking frame. Her husband, for such I found hewas, who had gone towards the vehicle, showed little less emotion thanherself, which he, however, strove hard to suppress. These wereparents, whom each successive wave would bear still further from theirlovely offspring, towards whom their aching hearts would yearn, longafter their childish tears had ceased to flow. They, poor littlethings, knew not the blessings they were about to lose, but their fondand anxious father and mother could not forget, that they hadconsigned them to strangers, who might or who might not be kind tothem, and who had too many under their care, to feel, or even show theendearing tenderness that marks parental love. 

In regimental costume, also, stood one, quite aloof, and from hishistory, (which I afterwards learnt, ) I found that his position on thebeach corresponded with that in which he stood in the world--alone;cared for by none, himself indifferent to all around him; everykindlier affection had withered in his breast. He was careless whitherhe went or what became of him. Yet was he not always so, for he hadknown a parent's and a husband's love. His now blighted heart hadoften beaten with rapture, as the babe, on which he doted, firstlisped a father's name, taught by a mother, whose smile of affectionwas, for years, the sun that gladdened his existence. But these brightvisions of happiness had all flown; that being whom he had so fondlyloved had dishonoured him, and neglected his boy, and on his return, he found one in the grave, the other living in infamy. 

Among the soldiers, I noticed one, on whom not more than nineteensummers had shone; nay, less than that. His light and joyous heartseemed bounding with delight, as he witnessed the busy scene that methis wondering eyes. An aged woman stood near him, whose blanched andwithered cheek but ill accorded with the cheerful look of herlight-hearted thoughtless son. She took his hand, and sobbed out, "Oh, George, my poor boy, little thought I to see the day when I should bethus forsaken; I did hope you would now have staid with me, and been acomfort in my old days. "

"Hush, hush! grand-mother, the boys are all looking at you. Come, now, don't be blubbering so foolishly, I shall soon come back again. "

"Come back again, boy! afore that day comes, these poor old bones willbe mouldering in the dust. But God's will be done, and may hisblessings be upon you; I know there must be soldiers, but oh, 'tishard, so very hard, to part with one's only child. Oh, after the careI have taken to bring you up decently, to lose you thus; and how Iworked, day and night, to buy you off before, and yet you listedagain, though a month had not passed over your head. God help me, "said she sighing, "for even this trial could not be without God'swill, for without that, not a sparrow could fell to the ground. Butstay, do wait a bit longer, " said she, catching him by the belt, as hewas manifesting a restless impatience to join the busy throng. 

"You will promise to write to me, George, you will not forget that?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, mother, I'll write. "

The sergeant now began to call the muster roll, and the poor oldcreature's cheek grew whiter still as the lad exclaimed:

"Now, mother, I must fall into the ranks; good bye, good bye. "

"May God Almighty preserve thee, my child; you may one day be a parentyourself, and will then know what your poor old grandmother feels thisday. "

The lad had by this time passed muster, and was soon after on board. The afflicted grand-mother stood, with her eyes transfixed on thevessel, gazing on her unheeding boy, who, insensible to the agonizingfeelings that rent her breast, felt not one single throe of regret, his mind being entirely engrossed in contemplating the bright future, which the sergeant, who enlisted him, had drawn. 

Captain Ormsby, who commanded the detachment, was a man of feeling; hehad particularly noticed the poor woman's distress. 

"Be comforted, " said he, "I will watch over the lad, for your sake, and will try and take him under my immediate charge, and if he behaveswell, I may be able to serve him. I will see that he writes to you. "

"Heaven bless and reward your honour, " she exclaimed, "surely you area parent yourself. Oh, yes, I knew it, " said she, as she saw him wipeoff the starting tear. "May God spare you such a trial as has this daybeen my lot. "

"Thank you, thank you, my good woman, " said he hardly able to speak. 

She had touched a tender chord, and its vibration shook his veryframe, for he had in the last few days, taken leave of four motherlessgirls, pledges of love by a wife whom he had fondly loved, and of whomhe had been suddenly bereaved. Well might he feel for this poorwretch, for _he_ had known parting in all its bitterness. 

A soldier and his wife stood side by side, apparently ready to embark, whose looks told unutterable things; they both seemed young, but theirfaces betokened the extreme of agony. The name of Patrick Morgan beingcalled, the distracted wife clung to her husband, uttering the mostpiercing and heartrending cries. 

"Sure, and what'll become of me, " cried she, "will you then lave me, Pat, dear, lave your own poor Norah to die, as, sure I will, when yougo in that big ship? Oh, my dear Captain, and where will I go if yourhonour isn't plazed to go without him this time? Oh, do forgive me, but do not, oh, do not, in pity, part us. Sure, an' its your honoursdear self as knows what it is to part from them ye loves; an' so youthought, when ye tuk lave of the dear childer, t'other day, an' sawthe mother's swate face, God rest her sowl, in the biggest of 'em, forsure they're like, as two pays in a bushel, only one is little an't'other big, barring she's in heaven. Sure, and if your honour's selfhad to bid 'em good bye over agin you'd, may be, think how hard it wasfor me to stay behind when Pat goes. "

Patrick, who, with national keen-sightedness, saw the internal workingwhich his wife's home appeal had created, now came forward, and said, "Oh, yer honour, if as how I dare be so bowld as jist to ax you thiswan'st, to take compassion on us; may be, next time, we could gotogether, and if Norah was but wid me, what do I care where I goes. Here's Jem O'Connor wouldn't mind going in my stead, and he's neitherwife, as I have, nor childer, like your honour to part from. " JemO'Conner now came forward and testified his readiness to go all theworld over to serve a comrade. 

Words could but poorly convey an idea of the looks of the anxiouscouple, as they watched the varying countenance of the Captain. Thesituation of the soldier and his wife touched him to the quick, andthe appeal proved irresistible. Jem O'Connor was permitted to goinstead of Pat. Morgan, who, triumphantly led off his wife, both ofthem invoking blessings on his head, whose humanity had thus sparedthem the pangs of separation. 

I stood, perhaps, twenty minutes musing on the scenes that had justbeen passing before me and was returning, to retrace my steps to theinn breakfast, when I noticed a wretched looking woman, with a baby inher arms. She was walking very fast, towards the water's edge, wherethe boats were still waiting to take the last of the soldiers on boardship. She had an anxious, nay, a despairing look as she looked around, as I judged, for the Captain, who was not to be seen. 

Hushing her little one, whose piteous cry would almost have made onethink it was uttered in sympathy with its mother's distress. Castingone more despairing glance, she was, apparently, about to retrace herweary steps with a look that completely baffles description, when hereye fell on a boat returning from the vessel, which that moment nearedthe water's edge, and she saw Captain Ormsby jump out. Hastily goingup to him, she exclaimed, in a tone that seemed almost to forbidcomfort. 

"Oh, Sir, I am ashamed to be so troublesome, indeed I am, and I fearto ask you if I have any chance this time?"

"Why Kitty, my good girl, had you asked me that question half, nay, aquarter of an hour ago, I could not have given you any hope, but I cannow put you in place of Timothy Brennan's wife, who has just alteredher mind. "

"Sergeant Browne, " cried he, "here is Hewson's wife, who went out inthe 'Boyne. ' Do the best you can for her, she can take Hetty Brennan'splace. " Joyfully did Kitty Hewson step into the boat, beckoning to alad who was holding a small deal box, which he placed beside her; butshe seemed as if she could hardly believe herself about to follow herhusband, till actually on board. 

The worthy Captain was, indeed, to be envied such a disposition tolessen the aggregate of human misery, by entering into their feelings. In how very short a space (three hours) had he the power of cheeringthe desponding hearts of several fellow creatures, without eitherdetriment to the service, or swerving, in the least, from his duty. 

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 

This Narrative is supposed to be addressed by an aged Highlander tohis Grandson shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie. 

 Come hither, Evan Cameron, -- Come stand beside my knee; I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain side; There's war within the blast; Old faces look upon me, Old forms go riding past. I hear the pibrock wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 

 'Twas I, that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I've told thee how the South'rons fell Beneath his broad claymore, And how he smote the Campbell clan By Inverlocky's shore. I've told thee how we swept Dundee And tamed the Lindsay's pride; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. 

 A traitor sold him to his foes: Oh, deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name, Be it upon the mountain side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed men; Face him as thou wouldst face a man That wronged thy sire's renown; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down

 They brought him to the watergate Hard bound, with hempen span. As though they held a lion there, And not a 'fenceless man: They set him high upon a cart, The hangman rode below, They drew his hands behind his back And bared his noble brow. Then as a hound is slipped from leash They cheered the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout And bade him pass along. 

 It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the whig west country lord In Balcony and Bow; There sat three gaunt and withered Dames And daughters in a row, And every open window Was full, as full might be, With black robed covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see. 

 And when he came, so pale and wan He looked, so great and High, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye, The rabble rout, forbore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shuddering Through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept. 

 But onward, always onward, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labored Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, An angry cry and hiss arose, From the lips of the angry crowd. Then as the Grćme looked upward He saw the bitter smile Of him who sold his king for gold, The master fiend Argyle. 

 The Marquis gazed a moment And nothing did he say; But Argyle's cheek grew deadly pale, And he turned his eyes away. The painted frail one by his side, She shook through every limb, For warlike thunder swept the streets, And hands were clenched at him, And a Saxon soldier cried, aloud, Back coward, from thy place! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face!

 Had I been there with sword in hand And fifty Cameron's by, That day, through high Dunadin's streets, Had pealed the Slogan cry Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailed men; Nor all the rebels of the South Had borne us backward then. Once more his, foot on highland heath Had trod, as free as air, Or I and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there. 

 It might not be! they placed him next, Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor And perjured traitors filled the place, Where good men sat before. With savage glee came there, To read the murderous doom And then up rose the great Montrose In the middle of the room, --

 Now by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear, And by the bright St. Andrew's Cross, That waves above us there; Yea, by a greater mightier oath, And oh! that such should be-- By that dark stream of royal blood, That lies 'twixt you and me, I have not sought in battle field A wreath of such renown, Or dared to hope my dying day Would win a martyr's crown. 

 There is a chamber far away, Where sleeps the good and brave But a better place ye have named for me Than by my fathers grave, For truth and right 'gainst treason's might This hand has always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still For the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my heart on yonder tower, Give every town a limb And God who made, shall gather them;-- I go from you to him!

 The morning dawned full darkly, The rain came flashing down And the forky streak of lightning's bolt, Lit up the gloomy town. The thunders' crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come; Yet aye broke in with muffled beat The 'larum of the drum: There was madness on the earth below, And anger in the sky, And young and old and rich and poor Came forth to see him die. 

 Oh God! that ghastly gibbet, How dismal 't is to see, The great spectral skeleton-- The ladder and the tree. Hark! hark! the clash of arms The bells begin to toll, -- He is coming! He is coming! God have mercy on his soul! One last long peal of thunder, -- The clouds are cleared away And the glorious sun once more look'd down Upon the dazzling day. 

 He is coming! he is coming!-- Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero, from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, -- There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to'die. There was colour in _his_ visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvelled as he passed them, That great and goodly man. 

 He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he look'd up toward heaven, And it all was clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through. Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept therein, All else was calm and still. 

 Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away; For he had taken his latest look Of earth and sun and day. 

 A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder, As it were a path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder's roll, And no man dared to look aloft, Fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush!--and then--a groan, And darkness swept across the sky, -- The work of death was done!

A GHOST STORY, FOR THE YOUNG. 

MY DEAR CHARLES--

When I promised to write to you during the holidays, I little thoughtI should have so much to put in my letter. I actually fancied it wouldbe difficult to find enough to fill one sheet; and now I do reallybelieve two will not be sufficient for all I have to say: but tocommence my story, which you must know, is a real Ghost Story! But tobegin:--

While we were at breakfast the other morning, papa showed mamma anadvertisement in the "Times" newspaper, remarking, at the same time, that it appeared just the thing he had long wanted; and that he wouldgo to the Solicitor's and make enquiries, and if it seemed stilleligible, would go immediately and see about it. Upon asking what itwas;

I was told it was an estate in South Wales to be disposed of; on whichwas a large commodious dwelling house, which at a trifling expence, might be converted into a family mansion. It commanded, the papersaid, a picturesque view, with plenty of shooting and fishing. --Itfurther stated, that on one part of the grounds, were the ruins of acastle, and a great deal more, in its favor, but you know the glowingdescriptions with which these great London auctioneers always set offany property they have to dispose of. 

Papa had every reason to be satisfied, that it was what he desired; soit was settled he should start by railway that very evening. And youmay judge how delighted I was when he asked if I should like toaccompany him. You may be sure I did not refuse; so we got ready, andstarted by the eight o'clock train. 

We travelled all night and arrived at our destination about four nextday. Papa thought I should sleep during the night, but I found itimpossible, for a gentleman, whom we met in the cars, knew the place, and said so much in favour of it, that I could think of nothing else, but he admitted there was a drawback, and that a great prejudiceexisted against it, which caused no little difficulty in the disposalof. It was reported to be haunted, and one or two people, who hadbought it, had actually paid money to get off the bargain. Of course, hearing this, my mind dwelt much on it, though I said nothing, lest Imight be suspected of being afraid. Now, you know, it is not a little, frightens me at school, but I was greatly puzzled at all I heard, anddetermined I would rally my courage. After dinner, we strolled out totake a look at the proposed purchase. Papa was very much pleased withall he saw. House, grounds, and prospect were, he said, all he couldwish, and not even the report of a ghost, did he consider, anydisadvantage, but quite the contrary, as he certainly would never elsebe able to buy it for double the sum they now asked for it. 

By the time we got back to the inn, Mrs. Davis, our landlady, hadlearnt the purport of our visit, and we, consequently, found her ingreat consternation. We had hardly entered, than she exclaimed:--

"Why surely, Sir, you are not going to buy Castle Hill? Why it ishaunted, as sure as my name is Peggy Davis!"

"Well, my dear madam, " said Papa, "haunted or not, such is my presentintention. "

"Why, sir, nobody can live there. Don't you know there's a ghost seenthere every night. "

"Oh, " replied papa, "we shall soon, I think, send the ghost offpacking. "

"Send a ghost off packing! really, sir, you must pardon me, but youare a strange gentleman. Dear! dear! why do you know that four or fivehave tried to live there and couldn't, for the ghost wouldn't let 'em. You may laugh, but it's a real truth, that it drove every mother's sonaway; yes not one of them could stay. "

"Well, my good Mrs. Davis, we shall soon see whether I can or not; atany rate I shall try. "

"Well you certainly are a stout-hearted gentleman, and you must pleaseremember, whatever comes of it, I warned you. Why, there was JamesReece, a bold reckless fellow and a very wicked one into the bargain, who feared nothing nor nobody, agreed, for five pounds to stay thenight, and was never heard of any more, and some go so far as to say, his ghost has been seen alongside the others once or twice. "

"The others, " repeated papa, "why you don't mean to say there is morethan one?"

"Yes, sure sir, two or three; but 'tis no use telling you, for Ireally think you are unbelieving as a Jew, " and away trotted the olddame, talking to herself as fast as she chatted to papa. 

The next morning, after another ineffectual effort from Mrs. Davis, topersuade him to give it up, papa went and concluded, what appeared tohim, an excellent bargain, with the lawyer, who was too anxious toserve his employer, not to try and make light of the reports, and notonly this, but to fix papa so, that he could not possibly retract. 

He came to the Inn and dined with us. Poor Mrs. Davis appeared ratherin awe of him; as she never spoke a word, but as she came in and outwith different things, she gave papa some very significant looks; butalways behind Mr. Crawford's back. No sooner had that gentleman leftus, than papa told me, he had made up his mind to take possession ofhis new purchase, by passing the night in the haunted house. 

Charles you are my most intimate friend; and therefore, I may open myheart to you, and tell you honestly, (but mind, not a word to the otherboys, when we get back to school) that my heart began to fail me; Iknow it ought not, for I had been taught better things, and should nothave suffered myself to have been influenced, by an ignorant oldwoman. 

There was a bedstead left in one of the rooms, put up by a gentlemanwho had nearly bought the place, and who, hearing such dreadfulstories, determined to try and pass a night there, ere he finallyclosed:--but people said he heard such strange noises, and saw suchodd sights, that he ran away and never returned; the bed and beddinghad, the country people believed, all vanished at the bidding of theghost; indeed, some scrupled not to say, that he had himself beenspirited away. Papa said when _he_ heard it, that most likely he wasashamed of his cowardice, and that this prevented his going again tothe village. 

Papa sent for Mr. Davis, or Griffy Davis, as his wife was pleased tocall him; but the old body herself came, and entreated of papa not totry and entice him to accompany us; for it seems that papa's cool anddetermined manner had made a great impression on Griffy, who, perhaps, got more sceptical on these matters, on account of it. Mrs. Davis wasso importunate on the subject, that she obtained the desiredassurance, viz. , that Griffeth Davis should not be directly orindirectly tempted to encounter the ghost or ghosts, as the case mightbe. The old man soon came, and you would have laughed to see the olddame's rubicond face, with her large grey eyes, peering over hisshoulder; for, notwithstanding; the promise given, she had some doubtsthat he might be induced to try his prowess in the haunted chamber. Papa asked him if he knew any strong bodied young man whom a good sumof money would induce to accompany him and stay the night. Griffyscratched his head, and pondered some short time; till at length, hesaid he knew, but one at all likely; they were he said all so plagueytimerous, or timmersome I believe was the word; but he thought DavyEvans might go if well paid, if he were certain papa would remain too;but another doubt was started; Davy had talked of taking some cattleto a fair some miles off, and might be gone: however, it turned out, that he was on hand, and agreeable to go, with the understanding, thathe was to have his money, even if papa was conquered by the ghost, orhad to run for his ghostship. This was soon obviated; by papa'sdepositing the money in Mrs. Davis' hands; an arrangement that seemedto give great satisfaction to Davy. The next difficulty was thebedding necessary, this, as Mrs. Davis never expected to see it again, had to be paid for. Davy Evans, seemed a stout stalwart fellow, whohad rather a good countenance. Papa who had put the same questionbefore; again asked, "if he were sure he was not afraid. "

"Oh no, sir, " said Davy, "not a bit, thank God, I never intentionallyharmed man, woman, or child, or wronged them, that I of, in any way, and therefore, I may trust in Providence, go wherever I will, and Icertainly ain't afraid of the ghosts up there. "

"But your courage may fail you, my friend, at the last. "

"There's nothing like trying, sir, I haven't been in these parts long;and I know there's strange noises to be heard, but then a little noisebreaks no bones and can't hurt me; and as to a ghost, why, seeing itsmade of air, that can't do much mischief either, especially to fleshand blood, can it now?"

"Well, my friend, we'll try the question, however, very soon, " said myfather. 

I must own, Charles, I again began to feel a little queer, and I thinkpapa noticed it, for he told me to please myself as to going with himor staying at the inn. I was nervous, though I felt sure nothing couldreally harm me, and then, I recollected, I should always repent, if mycourage failed me, so I said boldly out, "I shall certainly go with you, papa. "

"Very well, my son, but even now, if you had rather stay behind, I dopromise not to reflect on you afterwards, therefore, act just as yourfeelings prompt you. I am, myself, so fully persuaded that notanything supernatural can or will harm us, that I am determined tofind out what can have led to such extraordinary reports. "

"But papa, do you not think ghosts are sometimes to be seen?"

"Frederic, " said he, "I will not pretend to say what a guiltyconscience or over-heated imagination may have conjured up andfancied, but as I have neither, I do not expect to see anythingsupernatural; but, as I said before, having heard so much about themysteries of this place, I think, that even had I not made thepurchase, I should like to find them out. "

"But if you see the ghost, papa, will you then believe in suchthings?"

"Wait till, to-morrow, Fred; these are silly suppositions for areligious well educated boy to make, from whom far better things mightbe expected. Now, only reflect a moment, and then ask yourself whatgood can these appearances do. "

I really now began to be quite ashamed of myself, and thought I wasnot only foolish, but wicked, in giving credence to the superstitiousnonsense I had heard. 

Mrs. Davis now coming in with some things papa had ordered to takewith him; again ventured to say she hoped he would not repent going toCastle Hill, adding she would pay every attention to the younggentleman, meaning myself, in his absence. 

"If I am not mistaken, he would rather accompany me Mrs. Davis, he hasbeen early taught to fear nothing but acting wickedly; and I feel verysure be will not shrink from passing the night where I do; however hecan please himself. "

Mrs. Davis actually looked aghast! and though I again expressed myreadiness and determination to go, I own I was a _little, a verylittle_ afraid. 

"Well, it must be as you please, I see you are a gentleman not verysoon turned, when you make up your mind to do a thing. "

"What time may we expect, this said ghost to visit us. When does itusually appear?"

"Why, Sir, generally they say from twelve till two; well you maysmile, " said she seeing papa unable to control his features, "but itsnot once I have warned you, nor twice either. "

"You have done so" said papa "and I feel certainly much obliged byyour kind intentions. I always heard the Welsh were superstitious; butcould not have believed they carried it to such an extent as you do inthis neighbourhood. "

"It may be so; but you are so very unbelieving. May be you don'tbelieve in corpse candles. "

"Oh yes, when they're lighted I do. "

"And ain't they always lighted. "

"What do you mean, " said papa, "are they not the lights you burnduring the night, while a dead body lies unburied. "

"Bless your innocent heart! No. The corpse candies, are seen burningand moving of themselves, afore people die; coming down the roads fromthe houses they live in as a warning. "

"A warning for what my dear Mrs. Davis? what earthly purpose can theyanswer? have we not warning enough in the daily events of our lives toimpress us with the instability of life, and yet how rarely does deathfind us prepared. "

"Well, well; you may be as unbelieving as you like, and talk as youwill: I shall always believe when I see a corpse candle, there'll be adeath but just wait till you pass one night in Castle Hill; may beyou'll tell a different story then!"

"The long and the short of the matter, Mrs. Davis is this, I liked theproperty, and have bought it; and am determined to reside in it ifGod, spares my life. As to the ghost or ghosts, I am well persuadedthat, although some natural causes may render the house and premisesuntenable; supernatural ones I am sure have nothing to do with it. "

Time passed on and the clock struck eight; the hour fixed on, to leavethe inn, for Castle Hill: when papa brought a large trunk and basket, which he had tried to fix on Davy's shoulders; but strong as he was, he was unable to carry them both, he therefore got a wheel barrow, forthe trunk; while papa and I carried the basket between us, and off westarted. A great concourse of people were at the door; many of whomaccompanied us to the foot of the hill, and there left us. 

We went in and took up our quarters in the room, in which was thebedstead and which was considered to be the most constant rendezvousof the ghost. Davy lighted a good fire and found a table and threechairs one of which however proved rickety, so Davy had to seathimself on the trunk. To our surprise we found the bedstead not in thesame place in which we saw it in the morning. This rather, at least soI thought, astonished papa; however he made no comment on thecircumstance. 

Papa had taken care to bring a good supper; He also brought a largepair of pistols, and we had a blunderbuss, the latter, the property ofour friend Davy. These with a sword he arranged to his ownsatisfaction under the pillow, and in about an hour, we sat down to agood and substantial supper. Davy offered to replace what was left inthe basket but papa jokingly told him to leave it for the ghost. Wenow sat for nearly an hour and a half, and except some occasional outburst of merriment, as Davy told us some droll things, about theghost, which were current in the village, we were as still as we wellcould be. 

At last I got very sleepy, as well I might, for it was nearly twelveo'clock. Papa made me lie down and said he thought he would do sohimself; not thinking he said, it was necessary to shew so muchcourtesy to the ghost, as wait for it. We did not undress. Davy fixedhimself before the, fire and soon gave proof, that he was asleep, bysnoring most loudly. 

Mind my dear Charles, in giving you this account, that papa told meabout it afterwards; for I had fallen asleep too. 

Till five minutes to twelve all was quiet as the grave, and thencommenced the slamming of the doors and knockings, and thumpings, asif done with the instrument the paviours use to beat down the stonesthey pave with. This continued some minutes, and then the doorgradually opened, and a female, tall and thin, entered, dressed in anold fashioned yellow brocade, with a sweeping train. Over her head wasthrown an immense gauze veil; her features were sharp and she was verypale. She paused as she entered, and advancing half way from the doorto the bed she again made a full stop, upon which papa rose up and saton the bed, when she threw out her arms, exclaiming:

"Impious and daring mortal; why presumest thou to intrude here, wherenone like thee are permitted to come? Of all those who have attemptedit. None have ever been left to tell the tale!"

"Indeed!" said my father advancing towards her. "I trust you will makeme an exception, however. "

"Hold!" said she "nor dare come nigh to one, whose nature is sodifferent to thine own. "

"Aye!" said my father "who then and what art thou?"

"Not flesh and blood as thou art; again I ask, rash mortal, why are_thou_ here?"

"I remained this night, madam, in the hopes of meeting you, that Imight inform you that having purchased this property, I purposeresiding on it, at least six months of the year, consequently, I mustrequest you and your friends, supernatural or human, to quit the placealtogether. "

"Many before, " said she, "have tried, but vainly, to retain possessionand to attempt it would be fatal. "

"Enough, " said my father drawing a pistol from a belt under his coat, "if you are really of a spiritual nature, my weapon will be harmless, if you are not, the consequences be upon your own head. " As he spokehe pointed the pistol at her heart. With a courage worthy a bettercause, she darted by him and tried one or two of the wainscot panelsas if seeking a private spring, which Davy who, was fully awake bythis time perceiving, sprang up, and caught hold of her, grasping hertightly; she wrestled with him with the strength of a lioness, and butfor papa's help, she must have escaped; he now fired the pistol at thewainscot, to show her it really contained a slug, which he thought shemight doubt, and taking the fellow instrument from his pocket, toldher it was loaded like the other and that, unless she that momentreally and truly confessed who and what she was, and by whom employed, her hours were numbered. 

Trembling and almost gasping for breath, she fell on her knees andimplored mercy. 

"It can be shown, " said my father "only on one condition, a fullconfession of every thing connected with your being here. "

"But, " faltered she, "if I do shall I be given up to _them_ and theywill surely kill me if I am. "

"Tell the truth, " said my father, "and if, as I judge from your lastwords; you are the tool of others, you shall be protected, and ifdeserving, or even repentant, shall be cared for: but stay, " said he, pouring out a glass of wine, "you are greatly agitated, take this andthen sit down. Now, if you will tell the truth, you may dismiss yourfears, and by making the only reparation in your power, a fulldisclosure, you may also make a friend of me. "

"Indeed Sir I will, for I feel sure you will keep your word. "

"You see before you one, who till the last few years, knew not theways of sin. I was carefully and tenderly brought up some miles fromhere; but forming an acquaintance with a young man, I married himagainst the wishes of my parents. I soon found out he was a smuggler, for he brought me to these parts, where I have been compelled to actthe character you saw this evening, to prevent any body buying theplace, it being so near the sea and having a passage under ground itjust suited for the purpose. The gang consists of six men who are allbut one gone out with a boat to fetch a cargo; the moon sets abouthalf past three, when they will bring it in. Had you been here lastnight they were all in the cave. "

"Would you like to return to the paths of duty and virtue?" asked myfather. 

"Oh yes Sir, but how can I, who will now look on me, how can I leaveone, who though so wicked and I fear hardened in wickedness is stillvery dear to me?"

"Only purpose to do rightly, " said my father, and God will surely opena way for you. All you have to do, is to pray to and trust in him. "

"Oh Sir that is what my poor old father would say, that is just how heused to talk to me;" and she fell to crying bitterly. 

"Is he still living?"

"He is Sir, for a letter I wrote begging his forgiveness, was returnedto a neighbouring post-office, only the other day. "

Papa then insisted on her taking some more refreshment, and looking athis watch perceived it was nearly one o'clock: much was to be done, ere the smugglers returned. The woman informed him that only one thenremained who ought to have been on the watch, to light a beaconprepared in case of any danger, but that there was so little fear ofany thing of the kind, that he had freely indulged in spirits, ofwhich there were plenty in the cave and was now fast asleep, in astate of intoxication, consequently, could be secured without anydifficulty. She accompanied papa and Davy to the bed, but on reachingit started back with horror, and would have fallen, had not the lattercaught her; for the wretched being that lay before them, was herhusband who had returned wounded and from the state of exhaustion hewas in, it appeared dangerously so. She was alarmed, and both papa andDavy were so too, least the man they expected to find had escaped, andgiven the alarm; but it was not the case; for at a little distance, they found him lying on the ground, so completely under the influenceof drink, that he was easily secured. Papa now concluded it better tolight the beacon, particularly when he learnt that doing so woulddeter the smugglers from running their cargo, till another signal wasgiven. The poor creature entreated that something might be done forher husband, and papa much moved by her distress, told her a surgeonshould be sent for, but that he did not consider it safe for eitherDavy Evans or himself to remain alone. She then pointed to a doorwhich contained the arms and ammunition of the gang, in case of beingdiscovered. He secured the key of this, and then despatched Davy tothe village, who soon roused Griffy Davis to whom he triumphantlyannounced the capture of the ghost, and speedily returned with severalof the villagers, whom he assured should be well rewarded from thespoils of the smugglers. The latter soon after seeing the lightannouncing danger sent a secret emissary, who finding all wasdiscovered, returned to the others, who immediately left the country;and although a strict search has been made, no tidings have yet beenheard of them, and it is supposed they have flown to foreign parts. 

It was ludicrous to see and hear Mrs. Davis, she thought papa anextraordinary man before, but now, she knew not how to express heradmiration of his courage and discernment even I, fell in for a shareof her praises. "Who could, " she said "have thought it!" indeed, everyone seemed surprised, and wondered they never suspected the truth, aspapa did, but I must leave all their surmises and curious remarks tillwe meet, only telling you, Jenkins the wounded man lived long enoughto testify sincere repentance and poor Mary his wife, was restored toher parents through the intercession of papa who thinks she willnow-become a respectable character. The man who was taken, wasdoubtless more guilty than could be proved, however he was foundsufficiently so, to be sent to hard labour for three months in theneighbouring Penitentiary. He proved to be the identical Jamie Reece, who was said to have been spirited away by the ghost, but who, infact, joined the gang which had just lost one of their number. 

An immense quantity of contraband goods were found secreted. 

I must now conclude this voluminous epistle and trust we shall soonmeet, when I have a great deal more to say. And next summer you will Ihope be able to come spend a month here. 

I remain, my dear Charles, Yours sincerely, FRED. GRAYSON. 

LORD BYRON. 

 A man of rank and of capacious soul, Who riches had, and fame beyond desire, An heir to flattery, to titles born, And reputation and luxurious life; Yet not content with his ancestral name, Or to be known, because his fathers were, He, on this height hereditary, stood, And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart To take another step. Above him, seemed Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat Of canonized bards; and thitherward, By nature taught, and native melody, In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. No cost was spared--what books he wished, he read; What sage to hear, he heard; what scenes to see He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days Britannia's mountain walks and heath girt lakes, And story telling glens, and founts, and brooks, And maids as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul, With grandeur filled, and melody, and love. Then travel came and took him where he wished; He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp, And mused alone on ancient mountain brows, And mused on battle fields, where valor fought In other days: and mused on men, grey With years: and drank from old and fabulous wells, And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked; And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste, The heavens and earth of every country; saw Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt, Aught that could expand, refine the soul, Thither he went, and meditated there. He touched his harp and nations heard, entranced, As some vast river of unfailing source. Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed And ope'd new fountains in the human heart Where fancy halted, weary in her flight, In other men, _his_ fresh as morning rose, And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, Beneath their arguments seemed struggling, while He from above descending, stopped to touch The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped as though It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest At will, with all her glorious Majesty; He laid his hand upon "the ocean's wave, " And played familiar with his hoary locks; Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend, And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing, In sportive twist;--the light'ning's fiery wing, Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Marching up the storm in vengeance, seemed Then turned: and with the grasshopper, who song His evening song beneath his feet, conversed, Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were, Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms, His brothers; younger brothers, whom he scarce As equals deemed. All passions of all men, The wild, the same, the gentle, the severe; All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane, All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity: All that was hated, and all that was dear, All that was hoped, all that was feared by man, He tossed about as tempest withered leaves. Then smiling looked upon the wreck he made. With terror now he froze the cowering blood, And now dissolved the heart in tenderness, Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself, But back into his soul retired, alone. Dark sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet, So ocean from the plains, his waves had late To desolation swept, retired in pride, Exulting in the glory of his might, And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought, As some fierce comet of tremendous size, To which the stars did reverence as it passed, So he, through learning and through fancy took His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top Of fame's dread mountain sat. Not soiled and worn As if he from the earth had labored up, But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair He looked, which down from higher regions came, And perched it there to see what lay beneath. The nations gazed and wondered much and praised; Critics before him fell in humble plight, Confounded fell and made debasing signs To catch his eye; and stretched, and swelled themselves To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words Of admiration vast: and many, too Many, that aimed to imitate his flight, With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, And gave abundant sport to after days. 

 Great man! the nations gazed and wondered much, And praised and many called his evil good. Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness; And kings to do him honor took delight: Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame, Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full; He died!--he died of what? of wretchedness! Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump Of fame; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts That millions might have quenched, then died Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. His goddess, nature, woo'd, embrac'd, enjoy'd; Fell from his arms abhorred!

SELF-RELIANCE. 

"Well, my dear Miss Willoughby, how is your mother this morning, " saida venerable looking clergyman as he pressed the hand of a fair younggirl, apparently, not more than eighteen. Her face was pale withwatching, and her eyes were red with weeping, and though she seemed indeep distress, there was a subdued and resigned manner about her, asshe replied:

"Not any better, sir, I fear; she has had a very bad night, her coughhas been so very troublesome. " Saying this, she opened a door whichled to an inner apartment, into which Mr. Montgomery entered, andapproached the bed, followed by the afflicted daughter, who now triedto assume a composure of manner, very foreign to her feelings, asfaintly smiling, she exclaimed, "Here, dear mamma, is our kind friendagain. " The poor sufferer looked anxiously at him. Her attenuatedframe and sharpened features told the sad tale, that consumption haddone its work, and the hand of death was upon her. 

"Well, my dear madam, " said the good pastor, "I will not ask if youare better; I will only hope the same spirit of resignation to theDivine Will fills your mind as when I left you, yesterday. Remember in_whom_ you trust, and for _whom_. There are never-failing promisesrecorded there, " pointing to a Bible that lay on the bed, "and thricehappy are they who can rely on them in affliction's hour. I have readthem to you, and your own eye, you tell me, has often rested on them;you have only, therefore, to 'commit your way unto the Lord, and heshall bring it to pass. '"

"Oh, yes, " replied the suffering woman, in a feeble tone, "I know itall; I know He is able and willing to take care of my haplesschildren. I _can_ and _do_ trust them to Him; feeling sure He willmore than supply the place of the only parent left them; but, oh, mydear sir, convinced, as I am, of all this, it is, nevertheless, hardto leave them; may He forgive my weakness; but human nature is such, that--" here she paused from exhaustion. 

"It is, my dear madam, meant that we should do so; and trial wouldlose the object for which it is sent, did we not feel its bitterness;but you must try, and rejoice that you are allowed to manifest bothfaith and hope, under so severe and trying a dispensation. Let meentreat you to remember the many instances recorded in scripture, where answer has been given from on high to the prayers of those whocan faithfully cling to them. " But while the worthy man strove to leadthe sufferer beyond this sublunary sphere, his heart bled for the poorchildren she was leaving. The first blow she received, was the suddennews of her husband's death in the Crimea, which came to her ears soabruptly, that her nerves received a shock, from which she did notrally for months. This was followed by a letter, informing her thatsome property which had been left to her a few months previous toCaptain Willoughby's departure, had been claimed by a distant branchof the family, as heir at law, the testamentary document being foundinvalid. These circumstances, joined to delicate health, followingeach other so quickly, proved too much for feeble nature, and she sunkunder them. 

Her excellent daughter, whose fragile form seemed little calculated tobreast the storms of adversity that now threatened her, was unweariedin attention to her dying parent. She saw there were heavy trialsbefore her, and knew they could not be averted, though she could nottell how she was to meet them; but there was a trusting feeling in heryoung heart, that must ever be inseparable from a trust in God'sover-ruling providence; and as she sat through the long nights, watching by her mother's bed, a thousand vague shadows of the futureflitted before her, and many schemes offered themselves to her mind;she tried to drive them off, for it seemed to her sinful. She durstnot _think_, but she could _pray_; and she did so; and oh! theeloquence of that simple trusting prayer, that her God would protectand bless her and the two young beings, whose sole dependance she wassoon to be. How widely changed was her position in a few short months!The petted, and almost idolized child of doting parents, whose everywish had been anticipated, must now soon exert herself to support herorphan brother and sister. 

Mrs. Willoughby, as is often the case with those suffering frompulmonary affection, went off very suddenly; and now was everythreatened evil likely to burst on poor Helen's devoted head; butthough weak in the flesh, she was strong in faith. Relying, as she hadbeen early led to do, on her God, she seemed to rise with fresh energyunder accumulated trials. She soothed and kissed the weeping childrenby turns, but their grief was so violent, they refused to becomforted. 

The night her mother was consigned to the grave, was indeed a tryingone to Helen. The good clergyman, who had gone back to the house afterthe funeral, now knelt in prayer with the bereaved ones, andcommending them to the care of their Heavenly Father, took leave, promising to be with them early next day. 

"Farewell, my child, " said he, to Helen, "fear not for the future, forit is a merciful and loving God who lays his rod upon you; and thoughthe clouds of darkness loom heavily around you, with Him nothing isimpossible; and He could, in one moment, disperse them, if it werebetter for you. May you be purified by the affliction He sends. Goodnight, once more, and remember that not a sparrow falls to the groundunheeded by Him who made it. "

How was it that this feeble child of affliction, went to bed thatnight in some degree composed? For every earthly hope seemed blighted. Her parents, one by one were re-called; her little patrimony takenaway; and she and the little ones left almost friendless. Was it tomake her the better feel where she could and must place her soledependance? Doubtless it was. Oh! ye happy sons and daughters ofprosperity, do you read this description, which many an afflicted oneis now realizing, with apathy? Do ye regard it as an over-wroughtscene of trial? Believe me it is no such thing. While you aresurrounded by every earthly comfort, I will say by every earthlyluxury; lolling, perhaps, on your sofas, or in your easy chairs, yourcup filled to overflowing with every blessing, hundreds of your fellowcreatures, young as you, are suffering privations, you hardly like to_think_ of, but which they, alas! have _to bear_. 

Helen rose early, refreshed by a long sleep, brought on by many nightsof broken rest. She kissed the tears off her sleeping brother andsister's cheeks, and having recommended herself and them to God, proceeded to commence the arduous duties that now devolved on her. When Mr. Montgomery came, he found her doing that which he was aboutto suggest, viz. , preparing for an immediate sale of the furniture, bytaking an inventory, while the faithful servant was busily employedcleaning the house, for which a tenant was luckily found. The twoyoung ones were doing their best to aid their sister. Mr. Montgomerywished them sent to the vicarage, but Helen would not hear of it tillthe day of, or after the sale. Well has it been said, that God tempersthe wind to the shorn lamb; and so did she find it; for on applying, through Mr. Montgomery, to a neighbouring auctioneer, he, gratuitously, attended, and did all in his power to dispose of thethings to advantage. Mr. Willoughby had taken the house on coming intopossession of the property and furnished it throughout, so that beingin good order, most of the furniture fetched a fair price. The dayafter Mrs. Willoughby died Mr. Montgomery had written to a sister ofhis, who lived twenty miles off, to enquire for a small house, shouldthere be such in her neighbourhood. She sent word there was a cottagein the suburbs, which she thought would just suit, and, therefore, hadtaken it for one year certain, it being a very moderate rent. Althoughgreater part of the things sold, had obtained a fair price, there wereseveral useful articles that would have gone for little, and but forthe good clergyman, have been completely sacrificed, these he boughtin; among them was a large carpet and the piano; he thought theymight, if the money were needed, be privately and more advantageouslydisposed of. The funeral expenses were, comparatively, small; foralthough Helen desired to pay every respect to her mother's memory, Mr. Montgomery convinced her it was an imperative duty on her, toavoid unnecessary expenditure, as she knew not what calls might yet bemade on her resources. It next became a consideration how the thingsreserved from the sale, could be got, with the least expense, to theirnew place of residence; but Nancy who was present said there was adistant relative of hers, a farmer, who volunteered to take them inhis large waggon, which he said, by starting at midnight, could beaccomplished in one day, and as it was anything but a busy time, hecould do it with little loss; added to which, he expressed himselfright glad to be able to serve a young lady, who, with her mother, hadbeen so uncommonly kind to his only parent, during a long illness. When did a good action ever lose its reward? Helen thankfully acceptedMr. Montgomery's kind offer of taking the young ones to stay with himtill she was settled in their new abode, but Henry would not hear ofit; he insisted on remaining with his sister and doing all he could tohelp her. So that not liking to leave Fanny alone, it was agreed theyboth should accompany her. She was not sorry for this, as she thoughtthe bustle and novelty would divert their minds from their sorrow; forherself, so much was required of her, both to think and to do, thatshe had no time to dwell on the desolation of her position. 

I must not here forget to state, that, though only eighteen, Helen hadexperienced other troubles than those which now bowed her down; andthey were such as the youthful mind ever feels most keenly. She had, with the sanction of her parents, been engaged to Edward Cranston; hewas himself considered unexceptionable, and the match was thought avery eligible one; he was five years Helen's senior, and had justentered the practice of the law, with every prospect of being calledto the bar. He was first attracted by her beauty and afterwards won byher amiable and pleasing manner. Idolized by his own family, where shefirst met him, and unremitting in his attention to herself, she soonfelt attached, and, confidingly, plighted her troth, and all seemedthe _couleur de rose_. His stay was some time prolonged, but he had, at length, to leave; it was a hard struggle to him to part from her;and he did not do so without many promises of fidelity. To see himleave her, was the first trial she knew. The pang was severe; but hisdevotion was such, that she doubted not his faith, and mostindignantly would she have repudiated the idea that his love for hercould lessen; but his disposition was naturally volatile, and onceaway from her, and within the blandishments of other beauty, he couldnot resist its power. He became enslaved by the fascinations ofanother, and poor Helen was almost forgotten. Painfully did theconviction force itself upon her, as his letters became first, lessfrequent, and then less affectionate. Love is generally quicksighted;but Helen's own heart was so pure, and so devoted, that it was hard tobelieve she was no longer beloved. Hers was, indeed, a delicateposition. She noticed the alteration in Edward Cranston's style ofwriting, and fancied it proceeded from any cause but diminution ofregard for her; that, she thought, could not be possible; but soon, alas! did she learn, the (to her) sad truth, that her affianced loverwas devoted to another, a most beautiful girl, residing in the sametown, and it was said, they were engaged, and too true were thereports, which the following letter confirmed. 

 "MY DEAR HELEN, "How shall I write, or where find words to express all I desire to say. Shall I commence by hoping that absence has led you to regard me with less affection, or shall I honestly say, I no longer love you as you deserve to be loved, and that I am no longer worthy your affection. It costs me much to say this; but you would not wish me to deceive you; you would not wish me to go perjured from the altar with you. I most earnestly hope, nay, I feel sure, you will not regret that I have discovered this mistake ere too late for the peace of both. I have opened my heart and most bitterly do I regret its delinquency; but our affections are involuntary, and not under our control. Till the last two months, I believed mine to be inviolably yours. I know I am betrothed to you, and, if you require it, am bound, in honour, to fulfil my engagement; but I will ask you, ought I to do so, feeling I no longer love you as I ought? Is it not more really honourable to lay myself open and leave the matter to your decision? If we are united, three individuals are miserable for life; but it shall rest with you, oh, my excellent Helen; forgive and pity

 "Your still affectionate, "EDWARD. "

What a blow was this to her warm and sanguine heart! What a return tolove, so trustingly bestowed! She uttered not one reproach in herreply, but merely released him from every promise, and wished himevery happiness. 

She had, from the tenor of all his late letters, had a presentiment ofcoming evil; but she could hardly, till that cruel one, just given tothe reader, realize its full extent; but the young do, and must feelkeenly in these matters, --females in particular, --and, ifright-minded, their all is embarked, and, if founded on esteem, theaffections are not given by halves; and I firmly believe the author, who says, "Man is the creature of ambition and interest; his natureleads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is butthe embellishment of his early life, or a song, piped between theintervals, But a woman's whole life is a history of her affections;the heart is _her world_; it is there, her ambition strives forempire; it is there, her avarice seeks for treasures. She sends forthher sympathies on adventures, and embarks her all in the traffic ofaffection, and, if shipwrecked, unless she be strongly supported byreligious principles, it is a complete bankruptcy of her happiness. "

But let the young remember, there is often in these disappointments, so hard to meet, the most wholesome and salutary chastenings. How verymany happy wives can look back with thankfulness and gratitude, to theall directing hand of providence, that, by a blasting of theirseemingly fair prospects, they are directed to happier fate, thantheir own inexperience would lead them. How often does their HeavenlyFather manifest his care, by leading them from the shoals and rocks ofmisery, which are oft times hidden, not only from themselves, but evenfrom the anxious eye of parental vigilance. 

When Helen had paid the funeral expenses and some trifling debts, shefound she had but a small sum left. It was now her all for the presentsupport of three individuals; and for the future? poor girl! did shethink of that? it did indeed cross her mind; but she suppressed themurmuring sigh that arose; and her beloved mother's precepts wereremembered, and her injunctions, that in every trial, she would clingto her God for help. And truly, and wonderfully was this lone girlsupported; and almost superhuman were the efforts she was enabled tomake. Fortunately, much manual labour was saved by the faithfulservant, Nancy, whom no entreaties could force to quit. She insistedon accompanying the children of her beloved mistress to their newhome. She, therefore, went with the waggon, and the next day, Mr. Montgomery drove the three young ones to their destination. They wereto spend the first night with Mrs. Cameron, whom Helen found thecounterpart of her worthy brother. Less refined in manner, it is true, and with few advantages of education, but she had much common sense, and a most benevolent disposition, and was able to judge most sensiblyof things passing around her. Greatly prepossessed by all she hadheard of Helen, she received her with the warmth of an old friend. Little Henry soon became an especial favourite; he was delighted withthe change, and the natural buoyancy of his disposition, soon led himto forget past sorrows; the farm yard, the garden, the promisedfishing from the neighbouring trout stream, were all novelties thatenchanted him. Nancy was up early, and with the aid of Mrs. Cameron'sservant, had got nearly everything into the different rooms, ere thatlady and Helen could get there. The cottage was very small, but naturehad done much for the situation, which was indeed beautiful. There wasa small bed room off Helen's that was exactly the thing for Henry, anda back one, which Nancy took for granted would be hers, and had, accordingly, put all her things in it. 

Everything was soon nicely arranged, and but little had to be bought. Mrs. Cameron sent a great many things from her house that, she said, were superfluous, causing much extra trouble to keep in order. This, Helen knew, was only intended to lessen the sense of obligation. Naturally active in her habits, she soon made the little placecomfortable, and while she thought how different it was, to what shehad been used to, she also remembered how much better it was, farbetter than she could expect under existing circumstances. 

Her next consideration was the possibility of getting something to dofor their support before their little money was expended. Sheconsulted with Mrs. Cameron, as to the probability of obtainingneedlework, at which she was very expert; though she feared theconfinement might injure her health, of which, it behoved, her to takeespecial care, for the sake of little Fanny and Henry. However, if anycould be obtained, at once, she resolved to take it, till she couldfix on something else; and early the next day Mrs. Cameron called tosay, Mrs. Sherman, the Doctor's wife, would have some ready, if MissWilloughby would call at three in the afternoon. Helen's pride rose, and her heart beat high; was she to go for it herself? She, for themoment, revolted at the idea; but principle soon came to her aid, andshe accused herself of want of moral courage. 

"What!" said she to Mrs. Cameron, "has it pleased God to place me in aposition, at which I dare to murmur? oh, my dear friend, what would mybeloved mother say, could she witness my foolish struggle betweenprinciple and pride. Were it not for my good, should I be called on todo it?"

"No, my dear girl; and that Being who sees principle triumph, willreward it. Go then, my child; you see and feel what you ought to do, therefore, act up to it. It is only when the right path is rugged, there is any merit in walking in it. "

"You are right, my excellent friend; may God direct this rebelliousheart of mine. Oh, how unlike am I to that dear departed one, who, ----" here she burst into tears. Mrs. Cameron now rose to go, andHelen promised to call after she had been to Mrs. Sherman's. 

In the afternoon, she dressed herself to go for the work. Her deepmourning added, if possible, to her lady-like appearance. When inhealth, she was extremely lovely; but it was a beauty, one can hardlydescribe, since it arose not from regularity of feature. Suffice it tosay, she found Mrs. Sherman alone, who received her, not only kindly, but with a degree of feeling and respect, that is rarely accordedthose, whom adversity has depressed. She apologized for not havingsent the work, and said, that indisposition, alone, induced her totrouble Helen to call for the directions as to making the shirts, about which the doctor was very particular. While pointing out howthey were to be done, a little girl, about eleven, burst into theroom, and threw herself on the sofa. On her mother desiring her toleave, she cried out in a wayward tone, "No, I shan't, I want to stayhere, because I like it, and I will, too; papa would let me if he wasat home, and if you turn me out, I'll tell him, so I will. "

"Susan, my child, you must, indeed you must leave me, I want to speakto Miss Willoughby alone. "

"Oh, yes, I know you do; you don't want me to hear you tell her how tomake papa's shirts. "

"Fie! my dear, how can you act thus perversely, " said Mrs. Sherman, asshe forcibly led her to the door, which had no sooner closed on thepetulant child, than she apologized, with much feeling, and seemedgreatly mortified at this _contre temps_ of her little girl. "In fact, my dear Miss Willoughby, " she said, "she is, with several others, running almost wild, for want of a good school in the place. "

"Oh, madam!" cried Helen, in almost breathless haste, "do you say aschool is wanted here? oh, tell me, would they think me too young, ifI were deemed capable, which I feel I am; for my beloved mother sparedno pains in grounding me thoroughly in the essential points, and, foraccomplishments, I have had the best masters. "

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Sherman, "could you undertake to impart therudiments of music?"

"I am sure I could, " said Helen, blushing as she spoke, at the idea ofhaving, thus, to praise herself, "for when I left off learning, Icould play anything off at sight. "

"If that be the case, I can easily get you a few pupils to commencewith, but how will you manage for a room?"

"Oh, " replied the enthusiastic girl, cheered by these openingprospects, "there is a room at the back of our parlour, which, beingso large, I did not care to furnish, it would make an admirable schoolroom. "

"It is, indeed, a lucky thought, my dear Miss Willoughby, and may be, not only of benefit to yourself, but to the inhabitants of the place;that is, if you are capable and attentive. "

"Indeed! indeed! I will be both. Only permit me to make the trial, "said the excited Helen. 

"That you shall, and have my little Susan to begin with; and thesooner you do so, the better; but let me beg of you not to be toosanguine, for fear of disappointment. Let me see, this is Wednesday;you could not manage to get your room in order by Monday, could you?"

"At any rate, " said Helen, "I would take the few who would attend, atthe first, in our little parlour. "

Helen, then after thanking Mrs. Sherman for the suggestion, rose togo; when that lady invited her back to tea, wishing to get moreinsight into her plans and capability, before she ventured torecommend her to others; and she wished that her husband the Doctor, should see and converse with Helen, for whom she began to feel greatinterest, as she had much reliance on his judgment, and penetrationinto character. Having gleaned from the early part of her conversationwith Mrs. Sherman, her anxiety about the shirts, which were a new, anddifficult pattern, Helen insisted on taking and doing them at herleisure, which after repeated refusals, she at length agreed to. 

In returning home, she called, agreeably to her promise, on Mrs. Cameron, who was as much pleased with the result of her visit asherself. 

"See, my dear Miss Willoughby, " said she, "how your conduct wasrewarded, as I was sure it would be, for adhering to the right. Hadyou sent Nancy for the work, perhaps you would never have got it, andyour qualification as a teacher might never been known. Was there notmy dear Helen, a special providence here? yes indeed there was. "

Here, I must beg to digress a little, to urge the advantage of athorough education; which can never be too highly appreciated, or toostrongly enforced. Under any reverse of fortune, who can calculate onthe benefits? to say nothing of the gratification it affords in somany ways. "Knowledge is power, " and always secures its possessor, adegree of influence, that wealth can never command. Oh! would that allmothers, as well as daughters, could but be duly impressed, with asense of its _vital_ importance. Then we should not see girls, dayafter day, permitted on any frivolous excuse, to absent themselvesfrom school: for if time be so truly valuable, as we know it reallyis; how doubly, nay trebly, is it, in the period devoted to education. If we could only rightly reflect, on the true end of education, thisserious waste could never be. What is it I ask? is it merely toacquire a certain amount of rudimental information, and perhaps asuperficial acquaintance with showy accomplishments? assuredly not: itis to learn how to think rightly, that we may by thinking rightly, know how to act so. Rudimental instruction is necessarily thefoundation; and as such, must be duly and _fully_ appreciated; but itis the _application_ of knowledge that education is meant to teach, and this must be acquired by "line upon line and precept upon precept;here a little and there a little, " it is not the work of a day; nor isit to be gained by alternate periods at school. Who know but those whoteach, half the time that is required to recover what is lost in thesefrequently recurring, temporary absences. It is not only a largeportion of rudimental instruction that is lost; but those _many_opportunities, which every conscientious teacher eagerly, andanxiously, avails herself of, to enforce good principles. This can bedone at no stated periods, but they must be seized as circumstancescall them forth, whether suggested by the teachings of the sacredwritings, or from the ample pages of history: or even from the lessonshe may convey from the sentiment that often heads a child's simplecopy book. If these, lost and frittered away periods, be of noaccount, then there is both time and money thrown away by those whoare regular in their scholastic attendance. 

Most amply was Mrs. Willoughby's sedulous care in the education of herdaughter, repaid; what comforts it brought to her orphan children; andto how many would it prove equally serviceable, and save them fromeating the bitter bread of dependence. 

It was but little in consonance with the state of Helen's feelings, tomix with strangers so soon after her beloved mother's death, and mostgladly would she have declined going back in the evening, and proposedto send an apology, and say she would be with Mrs. Sherman early thefollowing day; but Mrs. Cameron, whom she consulted, and upon whoseadvice she generally acted, strongly advised her to go, and take Fannywith her, as Mrs. Sherman had requested. 

"Situate as you are my dear, " said she, "you owe it to yourself, andthe dear children, to make as many friends as you can. The Shermansare kind-hearted, and I may say influential people, and may do you agreat deal of good. I have known them many years as worthy and sincerecharacters. " This was enough: and Helen was punctual to the time named. 

The Doctor was in to tea, and his frank good humoured manner, completely won Helen's heart. He too, on his part, was much pleasedwith her. After conversing for some time, he appeared thoughtful, andthen put several questions to her; among others, asked, if she hadever applied for the allowance from the "Compassionate Fund, " forherself and the children; saying, he knew some who received it; andthat he would inquire what forms were necessary for obtaining it:adding, "I believe it is not much; not more than ten pounds a year each, butas there are three of you, thirty pounds is worth trying for. "

Helen was very grateful for the suggestion, and the good Doctorpromised to make the requisite inquiries next day. While they werethus chatting together, the two little girls were amusing themselvesin the drawing room, which communicated with the parlour by foldingdoors, and just as the Doctor was remarking how quiet they were, thepiano was struck, and a pretty sonata played. Mrs. Sherman wassurprised to find it was Fanny, and still more so, on hearing thatHelen had been her sole instructress, as she played very prettily. TheDoctor, who was passionately fond of music, was then very anxious tohear Helen play, and asked her to do so, but kind feeling restrainedhim from urging her, when she gave her reason, which, I need not tellthe reader, was the recent death of her mother. 

The evening passed off very cheerfully, and Helen found, ere she leftMrs. Sherman's, she had secured warm friends in her and her excellenthusband. It was agreed that, on the following day, she should herintroduced to several families, where she would be likely to obtainpupils; and so successful were Mrs. Sherman's efforts, that she hadthe promise of six to commence with on the following Monday, and ere amonth had elapsed, three more were added to the number. 

I should before have mentioned, that, on the death of her mother, Helen had written to an aunt, who was in great affluence, informingher of the sad event, from whom she received a cool letter ofcondolence, but not the slightest offer of assistance. 

Finding it necessary to forward certificates of her parents' marriage, as well as those of her own and the children's baptism, she wrote toher aunt, for information as to where she might obtain them. In reply, she informed her where she could get them, and then concluded, byoffering her and Fanny an asylum, for such she termed it, if for theirboard, Helen would instruct her three cousins. She took care toinsinuate, that as doing this, would involve additional expense, shemust be content to be received as a mere stranger; she would beexpected even to assist in the family needle work. Fanny, Mrs. Selwynsaid, would not require much clothing to be purchased, as two of hercousins were older than she, was, and never half wore their thingsout, adding, as Helen, would in all probability, obtain thecompassionate allowance, it might, with care, clothe her and helpHenry, if he needed anything. She finished her heartless letter, bysaying: of course, Helen would try and find a place for him, as hemust not, she said, be too particular _now_. Helen read, and re-readit, and then bursting into tears, fell on her knees, and thanked herHeavenly Father, who had given her the means, by honest industry, ofsaving herself and little ones the bitter pang of eating the bread ofdependence. After this, with what heartfelt thankfulness, did she sitdown with them, to their frugal meal. 

She wrote and respectfully declined her aunt's offer. The fact of thematter was this: Mrs. Selwyn had heard of Helen's successful attempt, and though she held no communication with her sister, --Willoughby, after that lady had offended her father by marrying, yet she hadlittle doubt of Helen's capability; and thought, after the energy andself reliance she had manifested, she might, for she was, though rich, a most parsimonious woman, turn it to her own account and for a fewyears, at least, get her children cheaply educated. It was Helen'sdetermination, if she obtained the compassionate allowance, to keepit, as a reserve for her brother's education. She mentioned herintention to Dr. Sherman, who expressed his warm approval of her plan. 

One day, Nancy, who had been to the shop for groceries, came in, veryhastily, to the room Helen and Mrs. Cameron were sitting in. 

"Oh, Miss Helen! do you know, while I was waiting in Mrs. Conway'sshop, who should come in, but Peggy Smith, to say she was going toleave, the place, and go to her mother, a long way off, as she was, all along, so sickly, and she herself but a lone woman here; wellshe's going to sell that nice cow, and let the field that joins ourlittle paddock, which she holds on lease. Now, I know that cow is afirst-rate milker, and I thought if you would buy her, as I have agood deal of time, I could soon clear the five pounds, which is allshe asks for it; she will calve in a month, and Mrs. Conway will takeall the butter we don't want. "

"It will be a capital thing, Helen, " said Mrs. Cameron, "if Nancyunderstands how to manage her. "

"I should think, ma'am, I did, when I was brought up in a dairy all mylife, till I went to live with Mrs. Willoughby, and mother's been sicktwo months at a time, and I made all the butter and cheese too. "

Mrs. Cameron told Helen, she had no doubt it might be made quite aprofitable investment, as Nancy was such a good manager, and evenoffered to lend the money, but Helen had so well economised her littlestock, this was not required. 

Weeks and months passed away, but no satisfactory, or indeed, anyanswer at, all could be obtained as to the compassionate allowance. Atlast, Dr. Sherman wrote again to the War Office, and received ananswer, saying, the request could not be complied with, on the groundthat Captain Willoughby's death was not properly authenticated, thoughit was not, in the least, doubted, as a miniature of Mrs. Willoughby, and his pocket book, were found in the breast of a dead major, afriend of his, and in the same regiment, it was supposed, that heconsigned them to the major, in his dying moments. The grant, therefore, could not be allowed while the essential document waswanting. 

Among her pupils, she gave lessons in music at their own house, to theMisses Falkner. One morning, being tired of waiting which sheinvariably had to do, she sat down to the instrument to pass away thetime. One of her favorite songs lay before her on the Piano, and shealmost unconsciously struck the keys and played the accompaniment, andsang it. Hardly had she finished, than Miss Falkner came in;exclaiming, as she did so, "what, you here, Mr. Mortimer! how longhave you been waiting?" not taking the slightest notice of Helen. 

"Some time, " said he, "but both my apology, and thanks, are due tothis lady, for the high treat, she has afforded me. I was standingoutside the veranda, when she entered and seeing it was a stranger, was going off, when she commenced a favorite air of mine, and I wasspell bound! but you will introduce me, will you not?

"Oh yes, certainly, " said Miss Falkner in a hesitating tone. "It isthe young person to whom Julia goes to school, and who gives me, andEliza lessons in music; Miss Willoughby, " here she stopped; she didnot even add the gentleman's name. "I am sorry Miss Willoughby, " saidshe "I cannot take my lesson to-day, and therefore need not detainyou. "

Helen colored, and bowing left the room, the stranger rose, opened thedoor for her, and accompanied her to the street door, when he againbowed his head respectfully. 

When he returned to the room, Miss Falkner rallied him on hispoliteness, to the village governess, as she contemptuously, styledHelen. 

"Village queen! I think, " said he, "for she certainly has a mostdignified, and ladylike bearing, and is very good looking too. "

"Well, I do declare Mr. Mortimer, you have quite lost your heart. "

"By no means my dear Miss Falkner, it is not quite so vulnerable. Alovely face and graceful form alone, will never win it: even with theaddition of such a syren's voice as Miss Willoughby possesses; shesings, not only sweetly, but scientifically. "

"Of course, " said she, "if people are to get their living by theirtalents, they ought to be well cultivated. "

So little accustomed, since the death of her mother, to kindness fromthe world in general, and made to feel, so keenly, her dependantsituation, Helen fully appreciated the respectful deference accordedto her by the stranger. 

Her pupils increased so, that in a short time, she had twelve, besidesseveral for accomplishments but the Misses Falkner, for reasons bestknown to themselves, declined her future instructions, and just as shewas preparing to go to them a day or two after being, so cavalierlydismissed, Mrs. Falkner was announced at the cottage. She came, shesaid, to pay the bill, and say her daughters would discontinue theirlessons:

"Of course, " she said, "you will only charge for the time you actuallycame to them. "

Helen quietly replied, "that she should certainly expect the quarterthey had commenced, to be paid for. " She knew they could afford it, and she felt it due to those she laboured for, not to throw away onepenny. 

"Well, " said Mrs. Falkner, "this comes of patronizing nobody knowswho, it is just what one might expect. "

"Madam, " said Helen, her colour rising as she spoke, "had you thoughtproper to have done so, you might have known who I was. "

"I think, " said the unfeeling woman, "as Julia's quarter is up, Ishall keep her at home too, for the present. "

"As you think proper, " said the agitated girl. 

"Well, well, you are mighty high, I think, for a person obliged towork for her bread. You are come down pretty low, and may----"

"Hold!" said Helen, "let me intreat you, Mrs. Falkner, to desist thesecruel taunts. God has been pleased to place me in my present position;and it is, with thankfulness, nay, with pride, I exert the talents hehas given me for the support of myself and the dear children, he hascommitted to my care. Poverty, madam, may _try_ us, and that severely;but while we act rightly, it can never _degrade_ us, but in the eyesof those, unfeeling as yourself. "

"Mighty fine and heroic, to be sure! Is it not a pity Mr. Mortimerisn't hidden somewhere to hear you, as he was when you sung, andpretended not to know he was listening. He could see through it, though, as well as we did; and let, me tell you, artful as you are, that he is not a bird to be caught with chaff. But there's your money, so give me a receipt. " This, she no sooner received than off shestarted. 

Helen, who had, with difficulty, restrained her tears, now gave way toher feelings, and thus relieved her over-charged heart. At thismoment, Mrs. Cameron came in, and having heard all that had passed, said:

"Never mind, my dear child, we must all be tried, some way or other, and even this cruel heartless woman could not vex you thus did not Godpermit her to do so; we have all, yes, the very best of us, proud, rebellious hearts, that need chastisement; and it is not for us tochoose, how it is to be done. God knows best; meet it, therefore, mydear, humbly, as from _Him_, and not _man_; all will yet come right. You are a good girl; still Helen dear, you need, as we all do, thechastening of the Almighty, for we every one of us, come short, and'when weighed in His balance, are found wanting, '"

A few days after this, Henry, who had been out fishing, came in, withhis basket full of trout. "

"Look there, Helen, " said he, "what do you think of that? There'strout for you?"

"Why, Henry dear, are you already so expert at fishing?" asked hissister. 

"No, " replied Henry, "but a gentleman joined me, and we angledtogether. See, what beautiful flies he has given me! He caught threefish to my one, but he would make me take all. Oh, he's a real nicefellow. He has hired Mr. Bently's hunting lodge for the season, andsays I may go with him, whenever I please, if you will let me. 

"Whenever it does not interfere with your studies, Henry, but you mustmind and not be troublesome to him. "

"I'll take care of that; but I forgot to tell you, I met Mrs. Sherman, as I was coming home, and she wants you to go to tea there, and Susanis to come down and stay with Fanny. "

Mrs. Sherman had seen Mrs. Cameron, and learnt from her the cruelmanner in which Mrs. Falkner had behaved, and kindly desired to have achat with Helen, in order to soothe and strengthen her mind, and; ifit were possible, render her less vulnerable to these shafts ofmalice. After they had, for some time, discussed the matter:

"Now, " said Mrs. Sherman, "let us forget all unpleasantries, and giveme one of your nice songs; I wonder where the Doctor is? he promisedto be in to tea; but, I suppose, he has taken it where he isdetained. "

Helen sat down, and played and sang. At length, the Doctor's voice washeard in the passage; but Mrs. Sherman insisted on her going on, andheld up her finger, as her husband entered, in token of silence. TheDoctor sent Mrs. Sherman to the parlour door, where stood Mr. Mortimer; when Helen had finished, she turned and saw him. He bowedand went across to her, and expressed his pleasure in meeting heragain, in such a frank off-hand manner, that our heroine, if such she, may be called, soon lost all feeling of embarrassment, and went onplaying and singing and the evening passed imperceptibly away. Whenthe Doctor escorted Helen home, Mr. Mortimer accompanied them to thegate, leading to the cottage and took his leave. 

Their meeting at Dr. Sherman's was entirely the result of accident. Mr. Mortimer had been on friendly terms at the house ever since he hadbeen in the neighbourhood, but as both the Doctor and his wifeconcluded he was engaged to Miss Falkner, they never thought to askhim, when Helen was expected, and so tenacious was he, not to win heraffections, till assured he could make her his, that he carefullyassumed an indifference he was far from feeling. He pitied herposition; which he saw was a trying one; and he greatly admired theway she acquitted herself in it. He gained a great insight into hercharacter, in his conversations with Henry, who, entirely off hisguard, was very communicative. The following letter, however, from Mr. Mortimer to an old friend, will best elicit his views and opinions:

 "MY DEAR EMMERSON, "I promised to let you know where I brought up, and here I am, domiciled in a pretty little country village, where Bently has property, and I have hired his snug hunting lodge, and, in the mind I am in, I shall remain the next six months, that is, if when the term for renting this said lodge expires, I can find a place to which I can bring my sister Emily, Here there is hardly room enough for myself and Philips, who is still my factotum, valet, groom, and I know not what besides; however, he is content, and so am I. Heartily sick of town, and its conventualities, and tired of being courted and feted, not for _myself_, but my _fortune_, I care not, if I never see it again. I am weary, too, of 'single blessedness, ' and yet afraid to venture on matrimony; why is it so few are happy, who do? There is some grand evil somewhere; but where? 'Aye there's the rub. ' I look narrowly into every family I visit, especially, the newly married ones, and I see the _effect_, but not the _cause_. Now, _one_ cannot be without the _other_, we well know. I fear I expect too much from the other sex, and begin to think there is more truth than poetry in your observation, that I 'must have a woman made on purpose for me, ' for I certainly do want to find one very different from most that I have yet seen. 

 "Travelling between London and Bath, I met my father's old friend and college chum, Falkner, who finding I had no settled plans, persuaded me to take Bently's hunting lodge, which is in the vicinity of his villa. Falkner is a worthy good creature, whom I should give credit for a great deal of common sense, were he not so completely under the dominion of his wife, a perfect Xantippe; by the bye, I think, however wise he might be in some respects, that Master Socrates was a bit of a goose, particularly if, as history maintains, he did, he knew what a virago he was taking. But, however deficient in her duty as a wife, Mrs. Falkner goes to the other extreme, and overacts her part as a mother; but I am very ungrateful in thus animadverting on her behaviour, for you must know, she has singled out your humble servant as a most especial favourite; and though _she does not wish her girls married_, takes right good care to let me know that she thinks the woman who gets me, will be lucky; and that, much as she would grieve to part from one of her daughters, yet, were an eligible chance to offer, she would throw no obstacles in the way. I do verily believe she has discarded a little girl who taught her daughters music, solely for fear I should fall in love with her; and certainly, she is as far superior to the Misses Falkner as she well can be, both in attainments and personal attractions. I am so afraid of coming to a hasty conclusion, but own myself greatly prepossessed in her favour. She has been well and carefully brought up; I have watched her in church, and have marked an unaffected devotion, which I have seen carried to the sick and suffering poor around her. She has lost both parents, and now by her talents, supports an orphan brother and sister. The former, an intelligent interesting boy of thirteen, is a frequent companion of mine, and if I can, without wounding the delicacy of the sister, I trust to be of some future service to him. I have, indirectly, and, perhaps, you will say, unfairly questioned the boy, and all tells in her favour; now, here it must be genuine. Miss Willoughby plays and sings like a Syren; but then, so does many a pretty trifler. Beauty and accomplishments are very well to pass an evening away; but in a companion for life, _far more_ is required; much more than these must _I_ find in a woman, ere I venture to ask her to be mine. I am heartily tired of my present life; it is a lonely stupid way of living; living! I don't live, I merely vegetate! I have no taste for dissipation; neither have I any great predilection for field sports. 

 "Miss Willoughby is, I think, far superior to the generality of her sex, but she shall never have an idea of my partiality, till I am thoroughly persuaded she can make me happy; for although she may not come up to my standard of female perfection, she is far too amiable and too forlorn to be trifled with; and, therefore, I will not try to win her affections, till I know I can reciprocate them. With regard to the Falkners, I will be guarded. I respect the old man sincerely, and his family; farther, deponent sayeth not. He is the beau ideal of a country squire, and I think you will like him! They are all remarkably civil, and I must, for many reasons, keep up an intercourse, or give room elsewhere of having my plans suspected, The whole village, I believe have given me to one of the Falkners. I do not wish even the worthy Dr. Sherman and his excellent wife to suspect that I feel more than a common interest in their protegee. I wish you would come down for a month, I think you would like this part of the country, and I am sure you and Mr. Falkner would get on together. Neither have I the slightest doubt, but you would be pleased with the Shermans; they are gems, perfect gems, in their way. And as to Miss Willoughby, --but come and judge for yourself. You are engaged, or I might not, perhaps, be so pressing. 

 "Just as I was concluding this, a letter was brought by the mail, from a distant relative, who is just returned from India. It was hastily written, and sent off while the ship was laying in the Downs, requesting me, if possible, to meet him at Deal. So I am off for a short time, and will write to you directly I return. Till when, farewell. 

 "Ever faithfully yours, "GEORGE. "

Every meeting increased Helen's respect for Mr. Mortimer; she oftenmet him at Dr. Sherman's, but it seemed always the result of chance, nor had she the slightest idea that he felt for her other, than theesteem of a friend. The village gave him to one of the Misses Falkner, and Helen took it for granted it was so. She rather regretted it, asshe thought him too good, and feared they could, neither of them, appreciate his worth. She occasionally met the Falkners at Dr. Sherman's, when the eldest young lady always took care to monopolizehim, which, for reasons of his own, he readily fell into. When he tookleave to go to Deal, Helen could not help fancying there was atenderness and peculiarity in his tone, as he addressed her, and yetshe thought she must be mistaken, and that it was only his naturalfriendly warmth of manner, for she had none of that silly vanity, thatleads many girls to fancy, because a man is kind and attentive, hemust be in love. 

She missed him greatly, for latterly he had accompanied her in hersongs, and supplied her with music and books; still, all was doneunder the mask of friendship, and duplicates of these little presentswere generally procured for Falkner Villa. Also, Henry, too, was sadlyat a loss for his companion; all his out door amusements seemed tohave lost their interest, and he began to look anxiously for the timeproposed for his return. A room was prepared both for Mr. Mortimer, and his cousin, at Mr. Falkner's. On his return, however, he preferredgoing to his own quarters, leaving Sir Horace Mortimer, his relative, to the hospitalities of Falkner Villa. 

Sir Horace Mortimer's stay with them, opened a fresh field for Mrs. Falkner's speculations, and not being either so fastidious orclear-sighted as his cousin George, Sir Horace, at one time, bid fairto set the former an example. 

They were all assembled at Dr. Sherman's a few nights after Mr. Mortimer's return, when Sir Horace was introduced, to Helen. He almoststarted, but said nothing; however his eyes were so completely rivetedon her, that he became quite absent--in short, his fixed gaze becamepainful. Dr. Sherman was, during the evening, called to the door, whenhe received a parcel from London, carriage paid, which the man said hehad promised to place in the Doctor's own hand. The worthy manwondering from whom it could possibly come, retired to his own roomand opened it. It contained Mrs. Willoughby's portrait and the pocketbook; the latter he locked up carefully; the former he was carrying toHelen: who being engaged with Mrs. Sherman in the adjoining room, heshowed it to Sir Horace Mortimer, with whom he had just beenconversing about Helen, and her orphan charge. 

"Can it be possible, " said he "or do my eyes deceive me?"

The Doctor looked inquiringly, but Sir Horace said no more. At last hewent up to the Doctor, and asked if Helen was expecting the arrival ofthe miniature? Dr. Sherman replied, she knew it was safe, but wasquite uncertain when it might arrive. 

"Then my dear sir, would you trust me with it till to-morrow morning?when I will restore it at an early hour, " I would not ask, but forvery particular reasons, connected it may be, of much moment to thatdear girl: if as I strongly suspect, I have seen that miniaturebefore, there is a secret and very minute spring, which I could notwell ascertain without my glasses. Believe me, my dear Doctor, I havevery cogent reasons for my request, and I feel no common interest inMiss Willoughby: but we are attracting the notice of those people I amstaying with, who are not at all friendly disposed towards her; infact, they have done all in their power to prejudice me against her. 

The Doctor marvelled much at the request; but readily acceeded toit--and then both he and Sir Horace Mortimer, joined in the generalconversation. 

When the little party broke up, Sir Horace Mortimer undertook to beHelen's escort, and offered her his arm. Miss Falkner having come withhim, quietly took the other. When they reached Helen's abode, whichwas in the way to Falkner Villa, at parting, Sir Horace requestedpermission to call and see her at an hour he named next day, and shepromised to be ready. 

"Will you send your young brother for me? I have heard much of him;and must make his acquaintance. "

"Oh, " said Miss Falkner, "we are going to call at the cottageto-morrow, and I will be your guide. We have long been intending topay a visit to Miss Willoughby, mamma is anxious to apologize for somelittle misunderstanding. " Helen tried to speak, but her words couldfind no utterance, in reply to the impertinent speech of Miss Falkner, but shaking Sir Horace warmly by the hand, she bowed and went into herhome. 

At breakfast Miss Falkner told her mother, that as Sir HoraceMortimer, had made an appointment to visit Miss Willoughby; they couldavail themselves of his escort, and go with him. This I beg leave tosay, though apparently the thought of the moment, was a _preconcerted_proposition: but one which Sir Horace declared impossible! as he hadparticular business with Miss Willoughby, at which none but Dr. Sherman, and Mrs. Cameron could be present. This was spoken sodecidedly, that no further opposition was made to his wish to goalone. 

But both mother and daughters were sadly puzzled. Conjecture was rifeamong them the whole morning: at last they came to the conclusion thathe had made up his mind to propose for Helen--it must be so, else whyDr. Sherman and Mrs. Cameron present?--this point, therefore, wassettled--at least with the Falkners, of her acceptance of him, a richEast Indian, oh there could be no doubt of that. And the elder MissFalkner could breathe again, since she was free to captivate Mr. George Mortimer, with whom she was desperately in love. Thus do vainand silly people jump at conclusions and thus is half the business ofa country town, or village, settled without any concurrence, or evenknowledge of those most concerned. 

The request of Sir Horace Mortimer set Helen wondering, and certainlydeprived her of some hours sleep. His peculiar manner and his ardentgaze, too, recurred to her mind, as she lay thinking on the subject. 

She was completely puzzled, he was a perfect stranger whom she hadnever before seen, nor he her, what could it mean? Would not some haveconcluded he was in love with her, but a man old enough to be herfather! Such an idea never entered her head: in fact she could make noprobable guess, so she determined to make a virtue of necessity, andwait quietly, till he came. Early the next day, she sent for Mrs. Cameron, and told her of the appointment Sir Horace had made, and asshe thought it more than probable, the Falkners might accompany him, as they spoke of doing so over night, she wished her friend to be withher. But we have already seen that Sir Horace had decidedly expressedhis determination to go alone. Mrs. Cameron was equally perplexed withHelen, as to his object. She thought perhaps he had mistaken Helen'slikeness, to some one he was attached to in his early years, andapplying her favorite well-founded maxim and belief in an over-rulingProvidence, made up her mind, that however the mistake might be; itwould end in the orphans finding a sincere friend in the Baronet orthe rich Nabob, as the people termed him. 

Whatever were the surmises of Sir Horace Mortimer, he was perfectlysatisfied with the result of his private examination of the miniaturefor he exclaimed to himself, "God be praised! it must indeed be so, "saying this, he put it in his pocket, and joined the Falkner family atbreakfast, where the conversation before related, took place. 

On his way to Helen's, he met his cousin, and they walked on together. At length Sir Horace Mortimer asked, "George, my boy do you not beginto think of marrying; it is in my opinion, high time you should--letme see; you must be eight and twenty, why you are losing time sadly, take care I don't get spliced first, as sailors say. "

"Why sir, they do say Maria Falkner has certainly made a conquest ofyou. "

"They do, do they: its very kind of them to settle so important apoint for me. Do you approve the match. "

"I think there are many who would make you happier. "

"Miss Willoughby, for instance!" said Sir Horace. 

"Miss Willoughby! sir. "

"Yes, Miss Willoughby, George, what objection? Should I be the firstold man, who has married a young girl? and made her happy too. Iintend to make her a proposal to-day. "

"You! sir; you surely don't mean what you say!"

"But I do, though; I was never more in earnest in my life. But, eh, George! what is the matter? you change colour. You don't want heryourself? You know you can't marry her and Miss Falkner too. "

"I marry Miss Falkner? Never; I would sooner be wedded to--"

"Hold! my boy; I know the workings of that wayward heart of yours, better than you think; and, therefore, let us understand each other;at any rate, let me be clearly understood, when I say, that unless youmake up your mind to marry Helen Willoughby, I shall. "

"But, my dear Sir Horace, though I greatly admire and esteem her farbeyond any woman I ever saw. Yet I am, ----" and he paused. 

"You are what? Shall I tell you? You are so very fastidious, that youare refining away your happiness, like anything but a sensible man. You don't expect perfection, do you? The long and the short of thematter, is this: in your haste to answer my letter from the Downs, yousent me, by mistake, a confidential epistle, which you had intendedfor some intimate friend. Not having any signature, I went on readingit, nor till you adverted to my arrival off Deal, was I aware who wasthe writer. It was a lucky _contre temps_, it gave me a better insightinto your views and character, than years of common intercourse couldhave done. I admire your principles, though I think you carry them alittle too far. Now don't blame me, as I again repeat, you omittedyour name at the end. So no more nonsense, my lad; 'screw up yourcourage to the sticking point, ' and go, and propose for the girl atonce. You must do it, I tell you, or I disinherit you, and give herevery penny; and, as I before said, myself into the bargain. But I amoff to Sherman's and thence, to Miss Willoughby, where I shall expectyou in an hour, so you had best be on the alert. You will not be thefirst young man who has been outwitted by an old one, so mind. " Sayingthis, he left his young relative, who was not, however, very tardy infollowing advice so consonant to his own wishes. 

It may be thought George Mortimer was too particular, but be itremembered, it was a most honorable feeling that led to hisdeliberation; viz. , the firm resolve not to win Helen's, affections, and then leave her. No, he nobly resolved first to learn the state ofhis own feelings; and well would it be if many others would actequally generous. But no! however men decry beauty, they are all itsslaves, and it ever wins a willing homage from them. They are won bythe attractions of a pretty face, and are in consequence, mostparticular in their attentions to its possessor; who is thus singledout, and in all probability, is subject to the jokes of her friendstill from so constantly hearing, she is beloved, she believes it to beso, nor awakes from her dream, till she sees herself supplanted by anewer or prettier face. This is a crying evil: a bad state of things;and in regretting it, we must not lay the blame wholly on the oppositesex. There is doubtless too much credulity in the ladies, but thiscredulity would be greatly diminished, were they more frequently metand treated as rational beings, and they would much sooner become so:for they would have an object in it. How much would the state ofsociety be improved, could there be a little reform on the side ofeach sex. Let the man, as the superior, commence; he will find hisyoung female friends, beings capable of more than the small talk, withwhich they are too generally amused; and I think they will soon bebetter prepared for sensible conversation; and then let the ladies ontheir part be a little more sceptical in believing the flattery andadulation of the men, and not fancy every gentleman, who is friendlyand attentive in perhaps merely a general way, in love with her. As ineverything else, there are exceptions, here I only speak ofgeneralities, and I trust not with acerbity. A very little of mutualeffort, would bring about a great improvement in these matters. The_young_ have great influence on the _young_, particularly in theformation of character, and well for those who exercise itbeneficially. 

When Sir Horace Mortimer went into the cottage, he had hardly shakenhands than he asked Helen her mother's maiden name. 

"Brereton, " she replied. 

"Brereton?" said he "not Anna Brereton, for she married a LieutenantBateson; am I wrong then, after all?"

"Papa changed his name, " said Helen, "on receiving some, property, which we afterwards found he had no claim to. "

"Then, my beloved girl, in me you behold your uncle William. You haveheard your mother speak of me. "

"Oh, yes, frequently! she always said, had you been at home, you wouldhave brought about a reconciliation with grand-papa. "

"Do you ever see or hear of your Aunt Elinor; she was engaged when Iwent away, to a Mr. Selwyn, and it was thought to be a good match. "

Helen told him she had received two letters from Mrs. Selwyn. 

"Which two letters I must see, for I suspect she has slighted you. Asto you, my dear Mrs. Cameron, what can I ever say to you and yourworthy brother, or the kind Mrs. Sherman, I meant to have had theDoctor with me; but just as we were leaving his door, he was calledaway to somebody taken suddenly ill. Helen, there is your mother'sportrait, which was taken for me, but I sailed before it wascompleted. I gave the order myself and a pattern; Sherman received itlast night, and this led to my discovering you. Though I was muchstruck when I first saw you, by your strong likeness, to your mother, I never expected, to see any of you. "

"But why, dearest uncle have we heard, nothing of you for so long atime?"

"That my child is a long story, which time will not allow me to gointo now: you shall have it some of these days; as I see Georgecoming, whom I desired to follow me here, as I recommended him toconsult you about his proposing to Miss Falkner. "

"Me!" said Helen, "consult _me_?" and she colored deeply. 

"Why not, you are second or third cousins; and he has a great opinionof your judgement. "

"Well sir, " said the Baronet to Mr. Mortimer, as he entered, "the hourhas not yet expired: however you have given me time to tell Helen, hownearly she and I are related, for her mother was my own sister!"

"Is it possible!" cried the astonished George. 

"Yes, and I told her you were coming to consult her upon severalmatters. " As he spoke this, he stole his hat and slipped off giving asignificant look at Mrs. Cameron, who followed the old gentleman tothe garden, and there learnt what he had gleaned from GeorgeMortimer's letter, to Mr. Emmerson, viz. , that he was much attached toHelen--and added he had no doubt but they should soon have a job forMr. Montgomery, to marry them. 

"At any rate we must have him here. "

The remainder of my tale, is soon told, viz. : that Helen and Mortimer, were united, and Mrs. Falkner, insisted on removing to a place whereshe would be more likely to settle her girls. Sir Horace bought thevilla which still retained its name. 

IDLE WORDS. 

 "My God!" the beauty oft exclaimed, In deep impassioned tone; But not in humble prayer, she named The High and Holy One; 'Twas not upon the bended knee, With soul upraised to Heaven, Pleading with heartfelt agony, That she might be forgiven. 

 'Twas not in heavenly strains She raised, to the great Source of Good, Her daily offering of praise, Her song of gratitude. But in the gay and thoughtless crowd, And in the festive Hall, 'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud She named the Lord of All. 

 The idlest thing that flattery knew, The most unmeaning jest, From her sweet lips profanely drew, Names of the Holiest! I thought how sweet that voice would be, Breathing this prayer to Heaven, "My God, I worship only thee, Oh be my sins forgiven!"

THE MANIAC OF VICTORY. 

 But here comes one, that seems to out-rejoice All the rejoicing tribe! wild is her eye, And frantic is her air, and fanciful Her sable suit; and round, she rapid rolls Her greedy eyes upon the spangled street. And drinks with greedy gaze upon the sparkling scene! "And see!" she cries how they have graced the hour That gave _him_ to his grave! hail lovely lamps, In honor of that hour a grateful land Hath hung aloft! and sure he well deserves The tributary splendor--for he fought Their battles well--ah! he was valor's self-- Fierce was the look with which he faced the foe But on his Harriet, when my hero bent it, 'Twas so benign! and beautiful he was-- And he was young; too young in years, to die! 'Twas but a little while his wing had thrown Its guardian shadow o'er me--but 'tis gone-- Fall'n is my shield, yet see now if I weep. A British warrior's widow should not weep-- Her hero sleeps in honor's fragrant bed-- So they all tell me, and I have nobly learned Their gallant lesson--all my tears are gone-- Bright glory's beam has dried them every drop No, --No, --I scorn to weep--high is mine heart!

 Hot are mine eyes! there's no weak water there! 'Tis time I should have joyed--what mother would not? To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept When last he kissed it--yes he did--he wept; My warrior wept!--as the weak woman's tears From off this cheek, where now I none can feel, He kissed away--he wet it with his own; Oh! yes 'twould--'twould have been sweet to have shown him How his dear lovely boy had: grown, since he Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him By the sweet name that I had taught it utter In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing, And thunder hurling round him--for his hand Would not be idle amid deeds of glory; Yes _glory--glory--glory_ is the word-- See how it glitters all along the street!-- And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along With tresses all untied. Fair wretch--adieu: In mercy--heaven thy shattered peace repair. 

 --FAWCETT. 

"GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL. "

 I remember how I loved her, as a little guileless child; I saw her in the cradle, as she looked on me, and smiled. My cup of happiness was full; my joy, no words can tell, And I bless the Glorious Giver, "who doeth all things well. "

 Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour. I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower. So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell, And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well. "

 Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me, And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry. I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell, Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well. "

 She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone, Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on; No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell, And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well. "

 That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now, In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow, She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel; But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well. "

 I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed, And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead. And, oh! that cup of bitterness--but let not this heart rebel, God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well. "

HOW OLD ART THOU?

 Count not the days that have idly flown, The years that were vainly spent; Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the throne To account for the talents lent. 

 But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employed for heaven; Oh, few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a nobler purpose given. 

 Will the shade go back on thy dial plate? Will thy sun stand still on his way? Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate Rests on the point of life's little date, Then live while 'tis called to-day. 

 Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page, As they lessen, in value rise; Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage, But in days that are _truly wise_. 

ON TIME. 

 Who needs a teacher to admonish him That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist! What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes? But goodly shadows in the summer cloud? There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies, But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 

 'Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars, Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed, In his mid watch observant, and disposed The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape; Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks Have buffeted mankind; whole nations razed, Cities made desolate; the polished sunk To barbarism, and _once_ barbaric states, Swaying the wand of science and of arts. Illustrious deeds and memorable names, Blotted from record, and upon the tongues Of gray tradition, voluble no more. 

 Where are the heroes of the ages past, -- Where the brave chieftans; where the mighty ones Who flourished in the infancy of days? Ah to the grave gone down! On their fallen fame Exultant, mocking, at the pride of man, Sits grim Forgetfulness. The warrior's arm Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame, Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze Of his red eye-ball. 

 Yesterday, his name Was mighty on the earth; to-day, --'tis what? The meteor of the night of distant years, That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies, Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up, Safe in the charnel's treasure. 

 Oh! how weak Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence His phrase grows big with immortality; And he, poor insect of a summer's day, Dreams of eternal honours to his name, Of endless glory and perennial bays, He idly reasons of eternity. As of the train of ages; when, alas! Ten thousand thousand of his centuries Are in comparison, a little point, Too trivial for account. 

 Oh it is strange; 'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies. Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, my name shall live with this, Till time shall be no more; while at his feet, Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust Of the fallen fabric of the other day, Preaches the solemn lesson. --He should know That time must conquer; that the loudest blast That ever filled renown's obstreperous trump, Fades in the lap of ages, and expires. Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom Of the gigantic pyramid? Or who Reared its huge wall? Oblivion laughs, and says, The prey is mine. They sleep, and never more Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, Or memory burst its fetters. 

 Where is Rome? She lives but in the tale of other times; Her proud pavilions, are the hermits' home, And her long colonades, her public walks, Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust. 

 But not to Rome, alone, has fate confined The doom of ruin; cities numberless. Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, And rich Phoenicia; they are blotted out Half razed, --from memory razed; and their very name And being, in dispute. 

 --WHITE

THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYER. 

 One stood upon the threshold of his life; A life all bright with promise, --and he prayed, "Father of Heaven! this beautious world of thine, Is trod in sorrow by my race. " The shade Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread. Man only walks this breathing glowing earth, With spirit crushed, --with bowed and stricken head. I ask not, Father, why these things be so, I only ask, that thou will make of me A messenger of joy, to lift the woe From hearts that mourn, and lead them up to Thee. 

THE END.