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THE GEM ANNUAL.

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THE

GEM ANNUAL:

CHRISTMAS, NEW YEAft,

BIRTH-DAY PRESENT,

FOR

MDCCCLIV.

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 1854.

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Entered according to Act of Congreps, in tbe year 1853, BY E. II. BUTLIUl & CO.,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court f<>r the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

Content

SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAC.E

Louisa Montague W. C. S. 13

The Bride Isaac D. Amos 27

The Indian Orphan Anonymous 29

To Paul Methuen 46

Reading L. E. L. 49

Sun and Moon James Smith 50

Eustace Miss Jewsbury 51

.Farewell to Italy Walter S. LanJor 75

Inscription in an Annual Author of Miserrimus 76

He never said he loved me A. A. Watts 79

The Rival Cousins Anonymous 81

Sir Julian and his Page G. W. L. 97

Susan's Dowry Anonymous 99

The Favorite Flower Mrs. Norton 115

Ascent of Mount Blanc Auldjo's Narrative 117

Sonnet to Melancholy Anonymous 126

Guard against a Rainy Day A. A. Watts 129

The Deliverance Anonymous 131

Youth Miss Atwell 148

The Broken Heart Anonymous 149

10 CONTENTS.

First Love • -It. Burnal 150

The Young Aid-du-Camp Anonymous 151

The Farewell Anonymous 175

The Fifherman of Scarphout G. P. R. James 178

The March of Time--' Author of Richelieu 205

The Raft Rev. John Todd, D. D. 209

To Myra Henry L. Bulwer 231

Minna Mordaunt Mrs. S. C. Hall 235

The Wreck E. Howard 244

Fly with me Love Anonymous 249

The Smuggler Anonymous 2£0

Madrigal J. R. Chorley 2S3

The Two Funerals Mrs. Fairlie 285

To a Lady Reading Henry F. Chorley, Esq. 291

The Orphan of Palestine Lord William Lennox 293

Lines Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley.312

Janet Donaldson 315

Lines Hon. Grantley F. Berkeley, M. P. -321

The Lake of Como Leitch Ritchie 323

Triolet Yiscount Strangford 320

To a Lady in a lluverie Anonymous 327

SUBJECT. PAINTER. PAGE

e, LOUISA MONTAGUE-- • -LANDSEER FRONTISPIECE.

VIGNETTE ...COOK TITLE PAGE.

- BEADING . . -MERCIER 49

HE NEVER SAID HE LOVED ME IIAYTER 79

THE RAINY DAY SHARP 120

•

- FAREWELL CORBOLD 175

. THE RAFT VICKERS 209

FLY mill ME CORBOLD 249

THE GEM ANNUAL

LOUISA MONTAGUE.

BY AV. C. S.

IT was a fine day in the month of October, 181-, when Alfred Montgomery, then on a visit to his uncle an eminent merchant residing in the city of York, set out to stroll as far as Bishopthorpe, the seat of the venerable and respected archbishop of the province. His route lay through fields which had been lately covered with standing corn, and had now assumed the hue of autumn. On his left waved the majestic elms that decorate the magnificent walk which runs by the river Ouse for nearly two miles, and is the finest terrace- walk in the kingdom ; their leaves shone in the rays of the autumnal sun like burnished gold; behind him rose the towers of that majestic temple, York Minster, per- haps the most elaborate Gothic structure in England ; whilst in front, the palace of Bishopthcrpe, rearing its head above the plantations in which it appeared to be enveloped, closed the scene. Alfred had a heart not

insensible to the beauties of nature, and he paused to

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14 LOUISA MONTAGUE.

gaze on the surrounding objects with feelings of admira- tion and delight. He had just taken out his pencil to make a sketch of the venerable cathedral as it appeared in the distance, rising like a giant above the pigmy edifices by which it is surrounded, when a wild shriek burst upon his ear. It came from the high road which .skirted the fields; and in an instant he leaped the hedge, and looked round to discover what it was that had alarmed him. A little way down the road, he saw two ruffians employed in rifling a female, who was ex- tended on the ground ; and, though armed only with a stick, he rushed to her rescue. The villains fled at his approach; for the guilty are generally cowards. Alfred then turned his attention to the fainting form of the female whom they had quitted. She was seemingly not more than eighteen ; and though terror had blanched her cheek, yet it was evident that she possessed con- siderable personal attractions. Alfred raised her in his arms, and fortunately the terrified girl soon gave signs of returning animation; for my hero would have been at a loss how to proceed, if her insensibility had con- tinued. Opening her eyes, she cast them on the ingenious countenance of her young deliverer : — " Am I safe ?" she murmured in soft accents. " You have now nothing to fear; yet, as soon as you are able, we had better leave this spot, lest the villains, who have escaped, should return." "Oh, let us go now I" she exclaimed, raising herself from his arms : " I ana quite recovered; T can walk home now." " You will allow me to attend

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 15

you; I cannot think of trusting you alone," said Alfred ; a proposition which was readily assented to by his fair companion ; and they proceeded towards the cottage of her aunt, which she informed him was situated at only a short distance.

Arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Mildmay, Alfred was overwhelmed with the thanks of that lady for the - service which he had rendered her niece ; and he re- ceived them with a manly ingenuousness which strongly recommended him to the notice of both. His con- nexions were not unknown to Mrs. Mildmay, and during his stay in York he frequently repeated his visits ; and when he departed for the metropolis, he carried with him the assurance that the heart of the lovely Amelia Mildmay was wholly his.

Alfred had some difficulty in tearing himself from the spot in which all his hopes and wishes centred ; but the commands of his father were imperative. Sir James Montgomery was the head of an ancient house, and he looked to his son as one who was destined to perpetuate its honours. Alfred well knew that his father would never consent to his union with the orphan and portion- less daughter of a country surgeon — for such Amelia Mildmay was — however amiable or however accom- plished ; and he obeyed his summons with a foreboding dread of much evil that was to come, but with a firm determination to withstand all efforts to induce him to break the vows he had pledged to Amelia. But Alfred knew not his own heart ; he depended too much on the

1G LULLS A .MO.NTACL'E.

strength and stability of his affections, and they deceived him.

Sir James had heard from his brother-in-law, Mr. Lawrence, with whom Alfred had been staying at York, that his son had formed an attachment to a young lady who had nothing to recommend her but beauty, amiable disposition, and extensive accomplishments; which latter were bestowed upon her by a doting father, who when in prosperity, with a lucrative profession, and the fair prospect of leaving the image of his regretted wifu an ample if not an affluent provision, spared no expense in procuring her the most eminent masters ; and Amelia did honour to their care. Adversity, however, soon blighted all the hopes of Mr. Mildmay, and he died a martyr to despair, leaving his child to the protection of the wife of his deceased brother, who had for six years supplied the place of her parents, with an affection which Amelia dutifully repaid. Thus, though Miss Mildmay would have graced a ducal coronet, yet the want of high birth — that of fortune would have been no object — pre- vented Sir James Montgomery, who looked upon the pendiant of the young people as a mere childish passion, from receiving her as his daughter.

Arrived at his father's splendid mansion in Gros- venor-squarc, Alfred found a large party assembled to onjoy the festive gaieties of a " winter in London." At first he entered into the scenes of splendid dissipation in which he was immersed with reluctance, and his heart reverted to the banks of the Ouse and the lovely Amelia;

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 17

but soon — such is the influence of bright eyes and fine forms — he joined in them with a degree of pleasure which was unaccountable to himself, but which a judge of poor human nature would have found no difficulty in tracing to the right cause. The fact was, Alfred, though gifted with many excellent qualities, inherited no small share of his father's family pride. The seeds of vanity also were thickly strewn in his composition, and strangely marred his otherwise amiable disposition. The heir of Sir James Montgomery's title and fortune, he was of course an object of desire to all the disengaged young ladies, whose mammas or other relatives were on terms of intimacy with the family; and many were the snares laid to entrap his affections. Some of these were so palpable, that they failed through their own grossness ; but others were more delicately managed : and whilst the vanity of the young man was flattered on the one hand, his interest was excited on the other. For the honour of that sex, which Heaven, in pity to man, sent

• to cheer

The titful struggles of our passage here,"

I must add, that those females, who were so anxiously striving to win the youthful heir, were few in number; and that even of those, not one, I verily believe, would have endeavoured to captivate his affections, if they had known that a lovely fair one, to whom he had plighted his vows, was pining in secret for him.

In a few months, Alfred almost ceased to remember

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18 LOUISA MONTAGUE.

that such a being as Amelia Mildmay existed. His days were devoted to the society of a number of dashing young fellows, who contrived to kill time at the clubs and other places of fashionable resort ; his nights to the opera, the theatres, or Aluiack's; to splendid routs, fas- cinating balls, or scientific conversazioni. At every turn he was assailed by the blandishments of flattery j on all sides he was the object of the most assiduous attentions from the rich, and the young, and the beautiful. Is it wonderful, then, that his heart became entangled ? Is it wonderful that the quiet, unobtrusive qualities of Amelia, were forgotten amidst the glare, and pretensions, and fascinations of a London fashionable life ? I offer no apology for his infidelity ; I state facts, and lament that truth compels me to record the defection of Alfred Montgomery from his vows. 4

But how passed this time with Amelia? At first, with hope for her companion, she looked forward to future happiness as certain, and dwelt with delight upon the prospect of wedded bliss. But conscience interfered to damp these pleasing anticipations. She had con- cealed from her aunt, at Alfred's request, the fact of a mutual engagement having taken place between them, and her heart bitterly smote her with having practised duplicity in regard to this revered relative. She soon, however, set her conscience at rest, by telling Mrs. Mildmay the whole little history of her guileless bosom; and a gentle chiding was the only reprimand which that kind and affectionate woman could bring herself to

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 11)

bestow on the lovely girl, who looked up to her for for- giveness and protection. Her self-approbation thus re- stored, Amelia anticipated with eager anxiety the receipt of a letter from town. It came, and was worded in language as ardent as her own feelings — as pure as her own imaginings. Under the sanction of her aunt, she replied to this first love-epistle she had ever received ; and such an effect had the few artless lines she penned upon Montgomery, that he absented himself from a gay party, made on purpose for him, in order to answer it. The next letter he received, he thought less interesting ; but replied immediately. After the third, he suffered a longer period to elapse ; a still longer after the fourth ; and to her fifth epistle it was such an interval before any answer was received, that Amelia's heart was filled with foreboding fears : and when it arrived, it was so cold, so distant, so reserved ; it breathed so much of the language of prudence, and so little of that of love, that all those fears were confirmed. Still, not even to her aunt would she whisper a suspicion of Alfred's truth, though the conviction that he no longer loved — at least not as she did, with a pure, devoted, undivided attachment — preyed upon her spirits, robbed her cheeks of their bloom and her eyes of their lustre ; and the once gay and animated Amelia, was now only the shadow of her former self.

Whilst this amiable girl was thus lamenting the faithlessness of her absent lover, that lover was en- tangled in the snares which ambition and inclination entwined to captivate him. The Honourable Louisa

20 LOUISA MONTAfil'K.

Montague was the daughter of the gallant admiral of that name, and the two families of Montgomery and Montague, were upon the most intimate terms with each other. Louisa loved ; and she was besides ambitious of gaining one for whom so many females were contending. She assiduously paid court to Alfred, but in so delicate a manner, that she never betrayed her doing so. She appealed to him on every disputed point; she chose her books by his direction; sang those songs and played those pieces of music which he approved : occasionally a beautiful boquet, arranged by her hand, was presented to the youth ; a purse was netted for him, and a thou- sand other bewitching little ar/remens displayed, which women know so well how to call into action, and which are so seductive in their effects upon those whom they are intended to charm. Alfred by degrees found Miss Montague's society almost necessary to his existence ; he was her escort in the park, her attendant at the opera, her partner at the ball ; and one morning, having called upon her to inquire after her health, as she had not been at Montgomery-house at all the preceding day — honour and Amelia being both forgotten — he made her an offer of his hand and fortune, and was accepted.

No sooner, however, had that magic word, which crowns the hopes of a true lover, passed the lips of the fair Louisa, than the thoughts of Amelia recurred to. Alfred's breast. "He started like a guilty thing;" his colour changed, and he sank into a chair that happened to be close beside him. To the anxious inquiries of

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 21

Louisa, lie returned the most incoherent answers, and at length rushed from her presence, in a state of mind which would have demanded pity, had it not been brought on by his own forgetfulness of what was due to the confiding girl who had bestowed her heart on him. He flew to solitude, but reflection maddened him ; and he then resorted to society — but nothing could quiet the agitation of his mind. Had he confessed to Louisa the exact state of his heart, all might have still been well ; for she was a noble-minded girl, though her amiable qualities were partially obscured by her ambition. But his pride would not allow him to acknowledge that he had acted with duplicity, that he had professed to love her, when his heart was devoted to another; and he finally resolved to abide by the event of the morning, and to forget, if possible, Bishop thorpe and Amelia Mildmay.

Both the families received the intelligence of Alfred's offer to Louisa Montague with joy; and immediate pre- parations were made for the marriage. Alfred wrote one hurried note to Amelia, to intimate that she must prepare her mind to hear of a change ; and then he gave himself up to the fascinations of his betrothed. Eager to get rid of the agonizing thoughts which would in- trude, and hoping he should feel more easy when it had become his duty to love and honour Louisa as his wife, he was anxious for the day which should unite them. Before that day arrived, he had totally forgotten Amelia ; and when he led Louisa to the altar, not one thought of

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22 LOUISA MONTAGUE.

her disturbed his bosom. Such is man ! and such, too frequently, is man's love ! It rages with violence for a time ; but absence cools the flame, and too often totally extinguishes it, even when the object possesses every qualification which can reflect honour on his choice.

The newspapers informed Amelia of the marriage of Alfred, and the next day she disappeared from the cot- tage of her aunt, whose most anxious inquiries could obtain no tidings of her. It would be vain to describe her anguish ; — she loved Amelia as her child ; and when two days had elapsed, and no intelligence was received of the fugitive, she was laid on the bed of sick- ness, caused by anxiety for the fate, and exertion to discover the retreat of her beloved niece.

Alfred and his wife departed, as soon as the marriage ceremony was performed, for a seat belonging to Sir James Montgomery, situated in the most beautiful part of Devonshire. There, blest in each other's society, the days flew swiftly away, and time seemed to have added new pinions to his wings ; so short seemed the hours as they passed. But this was happiness too exquisite, to be of long duration. On the tenth day of their resi- dence at Chilton-house, Louisa was walking on the lawu in front of the building, equipped for riding, and waiting for Alfred, who was to accompany her to take a view of some picturesque object in the neighborhood. Suddenly her attention was excited by a female, who, with agitated step and a wild and distracted mien, approached and surveyed her with a piercing eye, iu which the fire of

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 23

insanity was clearly to be distinguished. She spoke not, but gazed anxiously and steadfastly on Louisa, who shrunk from the close inspection, and yet seemed rooted to the spot, as if deprived of the power to move. Sud- denly the figure approached nearer, and passing her hand across the fair brow of Mrs. Montgomery, she put aside the ringlets which overshadowed it, and exclaimed, after the pause of perhaps a minute, " Are you his wife ? — but no !" the fair maniac (for such she was) continued, "he is mine; his faith was plighted to me — you can have nothing to do with my Alfred I"

What an agonizing moment was this for Louisa ! She saw before her one who had been deceived by the man to whom she had plighted her vows, and whose reason had fallen a sacrifice to her base and unnatural deser- tion. What a thought for a doting wife, — for a proud one, too, who would never have accepted a divided heart, or been contented with a share only of 'her hus- band's affection ! — But perhaps there might be some mistake ; she would try.

" What Alfred do you mean, my poor woman \" she asked, in a tone of sympathy.

" Why, my own Alfred — Alfred Montgomery — him for whom I twined this wreath : — but the flowers are faded now — so, methinks, is his love, for it is a long while since I have heard from him !" She took a wreath of flowers from her bosom as she spoke, and, pressing it to her lips, presented it to Mrs. Montgomery.

"See," she cried, "these are the flowers he used

24 LOUISA MONTAGUE.

to love ! I plucked them from my own bower — that bower which Alfred decorated. — But I cannot give it to you : no, I must keep it for Alfred. — Alfred I" she exclaimed in a loud and piercing voice, " where art thou, Alfred ?"• —then adding in a lower and plaintive tone : " They told me he was married, but I would not believe it. I wandered through wind and through rain, through brake and through briar, till I reached his home : there they told me too that he was married. Still I would not believe it : 1 followed him here, for is he not mine ? what right, then, have you here ?"

Amelia — for it was indeed that lost, unhappy girl — now seized Louisa wildly by the hand; she uttered a piercing shriek ; and the well-known voice reached the ear of her husband ; he was instantly by her side, eager to see what had occurred to alarm her ! But what a sight met his eyes ! He beheld his newly-married wife support^!, by her maid, who had also heard her shriek, pale and inanimate, the picture of death ; whilst at her feet lay the lovely being whom he had made wretched. How she came there he was at a loss to conjecture ; and, not knowing what had passed between her and his wife, he was equally at a loss how to act. Before he could recall his scattered ideas, and resolve on what was to be done, Amelia raised herself from the ground, and catching his eye she sprang up, and clinging to him she exclaimed, " lie is here ! he is mine ! — Oh, Alfred ! they told me you were married ; that you had ceased to lii\v me: but I would not believe that you could slight

LOUISA MONTAGUE. 25

the heart which beats only for you ! — Feel !" and she took his hand, and placed it on her bosom, " how it flutters, poor thing ! — it will soon be still. Alfred, I am dying !" — and her voice suddenly assumed a rational and composed tone — "I know not what I have said, what I have done ; I have wandered I know not where or how : but — but - — ." She struggled to articulate something more, but nature was exhausted ; she heaved one sigh — dropped her head on his bosom — and expired." Whilst this scene was passing, the servant had con- veyed Louisa into the house, whither Alfred followed with his lifeless burden, almost as unconscious as the form he bore. He laid the corpse on a sofa in the parlour — he threw himself by the side of it; and called upon his Amelia once more to live for love and him. Then the recollection of his wife flashed across his mind ; he rose, and throwing himself into a chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and sobbed convulsively. This paroxysm over, he became rather earner, and sought Louisa, who had retired to her chamber. To her he gave a full explanation of his acquaintance with Amelia, and pleaded so effectually for forgiveness, that it was soon granted. Bat a sting was planted in his heart, which time could never remove. In the midst of all that fortune could bestow, and blessed with happi- ners seemingly beyond the lot of humanity, the remem- brance of Amelia always intruded in the hours of retire- ment; it was the cankerworm which robbed his nights

of repose, his days of happiness ; and he lived a memo-

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26 LOUISA MONTAGUE.

rable instance of splendid misery. His wife's lot was more happy, for to her he was an attentive and affec- tionate husband; and at his death, which took place about a year after his marriage, her grief was sincere and heartfelt. She had numerous offers of marriage, but rejected them all; faithful to the memory of him who, as her first, she was determined should be her only love.

It remains, however, to be explained how Amelia reached Devonshire. She knew Alfred's residence in town from the address of his letters ; and from the servants at Montgomery-house it was ascertained that a female, who answered her description, had been inquiring for him a few days after the bridal party left town. On being told that he was gone to Chilton with his bride, she made no reply but rushed out of the hall. It appeared that a stage-coach had set her down at an inn near the seat of Montgomery; but whether she had travelled' in that manner all the way from London, or whether part of the journey had been performed on foot, was never known — most probably, from the state of her dress, the latter was the case. At the expense of Alfred, her corpse was removed to Bishopthorpe, and interred in the church-yard of that village. Her aunt did not long survive her, and they lie in one grave.

This is a melancholy tale, but the incidents are facts which came within my knowledge. I have seen the grave of this hapless girl, and dropped the tear of pity for her fate.

THE BRIBE.

BY ISAAC DORE AMOS, ESQ.

NOT to be had for love or gold ;" By which most trite and vulgar saying Briefly, you can't succeed, you're told,

Either by coaxing, or by paying. How coolly hath the proverb twined

The chains of ore with wreaths of flowers ! How are sick hearts and guineas joined,

And gold and love made equal powers ! Alas ! confess, each reigns in turn,

With influence equally divided ; For all our youth we riches spurn,

And all our age is love derided. Behold the crone, with wither'd sniile,

Upon " the Bribe" in triumph gazing, And slyly deeming all the while,

The folly of the youth amazing : She hath been young, — and all Peru

Would then have fail'd to tempt or move her ; Though now she scoffs at those who woo,

And barters hope with many a lover.

28 THE BRIBE.

Behold the maid, with timid grace,

Her bashful, downcast glance eluding The eyes that dwell upon her face,

(Into her heart's deep thoughts intruding :) And Him, whose happy, trusting heart

Throbs warmly, as her faint steps linger That he may place, ere she depart,

The token ring upon her finger. They must grow old, — and many a day

The story of their youth repeating, Upon their faded lips shall play

A smile like moonlight, faint and fleeting ; A smile, where Memory's fond regret,

And scorn for follies past, seem blended : — Feelings they cannot quite forget,

And soberer views, now all is ended. A smile, as though their hearts compared

Those days of glowing love and laughter, When all was for a vision dared,

With the cold real that followed after. Ah ! when we see such smiles, we know

The aching heart is inly sighing O'er thoughts, which pierce enough to show

The tutored lips are vainly lying : — And Love, o'er pulses slow and cold,

A momentary triumph gaining, Disputes with Age's idol, Gold,

And grudges him his hour of reigning !

THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

A TALE.

Surely there are

Some stars whose influence is upon our lives Evil and overpowering : it is those That blight the young rose in its earliest spring ; ' Sully the pearl fresh from its native sea; Wing the shaft to the youthful warrior's breast In his first field; and fade the crimson cheek And blue eyes of the beautiful L. E. L.

TES, I remember well how she would sit of an evening and watch the sky, while her eyes flashed with light, as wild, as intense, as the brightest star on which she gazed ; and when my kiss awakened her from her dream, I remember too, the warm heavy tears that were on the cheek she pressed to mine. " Thou art not like thy mother, my fair child," she would exclaim ; " may thy life be unlike hers too !" and the words came forth so gently, and her voice was so sweet ! I better loved to sit by her knee, and listen to her sad soft song, than to chase the fairest butterfly that lay like a gem on the roses I delighted to water. But my mother's voice grew feeble, and darkness settled on her eyes; her lip was pale and parched, and when I hung on her neck, she

SO THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

tuld me she was sick and faint, and wept : she would lie for hours on the mat, and an old woman who came to see us sometimes, said she was dying. Dying ! — I knew not what she meant, but I felt sad, very sad, and went and lay down by my mother; but the hand I took was burning, and the pressure was so slight I scarcely felt it.

It was a beautiful summer sunset, — not those soft gradual tints which melt on the evenings I have since seen in England; but the sunset of a southern clime, all passion, all flame — the sky was crimson ; the Ganges was crimson too; its waves flashed through the green foliage that overshadowed it, like the gush of red meteors through the midnight clouds. My mother called me to her; I knelt by the mat, while she told me to look on the glorious sky, and said it was the last she should ever see ; that like that sun she was passing to darkness and silence, but not like that sun to return. She said she looked for the arrival of a stranger ; and if he came after her spirit had fled — " My child, you will remember your mother's last words — tell him I have loved him even unto death; my latest prayer was his name and thine." She leant back, and gasped fearfully, then lay quiet as if she slept, yet her eyes were open and fixed upon me. I remember yet, how I trembled before that cold and appalling look. It grew dark; I lay down close to her side and fell asleep. The morning sun was looking cheerfully forth when I awoke : — my mother lay so still, so motionless, that I believed her to be yet

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 31

sleeping, but her eyes -wide open and bent on rne, tempted me to kiss her; even at this moment the chill of that touch is upon my lips. For the first time I shrank from her; I spoke, but she answered not; I took her cold hand, but instantly loosed it : it fell from mine — she had said she was dying — could this be death ? I felt a •wild, vague conviction that we were separated for ever ; but the very despair of separation brought with it the hope of re-union ; I might die too.

I was repeating, with incoherent rapidity, « My mother, let me die with you \" one arm round the neck of the corpse, the other fanning backwards and for- wards, to keep away the flies, and my cheek resting upon hers, when the door of the hut opened, and a stranger entered. I looked up with wonder, not un- mixed with pleasure : the splendour of his scarlet and gold dress, the white waving plumes of his helmet, soon attracted a child's attention; but child as I was, one glance at his face fastened my gaze. The deep crimson of exercise had given place to a hue of ghastly white- ness; every feature was convulsed; his deep broken sobs as he sat by the bed, his face covered with his hands, yet startle my memory : at last I remembered my mother's words, and hesitatingly approached him, and repeated them. He started, and clasped me in his arms. I felt his tears on my face ; he seemed kind, yet fear was my principal sensation, as wringing my hands and my mother's together, he said in words scarcely audible : " Abra, my care of our child shall atone for my

02 THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

desertion of thee ! " Others, his attendants, now came in : to one of these he gave me in charge ; but when they strove to raise me from the body, I struggled in their hold, and grasped a hand, and implored my mother to keep me. I was, however, carried away, weeping the first tears of sorrow I had ever shed.

My course of life was completely changed : I was placed in the family of a Mr. and Mrs. L — . They had many children of their own, educated under their own roof; to niy father it therefore appeared a most eligible situation : to me it was one of unceasing mortification, of unvaried unhappiuess. Mr. and Mrs. L. considered me as an incumbrance, which their obligations to Mr. St. Leger did not allow them to throw off; and their children as a rival, though from my being the daughter of an Indian, as a being inferior to all. 13ut this very re- pelling of my best affections caused them to flow the more strongly where their current was not checked ; the memory of my mother was to me the heart's religion ; my love to my father was the sole charm of existence. I grew up a neglected, solitary, and melancholy girl, affectionate from nature, reserved from necessity; when I was suddenly summoned to attend the death-bed of my father. lie breathed his last in my arms. I never left the corpse — I watched the warmth, the last colour of life depart, till the hand became ice, the cheek marble. lie was buried in his uniform; my hand threw the mili- tary cloak over his face : even when they nailed down the coffin I remained, though every blow struck on my

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 33

licart as the farewell to happiness, the last words of hope. They bore the corpse away; and as the physician forbade my attendance at the funeral, I watched the procession as it passed the window. The muffled drums, the dead march, seemed sounds from the grave; stately figures paced with slow and solemn steps ; with their arms and eyes bent down silently to the earth, I saw them move onward ; I lost the sound of the heavy mea- sured tread, I only caught a distant tone of the now faint music. I sprang forward in desperate eagerness ; the sun was at noon ; my head was uncovered, yet I felt not the hoat : I followed, and reached the grave as they were lowering the body to its long, last home. The whole scene swam before me, and I was carried back insensible by some who recognized me. On my recovery I was coldly informed that my father's property, left wholly mine, insured me a small, but independent fortune; and that his will expressed a wish for my immediate depar- ture for England, assigned to the care of a Mrs. Audley, a distant relation of his. Every thing was prepared for my departure ; an orphan, with not one either to love or be loved by, I was perfectly indifferent to my future destiny. The evening before I embarked, I went to bid farewell to my father's grave ; there was a storm gather- ing on the sky, and the hot still air and my own full heart, oppressed me almost to suffocation. There was no light, save from the fire-flies which covered the man- sion, or from the dim reflection of the red flames which had been kindled on the banks of the river. I reached

34 THE INDIAN URI'HAN.

the grave ; the newly turned-up earth of its mound was close to another, where the green grass grew in all its rank luxuriance. I looked upon the plain white stone; it was, as my heart foretold, graven with my mother's name, which had hitherto been concealed from me. I sat down ; tears of the most soothing gratitude fell over the graves; I felt so thankful that they were united in death. It was to me happiness, that earth had yet something to which I could attach myself; only those who have wept over the precious sod which contains all they loved, all they worshipped, can tell how dear arc these lonely dwellings of the departed. I knelt, prayed, wept, and kissed the clay of each parent's grave by turns; and only the red light of the morning warned me to depart. I went home and slept, and the fearful dream of my feverish slumber yet hangs upon me. I was alone, in a dark and wild desert; the ground be- neath was parched, yet the sky was black, and red streaks of light passed over it. I heard the hiss of ser- pents, the howl of savage beasts; my lips were dry and hot; my feet burned as they pressed the fiery sand ; and my heart beat even to agony ; when suddenly freshness and sweetness breathed around — there came sounds of music and delightful voices; bright and beautiful forms gathered on the air ; I found myself in a green and blessed place. Two came towards me — my father, my mother ! they embraced me, and I awoke soothed, with their smile visible before me, their blessing yet breathing in my ears. The next day I embarked, and we set sail

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 35

immediately ; yet I had time to contrast my own forlorn neglectedness with the lot of others; and bitterly did I feel the kind farewells, the blessings implored on my companions. I envied them even the sorrow of parting At length the sun set in the waters, and till the final close of the evening I lingered by the side of the vessel. It was a calm sky : not a shadow was oh the face of heaven, not a breeze ruffled the sleeping waves, no sound nor motion broke the deep repose ; but repose was at this moment irksome to my soul. Was I the only one disturbed and agitated ? A cloud, a breath of wind, would have been luxury — they would have seemed to enter into my feelings, to take away my sense of utter loneli- ness. I left the deck, for there were hurried steps around, and my idleness weighed upon me like a reproach ; I felt useless, insignificant; there were glad voices talking close by my side — there were tones of hope, exultation, sorrow, and affection — I could sympathise with none of them. I hastily threw open the window of the cabin, and saw the country I was leaving for ever, like a line in the air, and all but lost in the horizon. No one can say farewell with indifference ; and there I leant, gazing on the receding land anxiously, nay even fondly, till dark- ness closed around, and I could no longer even fancy I saw it. Lost in that vague, but painful reverie, when the mind, too agitated to dwell on any one subject, crowds past sorrows and future fears upon the over- burthened present, time had passed unheeded, and the moon, now risen, made the coast visible again. It must

36 THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

be agony to the heart to say a long, and it may prove an eternal farewell, to all connected with us by every link of early association and affection of many years' standing; to the mother whose smile was the light of our child- hood ; to the father whose heart goes- with us; to all who have shared in our joys and our griefs : this, indeed, must be an overflowing of the cup of affliction ; but even this painful accumulation of feeling was preferable to mine of single and complete isolation. It is soothing to reflect, that we are dear to those we leave behind ; that there are some who will treasure our memory in the long hours of absence, and look forward to our meeting again ; for never does the moment of reunion rise so forcibly on the mind as at that of separation. These thoughts are like rain-drops in the season of drought. But I looked on the land of my birth, and knew there was not one to call a blessing on her far away ; not one to wish the wanderer's return ! the cold earth lay heavily on the hearts that would have throbbed at my departing ; the eyes that would have wept, were sealed by death, in the home of darkness and forge tfulness, where joy and sorrow are alike.

The voyage appeared short, for I had nothing to anti- cipate, and the glories of the ocean suited my feelings. I have looked on the face of nature with love and with wonder; but never have I had that intense communion with her beauties which I have had at sea. At last the white cliffs of England came in sight : they were hailed with a shout of delight ; it had no echo in my heart.

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. i',7

But it was when we arrived in port, that I more than ever felt how very lonely I was. The whole ship was bustle, confusion, and happiness ; numbers were every moment crowding the deck — there was the affectionate welcome, the cordial embrace, words of tenderness, still tenderer tears; all was agitation, anxiety, and delight. There was one group in particular, a sailor whose little boy was so grown that he did not at first recognize him —the delight of the child, two inches taller with plea- sure— the half affection, half pride, glowing in the fresh island complexion of the mother — every kindly pulse of the heart sympathized with them. I felt doubly an orphan as they left the deck. At this moment a young- man addressed me, and announcing himself as the son of Mrs. Audley, the lady with whom I was henceforth to live, led me to the boat which waited at the side of the vessel; and a short journey brought us to Clifton, and the cottage where Mrs. Audley resides. How vividly the thoughts and feelings which crowded that night about my pillow, rise upon my memory ! I think it is not saying too much of that natural instinct which attracts us to one person, and repels us from another, when I call it infallible. There is truth and certainty in our first impressions ; we are so much the creatures of habit, so much governed in our opinions by the opinions of others, we so rarely begin to think, till our thoughts are already biassed, that our intuitive percep- tion of good and evil, and consequently of friend and foe, is utterly neglected. If, in forming our attach-

4—4

38 TIIK TM>TAN ORI'IIAN.

ments, instead of repeating what wo have heard, we recalled our feelings when we first met, there would be fewer complaints than are now of disappointed expecta- tions. First impressions are natural monitors, and nature is a true guide. My impressions were delightful — I slept contented and confiding; and my spirits next day were worthy of the lovely morning that aroused them.

Mrs. Audley's cottage, the landscape, and the sky, were altogether English : the white walls, the green blinds, the open sash-windows, the upper ones hung round with the thick jessamine that had grown up to the roof; the lower ones, into which the rose-trees looked; the blinds half-way down, just showing the cluster of red roses and nothing more, though they com- pletely admitted the air, loaded with the breath of the mignionettc ; while the eyes felt relieved by the green and beautiful, but dim light which they threw over the room. It was like enchantment to step from the cool and shadowy parlour into the garden, with its thou- sand colours ; the beds covei-ed with annuals, those rainbows of the spring, the Guelder rose, the labur- nums, mines of silver and gold; the fine green turf; but nothing struck me so much as, beneath the shade of an old beech tree, a bank entirely covered with violets. It may seem fanciful, but to me the violet is the very emblem of woman's love; it springs up in secret; it hides its perfume even when gathered; how timidly its deep blue leaves bend on their slight stem !

THE INDIAN ORl'IIAN. 39

The resemblance may be carried yet further — woman's love is but beautiful in its purity ; let the hot breath of passion once sully it, and its beauty is departed — thus as the summer advances, the violet loses its fra- grance ; June comes, but its odours are fled - - the heart too has its June; the flower may remain, but its fragrance is gone for ever. Flowers are the inter- preters of love in India; painting in the most vivid, but in the softest colours, speaking in the sweetest sighs : while each blossom that fades is a mournful remembrancer, either of blighted hopes or of departed pleasures. I would give my lover violets; the rose has too much display. J' admire les roses, metis je m'attendris sur les violettcs. The rose is beauty — the violet tenderness. And the country round was so placidly delightful. I had been used to the sweeping shadow of gigantic trees, to oceans of verdure, to the wide and magnificent Ganges; but the landscape here came with a quiet feeling of contentment on the heart. I remember so well the first time I ever walked on the downs ! The day had been very showery, and the sky was but just beginning to clear; the dark gloomy volumes in which the tempest was rolling away, were but little removed from clouds of transparent whiteness, and between, like intervals of still enjoyment amid the hopes and fears of life, gleamed forth the deep calm blue of the horizon. Faintly coloured like a dream of bliss, a half-formed rainbow hung on the departing storm, as fearful of yet giving a promise of peace.

40 THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

Every thing around was in that state of tremulous repose, which succeeds a short and violent rain. The long shadows and double brilliancy of the light from the reflecting rain-drops contrasted in the scenery, like sorrow and joy succeeding tears. Never could the banks of the Avon have been seen to greater advantage. On one side of the river rose rocks totally bare, but of every colour and every form ; on the other side banks equally high were covered with trees in their thickest foliage ; the one nature's stupendous fortress, the other her magnificent pavilion of leaves. One or two un- covered masses appeared, like the lingering foot-prints of desolation ; but in general, where the statelier trees had not taken root, the soil was luxuriantly covered with heath, and the golden-blossomed furze. On the left, dew and sunshine seemed wholly to have fallen in vain : riven in every direction, the rocks had assumed a thousand different shapes, in which the eye might trace, or fancy it traced, every variety of ruin, spire, or turret — the mouldering battlement, the falling tower. Here and there a solitary bramble had taken root, almost as bare and desolate as the spot where it grew. The contrast between the banks, was like prosperity and adversity. I do think, if ever anybody was happy I was, for the next two years. It is strange, though true, that the happiest part of our life, is the shortest in detail. We dwell on the tempest that wrecked, the flood that overwhelmed — but we pass over in silence the numerous days we have spent in summer and sunshine.

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 41

Mrs. Audley was to rue as a mother, and Edward and I loved each other with all the deep luxury of love in youth. It was luxury, for it was unconscious. Love is not happiness : hope, pleasure, delicious and pas- sionate moments of rapture — all these belong to love, but not to happiness. Its season of enjoyment is when its existence is unknown, when fear has not agitated, hope has not expanded the flower but it opens to fade, and jealousy and disappointment are alike unfeared, unfelt. The heart is animated by a secret music. Like the Arabian prince, who lived amid melody, perfume, beauty, and flowers, till he rashly penetrated the for- bidden chamber ; so, when the first sensations of love are analysed, and his mystery displayed, his least troubled, his most alluring dream, is past for ever. Edward was strikingly handsome ; the head finely shaped as that of a Grecian statue, with its profusion of thick curls; the complexion beautiful as a girl's, but which the darkly arched eyebrows, the manly open countenance, redeemed from the charge of effeminacy, his eyes, (the expression of " filled with light" was not a mere exaggeration when applied to them ;) and then the perfect unconsciousness, or, I should rather say, the utter neglect of his own beauty. He was destined for a soldier and for India ; and perhaps there is no career in life whose commencement affords such scope for enthusiasm . However false the fancies may be of cut- ting your way to fame and fortune, of laurels, honours,

&c., still there is natural chivalry enough in the heart,

4—4* '

42 THE INDIAN OKl'llAN.

to make the young soldier indulge largely in their romance. At length the time of his departure came : Edward was too proud to weep when he bade adieu to his mother and me, his affianced bride ; but the black curls on his fair forehead were wet with suppressed agitation, and when he threw himself on horseback, at the garden gate, he galloped the animal at his utmost speed; but when he came to a little shadowy lane, apparently shut out from all, I saw from my window that his pace was slackened, and his head bowed down upon the neck of his steed. They say women are more constant than men : it is the constancy of circumstance ; the enterprise, the exertion required of men, continu- ally force them out of themselves, and that which was at first necessity soon becomes habit — whereas the con- stant round of employments in which a woman is en- gaged, require no fatigue of mind or body ; the needle is, generally speaking, both her occupation and amuse- ment, and this kind of work leaves the ideas full play ; hence the imagination is left at liberty to dwell upon one subject, and hence habit, which is an advantage on the one side, becomes to her an additional rivet.

For mouths after Edward's departure, I was utterly miserable, listless, apathetic — nothing employed, no- thing amused me : but I was at length roused from this state of sentimental indolence by a letter from him : he wrote in the highest spirits ; his success had been be- yond his utmost expectations; and soon, he said, he might hope and look forward to our joining him in

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. 43

India. I have a great dislike to letter-writing : the phrase " she is an excellent correspondent/' is to me • synonymous with " she is an excellent gossip." I have seen epistles crossed and recrossed, in which I knew not which most to pity — the industry or idleness of the writer. But every one has an exception to his own rule, and so must I ; and from this censure, I except letters from those near and dear to us, and far away. A letter then, breathing of home and affection, is a treasure; it is like a memento from the dead, for absence is as death, in all but that its resurrection is in this life. I felt a new spirit in existence ; I lived for him, I hoped to rejoin him. I delighted to hear my own voice in the songs he was soon to hear ; I read with double pleasure,' that I might remember what he would like : but above all else, painting became my favourite pursuit ; every beautiful landscape, every delicate flower, every striking countenance which I drew, would, I thought, be so many proofs how I had remembered him in absence. I almost regretted the fine cool airs of a summer evening, the low sweet songs of the birds ; T could make for him no memorials of them. Another letter came j and soon after we prepared for our embar- cation, and a second time I crossed the ocean. The voyage which had seemed so short before, I now thought never-ending ; every day the bright shining sea, and the blue sky seemed more monotonous ; a thousand times did I compare our fate to that of the enchanted damsel, in one of Madame de Genlis' tales, who has been con-

44 THE INDIAN ORPHAN.

demned by a most malignant fairy to walk straight for- ward over an unvarying tract of smooth green turf, bounded only by the clear azure of the heavens. But we reached India at last.

What is there that has not been said of the pleasure of meeting, yet who has ever said all that is felt — the flow of words and spirits, the occasional breaks of deep and passionate silence, the restlessness of utter happi- ness, the interest of the most trivial detail — and when on our pillow, the hurry of ideas, the delicious, though agitated throbbing of the heart. To sleep is impossible, but how delightful to lie awake ! But my first look at Edward, the next morning, made my pillow sleepless again, and sleepless from anxiety. The climate too surely had been slow poison to him : his bright and beautiful colour was gone ; the wan veins of his finely turned and transparent temples, had lost the clearness and the hue of health ; and often his voice sank to an almost inaudible tone, as if speaking were too great an exertion. Still he himself laughed at our fears, and pressed the conclusion of our marriage. I wished it too, for I felt it was something to be his, even in the grave. It was the evening before the day fixed for uniting us, when he proposed a visit to a spot I had often sought alone — the grave of my parents. Once or twice during the walk, I was startled by his excessive paleness, but again his smile and cheerfulness reassured me. We sat down together silently. I was too sad for words : a little branch of scented flowers in my hand,

THE INDIAN ORPHAN. ! ,">

was quite washed by ray tears. A cloud was flitting over the moon, and for a short space it was entirely dark; suddenly the soft clear light came forth more lovely than before. I bade Edward mark how beauti- fully it seemed to sweep away the black cloud; he answered me not; but remained with his face bowed on his hands. I put mine into them — they were cold ; I saw his countenance — it was convulsed in death.

TO

ON HER BIRTH DAY, APRIL 4, 18 — -

BY PAUL MKTHUEN, ESQ., M.P.

A BIRTH-DAY is a day of gloom For those to earth who cling; Who look not from the dreary tomb , And mortal bonds to spring.

But to the virtuous and the just

The day for joy is given ; That Time has borne them from the dust

To one year nearer Heaven.

Then hail I this thy natal hour

AVith no misplac'd regret, That thou, above corruption's power,

Shalt rise a seraph yet.

READING.

BY L. E. L.

>EXD, gentle student, o'er the page, Although thine be a joyous age— An age, when hope lifts up its eyes, And sees but summer in the skies; And youth leads on its sunny hours, Like painted ones, whose links are flowers. Yet bend thy sweet and earnest look Above that old and holy book.

For there will come another time, When hope will need a faith sublime, To lead it on the thorny path That weary mortal ever hath. When vain delights have left behind A fevered and exalted mind, And life, with few and wasted years, Treads mournfully its vale of tears.

Bend o'er the leaf thy graceful brow, For every word thou readest now Will sink within thine inmost heart, Like good seed, never to dep.'.rt :

f>0 SUN AND MOON.

A glorious and a great reward, A sacred and eternal guard, A sun amid our earthly gloom, That sets to rise beyond the tomb !

SUN AND MOON.

BY JAMES SMITH, ESQ.

~T~\l<]All brother, quit with rue the sky !"

\J (Thus spoke the Queen of Night,) " And, radiant, walk the earth, while I

Dispense my milder light. On Malta's Rock I'll take my stand,

To calm the seamen's fears; And you shall brilliantly command

O'er barbarous Algiers." Each godhead straight on earth alights

With such a potent blaze, That Malta long was ruled by

And Algiers long by Day*.

EUSTACE ;

OR, THE WASTED LIFE.

BY MISS JETVSBURY.

"And when he had what most he did admire, And found of life's delights the last extremes, lie found all but a rose hedged with a briai-, A nought, a thought, a masquerade of dreams."

DRUMMOXD.

IT was late in the evening of a November day, in 18 — , that, after two days and nights of incessant travelling, I reached London, and proceeded to a house in - - street. Every one knows the feeling with which he knocks at the door of a sick friend, when he fears to learn that his errand is lost, that he shall be greeted with those death-bell words — " You are too late !' In the present instance, my impatient summons was answered by a respectable middle-aged servant man, whose mournful countenance so realized my apprehen- sions, that I forbore to make any direct inquiry — indeed, I had not the power.

The domestic was at no loss to understand my emo- tion ; « Dr. F— — ," said he, « is with him."

" Is with him," said I, "thank God !" and gatherino-

5—5

EUSTAU:;

hope from this ambiguous phrase, I ran up stairs with eager haste.

A door opened as I reached the landing, and the phy- sician came forward ; he was well known to me by reputation, and his appearance at the present crisis, made me feel towards him as a friend. I grasped his offered hand, and approached the room door.

" Mr. Mandeville," said he, in a kind but firm tone, "that room you must not enter at present, — it grieves my very soul to say it, but you are too late ; all is just over !"

I replied by wrenching myself from the grasp that strove to detain me, and in another moment stood be- side the bed of death. Dr. F - followed me, appre- hensive of consequences; but the scene therein disclosed, effectually calmed my impetuosity, and I became still from the very power of my emotion.

I felt as if suddenly placed in a sepulchre ; the room was hot and dark, so that I breathed and distinguished with difficulty; when my eye grew accustomed to the gloom, the first object that I discovered was the ghastly face of my friend, stretched iu the attitude of sleep, but it was the dull cold sleep of death.

Yes ! there, mute, and unconscious of my presence, lay the one whom I had last seen brilliant and in health ; imaginative, refined, passionate, the very genius of change and contradiction; courted, uncontrollable, way- ward, wilful; a spell to others, a torment to himself; yet, withal, my first, last, dearest friend — there he had

OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 53

died, unattended, but for the voluntary offices of a poor servant — friendless, but for a stranger ! Again and again was my sight blinded by gushing tears , again and again did I dash them away, and rivet my eyes afresh upon the splendid wreck before me. By degrees I be- came able to examine more minutely, the change which had passed upon his form and features, and something like comfort arose from the contemplation. Disease had wasted the one; on the other, care and emotion (those vultures of the soul) had left dire traces of their triumph ; but over all, there brooded a calm, which, in the bright- est hours of life, I had never witnessed. He lay in a half-reclining position — the head bowed upon his bosom, —the lips somewhat apart, as if he had died whilst pre- paring to speak; and smiling, — for death, which had arrested the words, had spared the smile that prefaced them. His white and attenuated hands were gently clasped; his whole figure was at rest; and the wild play of a countenance, once proud, even in its beauty and its tenderness, looked not more pale than tranquil. I bent forward to kiss the brow; its chill clamminess startled and shocked me, and I uttered a cry of grief and aston- ishment, as if then, for the first time, 1 had become sensible of the certainty of death.

Dr- F— - now interposed, and quietly urged me to retire with him. "We have," said he, "many arrange- ments to make, much to talk over ; and poor Eustace charged me with many messages for you — to-morrow you halls return here, but to-night — nay, you must leave

54 EUSTACE;

the apartment now; you need food and rest too." "Food — rest," repeated I, impetuously; however, I suffered him to lead me away into an adjoining room. Ordering up some refreshment, of which he entreated me, for my health's sake, to avail myself, he left me for awhile, to give the directions now rendered indispen- sable. In about half an hour he returned ; I had not stirred from the spot in which he left me standing. He shook his head in a manner at once half-friendly, half- professional. "This," said he, "will not do; I must rule you as I used to rule Eustace; he was always obe- dient, both as a patient and as a son." Here his voice trembled, and he became silent. I threw myself on the sofa, and burst into tears. The benevolent physician sat down beside me, and mingled his tears with mine. When I grew composed, I entreated him to give me all the information he could, respecting my departed friend, of whom I had wholly lost sight during the last five years. Again and again I reprobated the cruelty that had kept me in ignorance of his danger.

" Do not blame the dead," replied my companion gravely; "Eustace never consented, till the day on which my letter of summons is dated. I wrote the in- stant he would permit me; till then, I had not heard of you ; for till then, Eustace never gave me his whole confidence. He interested me from the first day of my attendance, and I felt convinced that as he was no com- mon character, his had been no common life : but you know he had a proud spirit, and privation aud self-

OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 55

reproach arc not in themselves softening influences. Previous to our confidential intercourse, I perceived that there was a warfare going on in his mind, a strife be- tween good and evil, a conviction of error, with a hardy desire to brave it out; a determination to "die and make no sign,"- —but he could not do so. The better influ- ence gained the victory; then he gave me the history of his career, and bade me send for you. From that hour he sank, but from that hour he became tranquil."

"And how died he?"

" As it peculiarly became him that he should die — humbly. Tranquillity in death is frequently open to suspicion ; at least, it is not in itself a sufficient evidence of safety ; but in the case of tumultuous, passionate cha- racters, it is to my mind, the most satisfactory evidence we can have that the heart is right with God."

" And had he forgotten me ?" said I, " me, his chosen friend !"

"Do not be tenacious," replied Dr. F— — ; "he remembered you to the last moment ; he had few others to remember, for the world left him long before he left the world. Look," continued the speaker, holding up, as he spoke, a packet, which I perceived to be addressed to myself, "here is proof that he remembered you, and proof also that he disobeyed me, for he employed himself in writing these sheets when utterly unfit for the exer- tion. To-morrow you will peruse them."

" To-morrow !" I exclaimed, snatching the precious

memorials as I spoke ; " this night — instantly."

5—5*

50 EUSTACE;

I broke the seal, and endeavoured to read, but my eyes refused their aid; they would only weep. My companion saw my inability. "Nay, then," said he, " I will read them to you ; Eustace had at last no secrets from me, and he bade me comfort you when he was gone; come, you shall be to me what Eustace was. I will fancy you his brother; give me the papers."

I gave them into his hand. "Now, then," said he, " if you will not sleep before you hear their contents, at least you shall eat before I read them ; you have need of strength, even to listen."

I obeyed, to be freed from his friendly importunity; and he then commenced his melancholy tusk.

EUSTACE S LETTER.

" Henry, I have known for some time that I must die, but I was too proud to let you come and close my eyes, for I could not bear that you should see my humi- liation; that you should find your once brilliant friend without fortune, without fame, without friends; but I thank God for giving me a better mind, and now I trust you will reach me whilst I belong to the world of living men. Should you arrive too late, pardon your friend in this thing, and believe, that with all his other sins of an evil heart and wasted life, he has carried it to that Being who saves when all else reject. Oh, my Henry,

OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 57

do you ever think of our bright boyhood ! of those days •when the heart had a summer, long and luxuriant as Nature's? do you remember that old grey rock behind your father's house, whence we used to watch the sun rise ? and that dingle, so green, and cool, and silent, yet withal so bright, where we used to lie at the foot of the large beech tree, looking up through its branches at the glimmering blue sky, and talking of that which resem- bled it — the future ? That dingle haunts me like a re- membered dream ; in the feverish hour.? of dissipation, in the dark ones of disappointment, even in these, my dying ones, I have seemed again to behold its sunny greenness, and felt, by turns, reproached and saddened. But this is vain ! The leaves and the singing birds of that season are long since dead, and the fancies and desires that were their parallels, are dead too. Pain and pleasure are alike transient, but good and evil long survive — they are remembered by their consequences. You cannot have forgotten, then,, that strange, perverted, gifted being, who exercised such a powerful influence over both our minds, — such a fatal, such a lasting one on mine. With his knowledge and his eloquence, his enthusiasm and his levity, his wild estimate of the powers of man; his daring doubts, and more daring assertions; his genius, which admired the loveliness of virtue, his secret infidelity, which despised the obliga- tion of duty — you cannot have forgotten him, but to you he did little harm. You listened to his tales of other times and other lands, to his caustic sketches of

58 i: i -STACK;

life, and splendid visions of unattainable felicity, as to the words of a sorcerer; but good sense and an unam- bitious temperament preserved you from lasting injury. You went to other scenes and forgot him. It was far otherwise with myself. His words sank into my soul, like sweet deadly poison, working destruction. He kindled up my ambition, but he did not direct the flame ; he made me conscious and proud of my energies, but he never taught me their use ; he disgusted me with

O / O

acknowledged principles and customary pursuits, and gave me instead vain and vague ideas of distinction. My imagination was full of dazzling sentiments, but my ideas were undefined and impalpable; my mind was a chaos of light, and power, and splendour, without aim and without order, without rule and without principle. One desire took possession of me, the desire of power for its own sake; for the gratification of my own pride, as a proof of my superiority. To go through this dusky world a dazzling, courted, wonder-raising being, a "splendour amidst shadows"-— with no definite aim be- yond that of gaining the greatest possible influence over the greatest possible number and variety of minds ; careless whether it produced good or evil, bane or bliss, in its results — this, as well as I can recal my past state of mind, was my ruling passion. Every study, book? character — my own heart, conversation, bore on this one point ; every thing, even the contemplation of nature, became an art. I do not mean that all this was done avowedly and on system ; it was the natural result of an

OR, THE WASTED LIFE.

artificial habit of thought. The first evil consequence was discontent. Time, talent, feeling, all were wasted in dreaming myself into possession of the power I longed for. I could no longer surrender myself to the enjoyment of the beauties and pleasures by which I was surrounded ; the idea that a world existed, in which I was formed to shine, but from which I was excluded, embittered every hour of my life. I sprang, therefore, like a bird from an opened cage, when the moment arrived which allowed me to enter that world, and enter it my own master. For a long time the versatility of my ambition blinded me to its inherent meanness, just as its novelty, for a time, precluded weariness. To have been distinguished as a mere man of fashion, or plea- sure, or even literature, would have disgusted me by its cxclusiveness : eminence in any profession, however honourable, would not have satisfied me, it would have required patient drudgery; least of all, would eminence in goodness have suited me, because then I must have sacrificed my corrupt motives of action. No, my aim was to embody and unite a portion of all the qualities required in all these pursuits, and create a profession for myself — that of pleasing and gaining power ; to be, in short, a modern Alcibiades ; equally at home, whe- ther leading a gay revel, or imbibing Socratic wisdom. Oh, those days ! those months ! those years ! I cannot recount the wild excitements which filled them ; even you saw not the one-half of their transitions, for know- ing that you disapproved full many of such as you did

GO EUSTACE ;

know, I seldom sought your society, but when wearied into steadiness : and at last you went abroad, and I saw you no more. It was not from any diminution of real regard that I ceased to answer your letters, but I be- came gradually enthralled by the habit of mind that had at first been optional. I lost the power of steady remembrance, of patient continuance in any thing : constancy lasted just as long as excitement; the past, the future, and the distant, were alike nothing; the new, the near, and the present, were all in all. But there was a feeling for you, a remembrance of our boyish attachment, that triumphed even over caprice. Other- wise, man, or woman, or child, alike repented intrusting me with any portion of their regard ; for when I had gained the power I sought, they generally ceased to ex- cite an interest strong enough to stimulate me to atten- tion, in which case they tired me, because they had claims on me which I could not dispute, and had no will to acknowledge. At first I felt relieved when one by one dropped off, leaving me at liberty to please myself, and please others ; but by degrees I awoke to a sense of dreariness, and of mortification, arising from the discovery that, at last, no one suffered on my account, because none trusted me beyond the hour. By degrees, too, I felt my mind lose its vigour and elasti- city ; every object and occurrence appeared to me in such various aspects, according to the mood of the day, that I really had no fixed opinions of any kind, no attachment to any particular habit of thought. To

OB,, Tin-; \VASTI:I> F.IFE. til

form a decision and abide by it, was all but impossible ; my good and evil being alike the result of impulse, and so interchanged, that my friends always found some- thing to blame in niy best actions, and something to praise in my worst. Opinion was the breath of my soul, consequently, I was ever vibrating between elation and depression ; whilst my efforts received praise, I did well ; when praise was withheld, I could do nothing. My mind had no root in itself, but derived its nourish- ment from extraneous sources. When they dried up it withered. The dread of sinking into a mediocre tortured me, and the more this dread possessed me, the more did I discover, that the native element of genius is simplicity of purpose, or rather the absence of all purpose whatsoever. I was what I originally desired to be, a person whom society courted, but I found that I had lost the power of becoming any thing better. This conviction induced a melancholy, misanthropic turn of thought ; my head was waste, and my heart empty ; I grew reckless and self-accusing. These feelings were much deepened by a severe and long-protracted illness. The gloom and stillness of a sick room contrasted for- cibly with the gaiety and glare from which they had snatched me; and the neglect of most of my com- panions, now that I was unable to give or receive amusement, obliged me to many reflections that might have been called wise, had they not resulted from mor- tified vanity, rather than a convinced judgment. There was one person, however, who visited me for the very

EUSTACE;

reasons that others forsook me — because I seemed less disposed to be gay than grave. This was a clergyman, whom I had occasionally met at the house of a mutual friend, and with whom I had once travelled half a day ; a slight acquaintanceship, but it sufficed to give him a right to inquire after my health, and manifest those little attentions which invalids are particularly fond of receiving from strangers. But the origin of his visits lay in the interest he had conceived for me, in his belief that I was capable of becoming a valuable cha- racter, and in his desire (for he had the ambition of benevolence) to influence me for my own good. Many circumstances contributed to make him succeed in win- ning my confidence : he was my senior ; he was my superior in rank; he excelled in moral energy; but the secret of his power lay in his simplicity. His, how- ever, was not the simplicity occasioned by ignorance of men and books ; nor yet the superficial simplicity of phrase and deportment ; it was the genuine and trans- parent integrity of a strong mind, that judged of all things by the unerring standard of right and wrong. He was wholly a character of truth, principle, and duty ; of " austere yet happy feelings ;" alike devoid of sentiment and subtlety. I never could understand his fancy for myself; yet any motive, unsupported by the strongest regard, would not account for the watch- ful, forbearing kindness which I constantly received from him. lie strove to clear my mental vision of the dimness contracted by perpetual self-gazing; to make

OR, THE WASTED LIFE. (\l\

rne perceive glory in self-control ; happiness in living for others. He was gifted with much natural eloquence : and when he characterised and compared the objects for which I had lived and those for which it was worth while to live; when he unmasked the splendid vanities which had hitherto enthralled my imagination, pour- tray ing at the same time the eternal and sufficient good which might yet be attained — my heart burned within me to forego a life of littleness, and evidence a nobler style of being. I was perfectly sincere, but perfectly self-deceived. The old spirit was at work in another form ; my imagination was still lord of the ascendant, and what appeared to be the triumph of a new principle, was only the triumph of a new excitement. Hitherto I had contemplated religion and its acquirements with dislike and sceptism, partly the result of ignorance, and partly of early prejudice. I was now aroused to regard it with intellectual and absorbing interest. The grand outlines of Christianity must ever, when fairly stated, command the homage of the mind ; my present in- structor possessed singular powers of appeal to the heart and conscience, and like one suddenly transported into a new and lovely region, my mind was filled with wonder, enthusiasm and delight. My former habits and associations really appeared contemptible, and the idea that there existed a power by which I might eman- cipate myself from their thraldom, and remould my character into what should deserve and command con- fidence, filled me with rapture. I commenced a crusade

G— 6

64 li STAGE :

against myself, and for a time all went well. The stern, the simple, and the despised virtues, which can only be based upon Christian principle; — the occupa- tions which have solid utility as their object ; the cha- racter of Christ, which is unquestionably the most wondrous and magnificent ever realized on earth — all these, really arrested my attention, and as long as they did so, produced a marked and beneficial effect upon every habitude of thought, word and deed. As may readily be supposed, I was all devotedness to my new friend ; and he, half in hope, and half in fear, suffered me at last to form a new bond of union with himself and his principles. Many blamed him, and at last he blamed himself; but for awhile, as I said before, all went well. I was happy ; I was occupied ; I was con- tented in retirement; I loved a woman who thought me trustworthy, and that woman was Constantia. Yes, I loved her, for a time, in sincerity, and she was one more than worthy of that love, even had it retained to the end its warmth and integrity ; for she was tender, serious, thoughtful, gentle ; reposing and full of repose ; timid, exclusive — in all things womanly. I was struck with the singleness of her notions, her delight in nature, her complete freedom from worldliness. But I believe her crowning charm was, that I found it difficult to win her affection, and because, when at last awarded, it w;is with a genuine intensity that I had never witnessed, at least never excited before. Her love for me, when fairly roused, engrossed, subdued, enchained her: I

Oil, THE WASTED LIFE. 05

became her idol, her life's unbroken thought; and not merely every person, but every duty became painful that interfered with devotedness to myself. Her bro- ther remonstrated on the ground of religious principle, but she was emparadised in a dream that steeped her judgment iu oblivion, and she loved the more for find- ing that she already loved too well. Alas ! alas ! that what at first occasioned me purer joy than I had ever experienced in my whole life, should eventually have wearied, nay, produced disgust! That the wreath of flowers should have changed into gyves and fetters ! That the very fact of being endowed with despotic power, should have tempted me to abuse it; to rend a soft and gentle heart that showed no image but mine. But thus it was. As novelty wore off, and excitement diminished, my bosom sins, ambition and instability, revived; and in proportion as they did so, my new course of life became less easy, less pleasing, less suited to me. My religion had been wholly imaginative, and the beautiful but baseless fabric began to fall to pieces. My spirit began to be once more feverish and restless ; my feelings to fret under the curb of self-restraint; something like a glory gathered over the world I had left, something like a mist over the one I now inha- bited ; I remembered my brilliant days, and sighed. I was constrained to admit, in my judgment, that good- ness, and virtue, and rectitude, and utility, were good, and virtuous, and right, and useful — but I felt them insipid: there was no grounding passionate interest on

66 EUSTACE;

the people and things connected with them ; for they were no longer gilded by the suu of my imagination. In an unfortunate hour too, the individual whom I may well call my evil genius, again crossed my path ; he was the meteor-character he had ever been, and years had only increased his power of caustic raillery on all subjects opposed to his- own views and feelings. From a mingling of pride and shame, I disguised, or rather attempted to disguise, the real state of my mind ; but he saw through it, and his wit winnowed me, not of the chaif, but of the wheat of my little remaining attach- ment to truths and principles, and persons who were governed by them. A vain mind, whatever may be the talent connected with it, is always at the mercy of ridicule cunningly handled; and he was an adept. But I must acquit him of wrong intentions, as far as Con- stantia was concerned. He thought her unfit to retain influence over a spirit like mine ; but he scattered his levities regarding her, more from inability to be serious on any subject, than from iniquity of purpose. Then he did not believe in the deep and pure intensity of her affection for me ; woman's constancy was, in his opinion, the most fabulous of fables. He measured her cha- racter too by the world's standard, or rather by the standard of his own perverted taste ; and, because she varied from it, pronounced her uninteresting. She cer- tainly was not a woman formed to be courted in society ; not one fitted to draw paladin and peer to her feet— not, in a word, what a vain worldly heart would in

OH, THE WASTED LIFE. <!7

brilliant circles take a pride in owning. The gold of her character lay beneath the surface, but her affection had brought it all to light for me, and I at least ought to have been satisfied. Had my affection towards her been of the right kind, the conversation of the indivi- dual alluded to, would have made me forswear his friendship forever; but in truth, it was like a spark falling upon tinder — I was previously prepared for its influence, and instead of resenting, received it. Our intercourse was limited. There were many reasons why England, as a residence displeased him ; he was now on the eve of leaving it again, and endeavoured to persuade me to accompany him, and become, as he phrased it, less militant in my notions. This I declined, avowing circumstances as a reason, but in reality I had neither courage nor generosity to act on the principle of mort sans phrase; so he left, making his farewell such a sweet and bitter compound of flattery and ridicule, that my ears long tingled at the remembrance. He departed, and I remained behind, not with the settled purpose of playing the villain, but in a temper of mind that natu- rally induced this consequence. Some characters un- dergo few changes, and those few are gradually effected, and between every such change there is a twilight interval of deliberation and prelude ; they have inter- mediate moods — neutral tints. Neither one or other appertained to my nature. From change to change, from fancy to fancy, I passed at once and altogether, and

none but myself could have traced the steps of progress.

6—6*

68 EUSTACE;

It was thus in my subsequent conduct to Constantia. My love for her had, like every thing else, been merely based on imaginative feeling, and therefore it was essen- tially unstable and selfish. I had no real fault to find with her, but she ceased to excite me ; I grew weary of her society, fretful at the idea of her claims upon me, vexed even at the undecaying nature of her regard for me. I do not mean to say that all these feelings were evidenced in my manner ; at the worst of times there

was ever about me a milkiness of nature that shrunk

•

from giving wilful pain, and I really strove hard to seem all I had once been without seeming. Mere spectators, and even her brother, were deceived ; Constantia alone discovered the true state of my heart; for Constantia loved, and felt, what can only be felt, not described, the thousand differences between attention and tenderness. A strong and happy love can afford to seem negligent in manner, because, by a single word or look, or even tone of voice, it can, and does yield a payment of delight far surpassing all that can be done by active service. Constautia missed these signs of true love ; not that she ever breathed a syllable of reproach, or even entreaty, but she grew pale, and sad, and silent. This, and the conviction that I was the occasion, irri- tated me ; and when we were alone together, which I avoided as much as possible, I grew moody, constrained, captious. Her brother at length perceived all was not smooth, and claimed the right of interference — but Constantia roused her gentle nature to the effort, and

OR; THE WASTED LIFE. 69

precluded its necessity ; she set me free from my en- gagement, and I was blind, weak, worthless enough to accept my freedom, and to rejoice in it. Of course, we never met again. I received one letter from her brother (once my friend;) it was as beseemed both characters, stern and sad. He told me of the misery I had inflicted — of the hopes, as regarded myself, I had raised and blighted — of the esteem he had once felt for me — of the fear he now felt. He gave me keen coun- sel as a man — he forgave me as a Christian. He died shortly afterwards of a malignant fever, and Constantia is — I know not where : but oh, my friend, if it be pos- sible, discover her abode, and bear to her my dying testimony to her worth and her wrongs. Her forgive- ness I do not ask, for it would grieve her could she think I deemed her capable of retaining any angry emotion towards one she once loved. Tell her, that the hour which has degraded many things in my estimation, has only established her ; tell her whatever may render my memory less painful. Yes, Henry, we parted, and I returned to my old world; but I took not back my own self: for the knowledge of right clung to me, though the will to obey its dictates had departed ; and this knowledge stamped a darker character on every sub- sequent error and suffering. I returned to the world, but the remembrance of what I had lost and left, haunted, tortured, maddened me ; but it could not restrain, could not lure me back. Hitherto, though my life, with the exception of the period just described,

70 EUSTACE ;

had been vain, wiM, and useless, it had possessed sonic redeeming traits — its frivolity had been blended with feeling — its dissipation with literature and refinement; but now my soul required deadlier opiates to lull it into forgetfulness, and it quaffed them — reckless alike of the present and the future, of degredation and of remorse. I feel it a duty to reveal the extent of my aberrations ; and after my separation from Con- stantia and her brother, they were dark and many. My downward course was no longer taken by ' the thou- sand steps,' but by the < single spring ;' I became a gambler, I became, but for an accusing conscience, an abandoned man ; one whom the circles that had once owned as their ornament, rejected, disowned, con- demned. My companions were like none that I had ever before associated with ; fallen as I was, I despised and hated, even whilst I mingled with them. And what was the bond of our union ? Sympathy in sin ; fellowship in evil : of regard, esteem, kind offices, the friendships between the spirits of darkness included as much. This career could not last. It could not last ! In one little year, one short revolution of spring and summer, autumn and winter, one year which gave strength to the tree, and stature to the child, sufficed to make me a ruined man ! one year, that scarcely ripens the seed of a frail flower, sufficed to bring down my strength to the feebleness of infancy ; ploughed deep furrows on my brow ; dissipated my fortune ; and dug my grave ! I stood, at last, a very prodigal ; homeless,

OH, T1IE WASTED LIFE. 71

but for a hired lodging; friendless, but for a servant who forsook my evil days, to return and comfort my sorrowful ones; companionless, but for the spectres roused by memory and remorse ! My narrative draws to a close, and it is well, for my strength ebbs with every page; but it must hold out till I have told all — till I have paid a tribute to one who came to me in my low estate, who has been to me physician, pastor, bro- ther, friend. Oh, thank him, Henry, for having been to me all that you would, had you been near me ; oh, do you thank him, for I shall soon be able to thank him no more. He tells me I must die, and I feel that he tells me the truth. In my best hours, and in my worst, death has been perpetually on my mind ; it has covered me like a dread ' presence ; weighed me down like an ocean ; blinded me like a horrid vision ; imprisoned my faculties as with bars and gates of iron. Often and often, when in saloons alive with mirth and splendour, I have seemed the gayest of the inmates, this thought, and fear of death, have shot through my mind, and I have turned away, sick and shuddering. What is it then to approach the reality ? to feel it very near — nay, close at hand ? stealing on, and on, and on, like the tide upon the shore, not to be driven back till it has engulphed its prey? What is it to apprehend the time when you must be a naked, guilty, trembling spirit, all memory, and all consciousness, never again for a single moment to sleep, or know oblivion from the crushing burden of the ' deeds done in the body ? ' Henry, beware ! for a

t'2. EUSTACE;

dying bed may be made a place of torment, hell before its time : and the remembrance of past life, stripped of all its deceptions, shrivelled into insignificance, appear- ing, in connexion with eternity, but as a tiny shell tossed on the broad black surface of an ocean ! then again, the intense importance of that very insignificant fragment of time, and the intense remembrance of all that occupied it — its schemes, and dreams, and sins, and vanities, sweeping across the mind in solemn order, like a procession of grim shadows, with death waiting to embosom all. Oh ! well may I smite upon my breast, and cry, with all but despair — ' woe is me for the past ! woe, woe, for the past ! ' I had health, and I have ruined it, — friends, and I flung them from me, — I had talents which I perverted, — influence, which I abused, — time, which I have squandered ; yes, I had health, and friends, and time, and influence, and talents — where are they ? where am I now ? Every dream is dis- solved,— every refuge of lies is plucked from me, — every human consolation totters beneath me, like a bow- ing wall, — and all the kingdoms of the world, and all the glory of them, could not bribe from my soul the re- membrance of a single sin. Ambition, pleasure, fame, friendship, all things that I have loved, lie round me like wrecks, and my soul is helpless in the midst of them, like the mariner on his wave-worn rock. And now, my earliest friend, farewell j you will blot this word with your tears, but it must stand, a record of our ended friendship. Mourn my lost life, — but oh ! mourn

OR, THE WASTED LIFE. 7-°>

not for rue; rather rejoice, that even in these my last hours, a spirit of contrition has been given me from on high, and that I go where I can offend no more the patience that has borne with me so long. It is not fur me to depart with boasting confidence, yet something must I say, of the light that has risen upon my soul in its darkness, of the hope, that, like a spark, flies up- wards, not, I trust, to expire. Ask you whence arises this hope? it is here, grounded upon a single phrase, on a few words, that may be uttered in a moment; 'but they are strong, sufficient, glorious — < With Him is plen- teous redemption.' These sustain me; to these I cling with the energy of self-despair ; these enable me to drink my last draught of life, and finding death at the bottom, to find it not bitter. One penitent sigh to my wasted years ; one thought of human love and blessing to you, brother of my boyhood, — and now, farewell — farewell!"

Four days after reading the foregoing melancholy document, Dr. F , and myself, committed the re- mains of its writer to the grave. We laid him there with sorrow, not unrelieved by consolation, and bade adieu to his sepulchre, in hope. For myself, dwelling only on the first and last days of his life, his memory is shrined in my heart as something " pleasant, but mournful :" dwelling on that portion of which his letter is the record, I am not ashamed to own that I find the remembrance salutary for myself. His dying anguish,

74 EUSTACE; OR, THE WASTED LIFE.

on the review of a wasted life, often stimulates me to caution and watchfulness ; his very hand-writing

Is like a bell, Tolling me back from him unto myself.

For him too, for Eustace, knowing that hope was in his end, with thanksgiving to the power who bestowed upon him, we trust, a new heart, and another spirit, I would rejoice that he is freed from the possibility of change; that no fear can evermore arise, lest he should swerve from a holy course; that his warfare is accomplished, and his repentance " placed beneath the safeguard and seal of death and immortality."

FAREWELL TO ITALY.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, ESQ.

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses Bordering the channel of the milky-way. Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poet's song. I did believe, (what have I not believed ?) Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day, And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherisht thee so little ; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised ; But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration . . . reasoning As if the sight were unimpaired by death,— Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheered corruption !

Over all

The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the crave.

7—7

INSCRIPTION IN AN ANNUAL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISERRIMDS.

T

HIS globe again has turn'd,

And bimight another year; And man again has learn'd That all's unstable here : And sad it is to view the trace Of twelve poor months upon the face Of Nature, and the human race.

Th' united are estranged,

The proud have lost a name; Consistency is changed,

But thou art still the same. Yet thee, and thee alone, I find, Immutable in form and rniud, The fair, the good, the wise the kind !

HE NEVER SAID HE LOVED ME.

BY ALAICE TV. WATTS.

HE never said he loved me ; Nor hymned ray beauty's praise ; Yet there was something more than words

In his full, ardent gaze : lie never gave his passion voice;

Yet on his flushing check, I read a tale more tender far Than softest tones could speak !

He never said he loved me ;

Yet, when none else were nigh, How could I hear and doubt the truth,

His low, unbidden sigh ! The throbs of his tumultuous heart,

That faint, sweet breath above; What tongue could syllable so well

The tale of hope and love !

He never said he loved me ;

To silent worship vowed, The deep devotion of his soul

He never breathed aloud ;

80 HE NEVER SAID HE LOVED ME.

Though if he raised his voice in song,

As swelled each tender tone,

It seemed as if designed to reach.

ear and heart alone !

lie never said he loved me ;

Yet the conviction came Like some great truth that stirs the soul,

Ere yet it knows its name. Some angel-whisper of a faith

That long defied our ken, And made us almost feel that life

Had scarce begun till then !

+

And have I said /loved him ?

Alas, for maiden pride, That feeling he hath ne'er revealed,

I have not learned to hide ! And yet clairvoyant love informs

His votaries' hearts so well, That long before 'tis time to speak

There's nothing left to toll !

THE RIVAL COUSINS.

" Kivalem patienter haho," — Ovid. With patience bear a rival in thy love.

" "V7~OUNGr man, I have lately seen you here so often, and so long at a time, that I think you must have some favorite object in view in these parts."

" I have a favorite object in these parts, that is cer- tain ; but unfortunately not in view."

" You mean, perhaps, not in sight, which I did not mean. When I said in view, I meant as common lau- guage generally means, in prospect, at least in hope."

" Still you are wrong, my good woman. My favorite object is neither in sight, nor in prospect, and scarcely in hope : yet my fond attachment to it brings me here every day, and makes me linger it appears long enough to be suspected."

" If by suspected you mean that I think your purpose a bad one, you reflect on me and yourself, at the same time, in a most unjust manner. I have made free to question you ; but of what is wrong, your appearance and speech forbid my entertaining the slightest suspi-

cion.';

This dialogue took place between a handsome young

7—7*

82 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

gentleman of a neighbouring family and moderate for- tune, and a rather ancient and loquacious, but respect- able woman, who had come from a cottage about a furlong off, to have a minute's conversation with him, and obtain if possible his reasons for being so often seen on this spot. The spot, itself, might indeed, from its surpassing loveliness, account for the frequent visits of one fond of rural beauty of the very richest class : but it so happened that neither its shady grove, nor its pure waters, nor its inimitable view at every opening of the trees, and in the deep and clear reflection of the lake, had hitherto appeared to interest the stranger, or could explain why one so young, and handsome, and elastic, and apparently rich, should spend several hours of almost every day there, in looking at nothing, and apparently thinking of every thing.

The conversation was renewed, after a short pause, on the woman observing a fishing rod lying near the brink of the lake, where the gentleman had been sitting, and whence, on seeing her, he had rather hurriedly risen. It was resumed, as might be expected, by the more loquacious of the two sexes and ages.

" May I ask, Sir, what that long and slender thing is that lies there, and which I presume belongs to you?

" I can tell you what it w as a quarter of an hour ago : what it is now you can no doubt tell yourself. Accord- ing to Dr. Johnson's definition, it was a long stick, with a worm at one end and a fool at the other."

" And now it is a long stick without the fool; and

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 83

for the use it can be in such water as this, it may as •well be without the worm."

" I thought as much, for not a nibble have I had since I resorted thither, unless one occurred while my eyes wandered, as they have often done, towards yonder cottage."

" I suspected as much, young gentleman, for no one but a lover would have attempted to fish in an artificial crystal lake like this. Why look into it, and you can see to the bottom : do you think that a fish would swim in such transparency, while a fool, pardon me; while a lover, forgive me again ; while a gentleman was sitting on the brink \"

" I could almost pardon you for the sake of your wit, graced as it is with such politeness; but I will quite pardon you only on one condition — that you tell me something, for you evidently know much, about the beautiful young female at yonder cottage, who lost her canary the other day."

" Do you mean the young lady, or the young woman of the cottage? they are both beautiful, and as near alike as cousins generally are. I can tell you more about one than the other, though I ought to know something of both, for .1 nursed them; and when the time came for them to be educated, their mother thought

' O

that I had wit and wisdom enough, so I undertook that task also. A very easy one it was, for they were teach- able enough almost to teach themselves. The elder, whom we call the lady, has fashioned herself into this

H4 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

character by five years visit to a rich aunt in Dublin, •whence she has returned only a few days, some say to be married/'

"Then by every echo of this sweet grove, I hope it is the young woman I am inquiring after, because she may not be going to marry, and I may hope "

" May hope she never will, until she makes choice of you, and then I suppose she may marry as soon as she pleases. — Was not this to be the conclusion of your sentence, if you had retained courage enough to finish it? It is her, most certainly, you are inquiring after, because I recollect you spoke of the loss of her canary : but I must be faithful — the report says that she is quite as likely to be married as her cousin, and to the same grand suitor too, the son of the baronet, whose mansion you may see on the brow of yonder hill, if you will climb up one of these trees to look at it."

The young gentleman was now reduced to the most anxious and pitiable perplexity. Not that he was any longer in doubt which of the cousins he had seen : but

G '

the bare possibility of her being engaged to marry another, or even of another being in pursuit of her, filled him with distress : while the mere rumor that the bar- onet's son might prefer her more fashionable cousin preserved him from despair. How to promote the latter result, and to prevent the former, was the task he had now to perform, and in which the nurse was the only being he knew likely to assist him.

Nothing could exceed his joy when he received from

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 85

her an accidental intimation of her own wish and hope, that the sot disant lady-cousin might be transformed by the baronet's choice into a lady indeed. This was a discovery he could scarcely have hoped so soon to make, such was the mist and confusion of his companion's loquaciousness. At first this common vice of aged and favorite nurses threatened to delay if not to defeat his purpose ; but now it had unwittingly befriended him in one casual sentence, he thought he might turn it to a still better account, by enticing it to flow on of its own accord — by making a channel for its freest and fullest aboundings. Of his disappointment, the reader may judge from the following speech.

" Look first, sir, all around, and let me tell you as you look, that there is not a spot which does not remind me of Anne. There, now your eyes have gone the circle, and they are come back to the path between you and the lake. In that path she once found a sweet lamb, that had either strayed from the fold, or could not keep up with the flock through fatigue and faint- ness, and as she came up to it she thought it dying, when she took it home and nursed it as she would a child. It revived, and grew, and became strong, and then she found out the owner and restored it to him. On the bank yonder she used to gather cowslips for me to make tea with for a poor weak girl, since dead, who could scarcely take any thing else : and over the bank, on that beautiful spot of the greenest grass, she would often pluck the* daisies and butter-cups, because she

86 TliE RIVAL COUSINS.

knew that I was fond of the one, and her mamma of the other. You see that woody mound, a little to the left ; there when a child, a mere child, I assure you, she would carry half her own breakfast and half mine, which you know make up a whole one, to a gipsy child, that the mother used cruelly to leave under the tent for hours together, while she prowled about the country. I see you are now looking towards the little forest that opens at the end of the grove ; there the dear creature and her cousin used to play, and it would have gladdened your heart, as it did mine, to behold them.

Moreton's patience was now exhausted, and he begged the nurse to advance in the history of her lovely charge from childhood to some greater age. The poet has said, —

" To tales of those who love, all sense is car ;

Patience exhaustless; and enamoured youth

Holds garrulous age too brief, and bends to hear

A grandame's praise, a nurse's tale uncouth."

And such might have been Moreton's state of mind, had there been prospect or hope of a history thus com- menced closing before the sun went down. Nothing that had reference to Anne could be uninteresting to him; but such a mode of detailing the earliest and smallest portions of her life was everything but interest- ing, when he was racking with anxiety to know what wore her present purposes and prospects. He, there- fore, politely checked his loquacious friend, and re- quested as a favour that she would reRrve the account

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 87

of her childhood, and gratify his feelings by something determinate in reference to her, now. A silent frown, such as the most talkative and amiable nurses can sometimes put on, convinced him that compliance with his request would be impossible, and that she must proceed from the beginning to the end of her favourite tale, or not tell it at all.

His deep regret at this discovery was most delight- fully relieved by the distant appearance of Anne herself, among the farthest trees of the grove, making one more effort to find her lost canary.

" I will run and tell her," said Moreton, rising to execute his purpose, " that her bird is safe in my pos- session ; and perhaps I may be so happy as to gain her consent to my taking it to her home to-morrow."

"All this can be better done by my agency," answered the nurse, while she attempted to hold him back. " I can save your running towards her, and her running away from you ; and also your running home for the bird, and running back with it to the cottage."

Releasing himself from her hold, and promising to dispense with the haste, which would appear by the running of her tongue to be the only evil he had to avoid, he walked a little faster than she could follow him, towards the spot where Anne had checked her own progress — having caught a glimpse of the nurse and Moreton in the distance. As well might the nurse's voice have hoped to repeat the miracle of Joshua, when he^ommauded the sun to stand still and

88 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

f

it obeyed him, as to arrest the advance of Moreton towards the only object on which he wished to gaze. Removing his hat, as he came within sight and hearing of Anne, he said, " Your friend tells me you have sustained a loss, which I am extremely glad to have it my power to repair."

The first effects of this address from Moreton, whom Anne had seen more than once before, and the agita- tion into which it threw her sensitive frame, can be understood only by a brief but comprehensive paragraph of previous information. The nurse had been sent out this afternoon because the baronet's son was ex- pected. He had, a week ago, made proposals to the mother to render Anne his wife as early as all parties might deem expedient; and he was coming to the cottage this afternoon to receive his answer, both from the daughter and mother. Within the week the lady cousin, whom the mother had brought up from infancy as a second daughter, came unexpectedly from Dublin ; ostensibly to see her rural relations, as she called them ; but really because she had heard of the proposal, and hoped by a timely appearance to supplant the unsus- pecting Anne in the young baronet's affections. Her personal beauty was more striking than Anne's : her form was one more stately, her face was more hand- some, and of course every part of her costume was arranged to give dignity and effect to the whole. In fact, she was at an age and of an appearance which few gentlemen even of rank could^have withstood,

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 89

and Anne was effectually supplanted at the very first interview.

She saw, without an emotion of envy or anger, the triumph of her rival; and she consented, with a smile of approbation, to the transfer, if ever she possessed it, of the young baronet's heart. In fact, she had just left them with her mother to do as they pleased, in attempting to gain her consent, or follow their own inclinations without it — thankful that she was released from unwelcome thraldom without an effort, and de- lighted to breathe the pure air of heaven, with more freedom of spirit than she had enjoyed since the baro- net's perplexing proposal had been made. It was in this state of mind that she received the first address of Moreton, which has just been mentioned; and, with a pardonable absence of mind, forgetting her canary, her interpretation of that address was in conformity with the peculiar position in which the rivalry of her cousin had just placed her. In answer, therefore, to what Moreton said, "You have sustained a loss, which I am extremely glad to have it in my power to repair ;" she innocently said, "Are you quite sure you could repair the loss of a baronet's son ? ';

Nothing could have been more in accordance with his wishes than this answer. It told him that, at least, the baronet's son was no longer her accepted lover : it inti- mated that either she had rejected him, or that he had forsaken her. Until he recollected what the nurse said

of the lady-cousin's return, he considered the latter

8—8

90 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

impossible, and therefore rejoiced at once in the con- clusion that the former was the case — that she had put a negative on his proposal. Then as to himself, she asked it mirthfully; but how gratifying that she asked it at all, whether he could repair the loss? He could scarcely murmur that getting rid of his rival was deemed a loss, provided he might be admitted to the candidacy of supplying it. Thus encouraged, he said, with all the blended grace and warmth he could com- mand, " The loss of mansion and wealth, Miss Pomfret, I could but ill supply, and the loss of title and rank I could not supply at all ; but if it be the loss of affection about which I am asked, I must very much mistake my own heart if I could not supply it to a perpetual overflow."

The eyes of Anne, which had brightened at the first sentences, and somewhat dimmed their brightness when Moreton spoke of affection and of mistaking his heart, resumed all their lustre when he added, "At all events, let me have a candid trial, and let the trial commence to-morrow at yonder cottage; where I intend about noon to leave a stray canary that I have caught, as a present to its former owner — who seems distinguished for allowing her friends to leave her." The expressive look of the maiden gave consent to the visit, which her tongue would not or could not utter. At this moment the nurse reached the spot, chidcd Morctjn for his for- wardness, and taking the arm of Anne, forced rather than led her home.

THE RIVAL COUSLNS. 91

To describe the mingled feelings of Moreton after this interview, is impossible. Ilis contemptuous hatred and scornful pity of the young baronet, were in proportion to his own high sense of honour, and the perfect fidelity of all his principles and actions. On the other hand, who could hold in uuforgivencss his joy at the incon- stancy that his soul despised ? who docs not commend him for attempting to bear away the precious jewel, while he disdained the wretch that would have trampled it in the dust? who must not congratulate his hasty seizure of the opportunity, created by conduct in another that he held in perfect abhorrence ?

When he turned a thought towards the lady-cousin, whose sudden appearance at the cottage had excited at once some of his" worst and his best feelings, he claims the like sympathy. Beholding in her the serpent's glittering form, and worse than the serpent's heart, he could not but rejoice that such things had been myste- riously permitted to occur, since they opened to his own view the brightest and sweetest prospect his soul could contemplate.

Thus, also, when he looked on Anne, and saw her insulted by a thoughtless and faithless man of fashion and folly, unappreciated and unprized, when a glittering rival stepped in to enchant his frail and feeble senses, his bosom burned with virtuous indignation; while he could not help exulting in the very wrongs she suffered, because they left her free to become his own adored and chosen bride.

92 TIIK RIVAL COUSINS.

Under the influence of this excited state of mind, and before he set out with the canary to the cottage, Moreton sat down, and penned as polite a request to the young baronet as his feelings would allow, to know if he might act on the report of his having transferred his attention from Miss Pomfret to her cousin? This he intended partly as a proper act of courtesy towards one, whom his own addresses to that lady might other- wise appear to oppose ; and partly as a reproof for the sudden manner in which the change in the object of his avowed idolatry had been affected. The note reached the young baronet just after he had announced the change to his father, who was fast decaying with age, yet in possession of every faculty, and the strongest feeling on every question involving the honour of his house. In fact, a serious dispute had just closed with the abrupt dismissal of the son from his presence ; leaving, perhaps, the latter a prey to some few rclcnt- ings for what he had sense enough to know was highly dishonourable.

Thus excited, he seized a pen, and returned by Moreton's servant, a demand that he would meet him in an hour, under the park wall of his father's mansion. Moreton was uncertain, though not unsuspicious, of the object of the meeting, and therefore went armed, as was the custom of the north some fourscore years ago. Scarcely had the parties met, when the young baronet drew his sword, and commanded Moreton to do the same; and scarcely had the latter obeyed the com-

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 93

mand, before he found it dashed from his hand by an old Scotch gardener of the mansion, who had watched his master from his room, and suspected some necessity for his own immediate interference. An explanation followed in the presence of the old man, and Moreton left his adversary avowedly satisfied.

Nothing transpired to show that either of the cousiu.s were acquainted with this hostile meeting, nor could any good have arisen from cither being informed of it. The basest effort of the young baronet to injure Moreton in reputation or in person, would have effected no change in the proud resolve of the lady cousin, at all hazards, to become his wife : nor could any feeling but the deepest distress, that she had been the innocent cause of involv- ing one of her suitors in guilt and the other in danger, have resulted from Anne's acquaintance with this affair.

On the old baronet — to whose worthless son we have given the title a little before his father's death be- queathed it to him — the effect was fatal. Immediately on the dispute, he retired to his chamber, and when the old gardener, who always had access to him, informed him of the affray, he sunk on his couch, from which he rose no more. The melancholy event excited less sur- prise than regret among those who knew the family. Excessive indulgence on the part of a fond father, who had scarcely another vice about him, had early vitiated the principles of the son, and his vices had removed an excellent mother to a premature grave. The death of

the baronetess tore the veil from the baronet's eyes,

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94 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

and he then, too late, commenced another course. His entreaties, his tears, his promises — lie could not threaten — his arguments and appeals, would have impressed almost any heart. He thought he had succeeded, when his son, on condition of being allowed to marry Mks Pomfret, promised in every respect a complete reforma- tion. The condition was far more agreeable to the father than it could be to the son, and was granted with tears of joy, that his lamented wife was likely to be succeeded in the maternity of his ancient house by one so perfectly worthy of the distinction. Amidst the rapid decay of age, and advance of death, the father was now happier than he had ever been, and continued so, till the sudden transfer of his son's attention to another, convinced him that he could not be trusted. The flippant intimation of this change by the son him- self— whose wanton fancy thought no evil, if he did but marry into the family his father loved — shocked the good old man past recovery. And when he heard that his son's faithlessness to Anne, was followed by an eifort to deprive her faithful admirer of life, he could not endure the stroke — he sunk into a state of insensi- bility, from which he awoke only for a few moments — enough, however, to have his departing spirit soothed with a divine assurance quoted by the pious gardener — " Although my house be not so, yet hath God made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure : this is all my salvation and all my desire." The old baronet's death delayed the marriage of his

THE RIVAL COUSINS. 05

son several months ; but his proud betrothed, now become haughtier than ever, took care that the delay should not be longer than regard to propriety required. Scarcely had it taken place, than the baronet had reason to regret his preference. Before, nothing could surpass her attention to his interests and comfort—

" She rose to breathe with hirn the morning air :

She echoed every strain her lover sang ; If the cool grove he trod, he found her there ; Sh.e in the evening dance to meet him sprang ; And in the moonlight walk their mutual carols rang."

But having gained her object, the lady changed her course, and adapted her behaviour to the natural impc- riousness, and it may be said bitterness of her disposi- tion. She waged incessant strife with her husband, and all her husband's favourite servants and former friends. By him she soon became much more deeply hated than he had ever admired her j so that he seldom sought her company, and for months together, left her the undivided empire of the mansion and its extensive grounds. His sudden death, at forty, in a boisterous sport, was an event in which she had not sufficient respect for his person or his memory, to restrain her from actually rejoicing. But her reign as a widow was still shorter than as a wife. A fever of the whole system at length settled in her brain, and she was rendered by her delirious confessions, an object of alternate derision and pity from the menials who attcntcd her last hours, and

96 THE RIVAL COUSINS.

who were with difficulty bribed to undertake the sad office.

Turning to the other and happier pair, a scene of complete contrast is beheld. Moreton's marriage with Anne took place some months before her lady-cousin became mistress of Hermitage Castle ; so that, the latter had large opportunities of knowing, by observation and report, that neither rank nor title, neither fashion nor wealth, were essential to domestic felicity. Yet was their felicity garnished with these appendages in a few years, and by the events that brought their proud relations to the dust. When death had deprived the castle of its haughty possessors, it was purchased by Moreton, whom unexpected incidents had rendered rich; and soon after he and his lovely wife, and five sweet children, had taken possession of the estate, the minister of the day, whom Moreton had essentially served in the county, rewarded him with the baronetcy, which it was not deemed expedient to allow to become utterly extinct. Many honoured and happy years did this excellent pair live, as Sir James and Lady Morc- ton Hermitage, of Hermitage Castle, in Northumberland.

SIR JULIAN AND HIS PAGE.

BY G. W. L.

IT was deep midnight, and the stars shone bright Over bold Sir Julian's halls; But the revel's din still sounded within,

And shook the hoary walls ; For the knight drank deep, while the world was askvp,

He drank with his Lemans fair; And he turn'd in his joy, to a pale young boy, Who waited beside his chair.

As his wine he quaff' d, with that Page he laugh'd,

He laugh'd at his sister's shame; And the fair boy smiled — for how should a child

Know aught of a maiden's fame ? Yet they two had grown together as one,

Till she fell to that man of guile ; And she now rests her head on a clay cold bed ;—

Oh! 'tis strange that her brother can smile !

" Come, fill me a cup — Sir Page, fill it up — While I drink to the fair and the kind ;

Yet methiuks 'twere not ill, they should taste who fill, Lost mischief should lurk behind."

98 SIR JULIAN AND HIS PAGE.

His smile never fail'd, his eye never quail'd, As the brim to his lip he press'd ;

Freely he quaff d of the sparkling draught, And Sir Julian drain'd the rest.

"My Page, why so pale — do thy senses fail ?

Ho ! look to the boy, he is ill ! Ills eye is less bright, and his lip more white,

But that smile plays round it still." And his dim, dim gaze on Sir Julian stays :—

What may its meaning be ? " Sir Julian prepare, thou hast taken thy share

Of the poison'd cup with me !"

Wild is the cry that rises on high,

Terrible, sad, and wild : As the vengeance is felt to be fearfully dealt

By the hand of that tender child. But its work is done — for the rising sun

Saw the knight in his plumed pride Lie stark and pale, 'mid his followers' wail,

A corse by the fair boy's side !

SUSAN'S DOWRY.

AT one end of the cluster of cottages, and cottage- like houses, which formed the little street of Hil- tou Cross, — a pretty but secluded village, in the north of Hampshire, — stood the shop of Judith Kent, widow, " Licensed," as the legend imported, " to vend tea, coffee, tobacco and snuff." Tea, coffee, tobacco and snuff, formed, however, but a small part of the multi- farious merchandise of Mrs. Kent ; whose shop, the only repository of the hamlet, might have seemed an epitome of the wants and luxuries of humble life. In her window, — candles, bacon, sugar, mustard and soap, flourished amidst calicoes, oranges, dolls, ribands and gingerbread. Crockery-ware was piled on one side of her door-way; Dutch cheese and Irish butter encum- bered the other; brooms and brushes rested against the wall ; and ropes of onions and bunches of red herrings hung from the ceiling. She sold bread, butcher's meat and garden stuff, on commission; arid engrossed, at a word, the whole trade of Hilton Cross.

Notwithstanding this monopoly, the world went ill with poor Judith. She was a mild, pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman, with a heart too soft for her calling. She could not say " No" to the poor creatures who cnim

100 SUSAN'S DCHVRY.

to her on a Saturday night, to seek bread for their children, however deep they might already be in her debt, or however certain it was that their husbands were, at that moment spending, at the Checquers, or the Four Horse-shoes, the money that should have supported their wives and families ; for, in this village, as in others, there were two flourishing ale-houses, although but one ill- accustomed shop, — " but one half-penny-worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack !" She could not say "No" as a prudent woman might have said; and accord- ingly, half the poor people in the parish might be found on her books, whilst she herself was gradually getting in arrears with her baker, her grocer, and her landlord. Her family consisted of two children, — Mary, a pretty, fair-haired, smiling lass, of twelve or thirteen, and Robert, a fine youth, nearly ten years older, who worked in the gardens of a neighbouring gentleman. Robert, conscious that his mother's was no gainful trade, often pressed her to give up business, sell off her stock, relinquish her home, and depend on his labour for her support; but of this she would not hear. Many motives mingled in her determination : a generous reluctance to burden her dutiful son with her maintenance, — a natural fear of losing caste among her neighbours, — a strong love of the house which, for five and twenty years, had been her home, — a vague hope that times would mend, and ;ill come right again (wiser persons than Mrs. Kent have lulled reason to sleep with such an opiate !) — and, above all, a want of courage to look her diHk-nltics fairly in the-

SUSAN'S DOWRY. 101

face. Besides she liked her occupation, — its petty con- sequence, its bustle, and its gossipry; and she had a sense of gain in the small peddling bargains, — the penny- worths of needles, and balls of cotton, and rows of pins, and yards of tape, which she was accustomed to vend for ready money, — that overbalanced, for the moment, her losses and her debts ; so that, in spite of her son's pre- sages and warnings, the shop continued in full activity. In addition to his forebodings respecting his mother, Robert had another misfortune ; — the poor youth was in love. About a quarter of a mile down the shady land, which ran by one side of Mrs. Kent's dwelling, was the pretty farm-house, orchard and homestead of Farmer Bell, whose eldest daughter, Susan, — the beauty of the parish, — was the object of a passion, almost amounting to idolatry. And, in good sooth, Susan Bell was well fitted to inspire such a passion. Besides a light, graceful figure, moulded with the exactest sym- metry, she had a smiling, innocent countenance, a com- plexion colored like the brilliant blossoms of the balsam, and hair of a shining, golden brown, like the fruit of the horse-chestnut. Her speech was at once modest and playful, her temper sweet, and her heart tender. She loved Robert dearly, although he often gave her cause to wish that she loved him not; for Robert was subject to the intermitting fever, called jealousy, — causelessly, —as he himself would declare, when a remission of the disease gave room for his natural sense to act, — cause- lessly and penitently, but still pertinaciously jealous.

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102 si SAN'S DOWRY.

I have said that he was a fine young man, tall, dark and slender; I should add, that he was a good son, a kind brother, a pattern of sobriety and industry, and possessed of talents and acquirements far beyond his station. But there was about him an ardour, a vigour, a fiery restless- ness, commonly held proper to the natives of the south of Europe, but which may, sometimes, be found among our own peasantry. All his pursuits, whether of sport or labour, took the form of passion. At ten years old, he had gone far beyond all his fellow pupils at the Foundation School, to which, through the kindness of the 'squire of the parish, his mother had been enabled to send him; and had even posed the master himself;— at eighteen, he was the best cricketer, the best flute- player, the best bell-ringer, and the best gardener in the county ; — and, some odd volumes of Shakspeare having come into his possession, there was danger, at twenty, of his turning out a dramatic poet, had not the kind dis- couragement of his master, to whom some of his early scenes were shown by his patron and admirer, the head gardener, acted as a salutary check. Indeed, so strong, at one time, was the poetical furor, that such a catas- trophe as an entire play might, probably, have ensued, notwithstanding Mr. Lescombe's judicious warnings, had not love, the master-passion, fallen, about this time, in poor Robert's way, and engrossed all the ardour of his ardent temperament. The beauty and playfulness of his mistress, whilst they enchanted his fancy, kept the jealous irritability of his nature in perpetual alarm. lie

SUSAN'S DOWRY. in:;

suspected a lover in every man who approached her ; and the firm refusal of her father to sanction their union, till her impatient wooer were a little more forward in the world, completed his disquiet.

Affairs were in this posture, when a new personage arrived at Hilton Cross.

In addition to her other ways and means, Mrs. Kent tried to lessen her rent, by letting lodgings; and the neat, quiet, elderly gentlewoman, the widow of a long deceased rector, who had occupied her rooms ever since Robert was born, being at last gathered to her fathers, an advertisement of "pleasant apartments to let, in the airy village of Hilton Cross," appeared in the county paper. This announcement was as true as if had not formed an advertisement in a county paper. Very airy ivas the pretty village of Hilton Cross, — with its breezy uplands, and its open common, dotted, as it were, with cottages and clumps of trees ; and very pleasant were Mrs. Kent's apartments, for those who had sufficient taste to appreciate their rustic simplicity, and sufficient humility to overlook their smallness. The little cham- ber, glittering with whiteness; its snowy dimity bed, and " fresh sheets smelling of lavender;" the sitting room, a thought larger, carpeted with India matting; its shining cane chair and its bright casement, wreathed on the one side by a luxuriant jessamine, on the other by the tall-cluster musk-rose (that rose of which Titania talks), sending its bunches of odorous blossoms into the very window; the little flower-court underneath, full of

104 SUSAN'S

hollyhocks, cloves and dahlias; and the large sloping meadows beyond, leading up to Farmer Bell's tall, irre- gular house, half covered with a flaunting vine ; his barns, and ricks, and orchard; — all this formed an apart- ment too tempting to remain long untenanted, in the bright month of August. Accordingly, it was almost immediately engaged, by a gentleman in black, who walked over, one fair morning, paid ten pounds as a deposit, sent for his trunk from the next town, and took possession on the instant.

Her new inmate, who, without positively declining to give his name, had yet contrived to evade all the questions which Mrs. Kent's " simple cunning" could devise, proved a perpetual source of astonishment, both to herself and her neighbours. He was a well-made, little man, near upon forty; with considerable terseness of feature ; a forehead of great power, whose effect was increased by a slight baldness on the top of the head, and an eye like a falcon. Such an eye ! It seemed to go through you, — to strike all that it looked upon, like a coup-dc-soleil. Luckily, the stranger was so merciful as, generally, to wear spectacles ; under cover of which, those terrible eyes might sec, and be seen, without danger. His habits were as peculiar as his appearance. He was moderate, and rather fanciful, in his diet ; drank nothing but water, or strong coffee, made, as Mrs. Kent observed, very wastefully : and had, as she also remarked, a great number of heathenish-looking books scattered about his apartment: Lord Bcmcr's Froissart,

SUSAN'S DOWRY. 105

for instance — Sir Thomas Brown's Urn Burial — Isaac Walton's Complete Angler — the Baskerville Ariosto — Goethe's Faust — a Spanish Don Quixote — and an inter- leaved Philoctetes, full of outline drawing. The greater part of his time was spent out of doors. He would even ramble away for three or four days together, with no other companion than a boy, hired in the village, to carry what Mrs. Kent denominated his odds and ends ; which odds and ends consisted, for the most part, of an angling rod, and a sketching apparatus, — our incognito being, as my readers have, by this time, probably disco- vered, no other than an artist, on his summer progress.

Robert speedily understood the stranger, and was de- lighted with the opportunity of approaching so gifted a person; although he contemplated, with a degree of gen- erous envy, which a king's regalia would have failed to excite in his bosom, those chef-d' oeuvres of all nations, which were to him as " sealed books," and the pencils, whose power appeared nothing less than creative. He redoubled his industry in the garden, that he might, con- scientiously, devote hours, and half-hours, to pointing out the deep pools and shallow eddies of their romantic stream, where he knew, from experience (for Robert, amongst his other accomplishments, was no mean " bro- ther of the angle") that fish were likely to be found: and, better still, he loved to lead to the haunts of his childhood, the wild bosky dells, and the sunny ends of lanes, where a sudden turn in the track, an overhanging tree, an old gate, a cottage chimney, and a group of

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106 SUSAN'S DOWRY.

cattle or children, had sometimes formed a picture, on which his fancy had fed for hours. It was llobert's chief pleasure to entice his lodger to scenes such as these, and to see his own visions growing into reality, under the glowing pencil of the artist; and he, in his turn, would admire, and marvel at, the natural feeling of the beautiful, which could lead an uninstructcd country youth, instinctively, to the very elements of the pictur- esque. A general agreement of taste had brought about a degree of association, unusual between persons so dif- ferent in rank ; — a particular instance of this accordance dissolved the intimacy.

llobcrt had been, for above a fortnight, more than commonly busy in Mr. Lcscombe's gardens and hot- houses,— so busy that he even slept at the Hall; the stranger, on the other hand, had been, during the same period, shut up, painting, in the little parlour. At last, they met; and the artist invited his young friend to look at the picture which had engaged him during his ab- sence. On walking into the room, he saw, on the easel, a picture in oils, almost finished. The style was of that delightful kind which combines figure with landscape : the subject was Hay-carrying ; and the scene, that very sloping meadow — crowned by Farmer Bell's tall, angular house, its vine-wreathed porch and chimneys, the great walnut-tree before the door, the orchard, and the home- stead— which formed the actual prospect from the win- dows before them. In the fore-ground was a wagon, piled with hay, surrounded by the Farmer and his fine

SUSAN'S DOWRY. 107

family — some pitching, some loading, some raking after —all intent on their pleasant business. The only dis- engaged persons in the field were young Mary Kent and Harry Bell, an unchin of four years old, who rode on her knee on the top of the wagon, crowned and wreathed with garlands of vine-leaves and bind-wced and poppies and corn-flowers. In the front, looking up at Mary Kent and her little brother, and playfully tossing to them the lock of hay which she had gathered on her rake, stood Susan Bell — her head thrown back, her bonnet half off, her light and lovely figure shown, in all its grace, by the pretty attitude and the short cool dress ; while her sweet face, glowing with youth and beauty, had a smile playing over it like a sunbeam. The boy was nodding and laughing to her, and seemed longing — as well he might — to escape from his flowery bondage, and jump into her arms. Never had poet framed a love- lier image of rural beauty ! Never had painter more felicitiously realized his conception !

" Well, Robert !" exclaimed our artist, a litte impa- tient of the continued silence, and missing the expected praise — " Well ?" but still Robert spoke not. « Don't you think it a good subject?" continued the man of the easel. " I was sitting at the window, reading Froissart, whilst they were carrying the after-crop, and by good luck, happened to look up, just as they had arranged themselves into this very group, and as the evening sun came slanting, exactly as it does now, across the mea- dow ;— so I dashed in the sketch instantly, got Mary

108 SUSAN'S DOWRY.

to sit to me — and a very pretty nymph-like figure she makes — dressed the boy with flowers, just as he was decked out for the harvest-home, — the rogue is really a fit model for a Cupid; they are a glorious family !- and persuaded Susan — " at that name, Robert, unable to control himself longer, rushed out of the room, leaving the astonished painter in the full belief that his senses had forsaken him.

The unhappy lover, agonized by jealousy, pursued his way to the Farm. He had, hitherto, contrived, although without confessing his motive, even to him- self, to keep his friend and his mistress asunder. He had no fears of her virtue or of his honour; but to Robert's romantic simplicity, it seemed that no one could gaze on Susan without feeling ardent love, and that such a man as the artist could never love in vain. Besides, in the conversations which they had held together, he had dwelt on beauty and simplicity, as the most attractive points of the female character : — Robert had felt, as he spoke, that Susan was the very being whom he described, and had congratulated himself that they were still unacquainted. But now they had met ; he had seen, he had studied, had transferred to canvass that matchless beauty ; had conquered the timidity which, to Robert, had always seemed unconquerable ; had won her to admit his gaze; had tamed that shyest, coyest dove ; had become familiar with that sweetest face, and that dearest frame; — Oh! the very thought was agony !

SUSAN'S DOWRY. 109

In this mood, he arrived at the Farm ; and there, working at her needle, under the vine-wreathed porch, with the evening sun shining full upon her, and her little brother playing at her feet, sate his own Susan. She heard his rapid step, and advanced to meet him, with a smile and a blush of delight — 'just the smile and blush of the picture. At such a moment, they in- creased his misery : he repulsed her offered hand, and poured forth a torrent of questions on the subject which possessed his mind. Her innocent answers were fuel to his frenzy; — "The picture! had he seen the picture ? and was it not pretty ? — much too pretty, she thought, but every body called it like ! and Mary and Harry — was not he pleased with them ? What a won- derful thing it was, to make a bit of canvass so like living creatures ! and what a wonderful man the strange gentleman was ! She had been afraid of him, at first — sadly afraid of those two bright eyes — and so had Harry; — poor Harry had cried! but he was so merry and so kind that neither of them minded sitting to him, now ! And she was so glad that Robert had seen the picture ! she had so wanted him to see it ; it was too pretty, to be sure — but then, Robert would not

mind that. She had told the gentleman " " Go to

the gentleman, now," interrupted Robert, "and tell him that I relinquish you ! It will be welcome news ! Go to him, Susan ! your heart is with him. Go to him, I say !' —and throwing from him, with a bitter laugh, the frightened and weeping girl, who had laid

110 si >A.\V |in\vi;y.

her trembling hand on his arm, to detain him, he darted from the door, and returned to his old quarters at the Hall.

Another fortnight passed, aud Robert still kept aloof from his family and his home. His mother and sister, indeed, occasionally saw him ; and sad accounts had poor little Mary to give to her friend, Susan, of Robert's

111 looks and worse spirits. And Susan listened, and said she did not care ; and burst into a passion of tears, and said she was very happy ; and vowed never to speak to him again, and desired Mary never to mention her to him, or him to her; and then asked her a hundred questions respecting his looks, and his words, and his illness; and charged her with a thousand tender mes- sages, which, in the next breath, she withdrew. And Mary, too young to understand the inconsistencies of love, pitied and comforted, and thought it " passing

strange."

In the mean time, misfortunes, of a different nature, were gathering round Mrs. Kent. The uicahnau aud baker, whose bread she vended — her kindest friend and largest creditor — died, leaving his affairs in the hands of an attorney of the next town — the pest and terror of the neighbourhood ; and, on the same day, she received two letters from this formidable lawyer, — one on ac- count of his dead client, the baker, the other in behalf of his living client, the grocer — who ranked next amongst her creditors — both threatening that, if their respective claims were not liquidated ou or before a

SUSAN'S DOWRY. Ill

certain day, proceedings would be commenced agiinst "her forthwith.

It is in such a situation that woman most feels her helplessness — especially that forlorn creature whom the common people, adopting the pathetic language of Scripture, designate by the expressive phrase, " a lone woman !" Poor Judith sate down to cry, in powerless sorrow and vain self-pity. She opened, indeed, her hopeless day-book — but she knew too well that her debtors could not pay. She had no one to consult; — for her lodger, in whose general cleverness she had great confidence, had been absent, on one of his excursions, almost as long as her son — and time pressed upon her— for the letters, sent with the usual indirectness of country conveyance, — originally given to the carrier, confided by the carrier to the butterman, carried on by the butterman to the next village, left for three days at a public-house, and finally delivered at Hilton Cross by a return post-boy — had been nearly a week on the road. Saturday was the day fixed for payment, and this was Friday night! and Michaelmas and rent-day were approaching ! and unable even to look at this accumulation of misery, poor Judith laid her head on her fruitless accompt-book, and sobbed aloud !

It was with a strangely-mingled feeling of comfort in such a son, and sorrow so to grieve him, that she heard Robert's voice at her side, asking, tenderly, what ailed her ? She put the letters into his hands ; and he, long prepared for the blow, soothed and cheered her.

112 SUSAN'S DOWRY.

" All must be given up," lie said ; " and he would go with her, the next day, to make over the whole property. Let us pay, as far as our means go, mother," pursued he, " and do not fear but, some day or other, we shall be enabled to discharge all our debts. God will speed an honest purpose. In the meantime, Mr. Lescombe will give us a cottage, — I know he will, — and I shall work for you and Mary. It will be something to live for, — something worth living for. Be comforted, dear mother I" He stooped, as he said this, and kissed her ; and, when he arose, he saw Susan standing opposite to him, and, behind her, the stranger. They had entered separately, during the conversation between the mother and son, and Susan was still unconscious of the stranger's presence. She stood, in great agitation, pressing Mary's hand, (from whom she had heard the story), and, immediately, began questioning Mrs. Kent, as to the extent of the calamity. " She had twenty pounds of her own, that her grandmother had left her ; — But a hundred ! — Did they want a whole hundred ? And would they send Mrs. Kent to prison ? and sell her goods ? and turn Mary out of doors ? and Robert — Oh, how ill Robert looked ! — It would kill Robert! Oh," continued Susan, wringing her hands, "I would sell myself for a bonds- woman,— I would be like a negro-slave, for one hun- dred pounds !"-— " Would you?" said the stranger, advancing suddenly from the door, and producing two bank-bills • " would you ? well ! we will strike a

SUSAN'S DOWRY. 113

bargain. I will give you two hundred pounds,, fur this little hand, — only this little hand !"- — " What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mrs. Kent, "what can you mean?"-— "Nothing but what is fair and hon- ourable," returned her lodger; "let Susan promise to meet me at church, to-morrow, and here are two hundred pounds to dispose of, at her pleasure, to night." — "Susan! my dear Susan!" — "Let her alone, mother!' interrupted Robert; "she must choose for herself!" — and, for a few moments, there was a dead silence.

Robert stood, leaning against the wall, pale as mar- ble,— his eyes cast down, and his lips compressed, in a state of forced composure. Mrs. Kent, — her head turning, now towards the bank-notes, and now towards her son, — was in a state of restless and uncontrollable instability; Mary clung, crying, about her mother; and Susan, — her colour varying, and her lips quivering, — sate, unconsciously twisting and untwisting the bank- notes in her hand.

" Well, Susan !" said the artist, — who had remained in tranquil expectation, surveying the group with his falcon eye, — " Well, Susan ! have you determined ?" — The colour rose to her temples, and she answered, firmly, " Yes, sir ! — Be pleased to take back the notes. I love nobody but Robert ; and Robert loves me dearly, dearly ! — I know he does ! Oh, Mrs. Kent ! you would not have me vex Robert ! — your own dear son, — and he so ill, — would you? Let them take these things. They

10—10

Hi SUSAN'S DOWRY.

never can be so cruel as to put you in prison — you, who were always so kind ! and he will work for you, and I will work for you ! Never mind being poor ! better any thing than be false-hearted to my Robert !" — " God for ever bless you, my Susan !" — " God bless you, my dear child !"• —burst, at once, from Robert and his mother, as they, alternately, folded her in their arms.

" Pray, take the notes, sir !" repeated Susan, after a short interval. "No! that I will not do/' replied the stranger, smiling. " The notes shall be yours, — are yours — and, what is more, on my own conditions! Meet me at church, to-morrow morning, and I shall have the pleasure of bestowing this pretty hand, as I always intended, on my good friend, Robert here. I have a wife of my own at home, my dear ! whom I would not exchange, even for you; and I am quite rich enough to aiford myself the luxury of making you happy. Besides, you have a claim to the money. These very bank-notes were gained by that sweet face ! Your friend, Mr. Lescombe, Robert ! has purchased the Hay-carrying ! We have had a good deal of talk about you ; and I am quite certain that he will provide for you all. No," continued he, interrupting something that Robert was going to say, — "No thanks! no apologies ! I wont hear a word. Meet me at church, to-morrow ! But, remember, young man ! no more jealousy !" — and, followed by a glance from Susan, of which Robert might have been jealous, the artist left the shop.

THE FAVORITE FLOWER.

BY THE HO-V. AIIIS. NORTON.

" In the East, the poppy is used to express passion ; the rosebud (as else- where) is the emblem of hope." — L.mgu.tgc des Hears.

TWINE not the rose, the thorny rose, To wreathe around that gentle brow, Nor tax thy loving heart to choose An offering thy regard to show ; Ah ! vainly for thy lover's breast,

Thou cullest from that perfumed store Some bud more crimson than the rest— Thou hast not guess'd the Favorite Flow'r !

Thine be the starlike jasmine; pale,

And cold as cloister'd maiden's face; Thine be the lilac, faint and frail,

And thine the clustering rosebud's grace ; But me the burning poppy bring,

Which evermore with fever'd eye, Unfresheu'd by the dews of spring,

Stands gazing at the glowing sky ;

116 THE FAVORITE FLOWER.

Whose scarlet petals flung apart

(Crimson'd with passion, not with shame), Hang round his scar'd and blacken'd heart,

Flickering and hot, like tongues of flame ! Scentless, unseemly though it be,

That passion-lorn and scorch'd up flower,— 'Tis dearer far to love and me,

Than those which twine ev'n round tliy bower :

For well its burning tablets say

What words and sighs would vainly speak :— My Zoe ! turn not thus away

Thy downcast eye and kindling cheek; Too oft thy patient slave hath caught

Hope's emblem from thy playful hand- When will "the Favorite Flower" be brought,

The Poppy of our eastern land ?

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.

(From Aulcljo's Narrntii-c.}

CAVES IN TIIE GLACIER.

AGAIN the Glacier presented its beautiful and varied scenes, every moment the eye meeting with some new combination of icy grandeur. The crevices, numerous and deep, broken and full of hol- lows or caves, surpassed any thing I could have con- ceived. Some of these grottos were accessible ; others, of which the entrance was blocked up by pillars, studded with ornaments of ice or snow, could only be examined externally. We entered one so beauteous in construc- tion and embellishments, that fancy might picture it to be the abode of the " Spirit of the Mountain. " It was large ; its roof supported by thick icicles of blue or white, varying into a thousand different shades; on the floor were vast clumps of ice, resembling crystal flowers, formed by the freezing of the drops of water which are perpetually falling in the centre ; a pool of water, whose exquisite clearness almost excited thirst, stood in its blue basin : at the further end fell a cascade, into

a sort of spiral well formed by it, and in its passage

10—10*

118 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.

through it, produced a sound much like that of water boiling in some confined vessel. There are many caves; but this description may, in some measure, apply to all. They are formed by the water falling, and excavating a passage for itself; the ice melts away on all sides, and it soon becomes such as I have described it.

SCALING A WALL OF ICE.

Arriving near the base of those rocks called the " Grand Mulcts," we found that a chasm of eighty feet in width separated them from us. We proceeded up an acclivity forming a narrow neck of ice; but at its ter- mination a wall opposed us : on either hand yawned a wide and deep crevice, and it appeared that there was no advancing without climbing this perpendicular mass, of twenty feet in height. The neck we were standing upon overhung a gulf formed by the chasm and crevices, the very sight of which was appalling — the wall met his neck with an angle, formed by these two crevices, which continued on each side of it, the angle coming to a most acute and delicate point. No time was to be lost ; we were standing in a very perilous situation, and Coutet commenced cutting steps on the angle with his hatchet ; and after great labour, and considerable danger in the execution of his purpose, got to the top, and was immediately followed by another guide. The knapsacks were then drawn up, and the rest of the party after them. In ascending this wall, being partly drawn up, and the rest of the party clambering, I stopped for an

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. "119

instant, and looked down into the abyss beneath me ; the blood curdled in my veins, for never did I behold any thing so terrific.

Safely on the top, on looking around, we discovered that these large crevices extended on each side to a very great distance, the plane of tha wall sloping from the upper to the lower crevice, with an inclination which rendered walking on it very perilous. Some proposed to return to the commencement of the neck of ice which we had passed, and making a circuit from it to get to the base of the " Grand Mulcts," on the other side of the great crevice, and climb up the rock ; others were for proceeding ; and their advice was fol- lowed. Walking with the greatest caution in steps cut with the hatchet, we moved on very slowly : the ice was slippery, and a false step might have endangered the life of more than one individual. The wall now widened, but the slope became more inclined. Taking my steps with the greatest care, I could not prevent myself from slipping : as the space became wider, I became less cautious ; and while looking over the edge into the upper crevice, my feet slid from under me ; I came down on my face, and glided rapidly towards the lower one ; I cried out, but the guides who held the ropes attached to me, did not stop me, though they stood firm. I had got to the extent of the rope, my feet hanging over the lower crevice, one hand grasping firmly the pole, and the other my hat. The guides called to me to be cool, and not afraid ; — a pretty time

120 ASCKNT OF MONT T5LANP.

to be cool, hanging over an abyss, and in momentary expectation of falling into it ! They made no attempt to pull me up for some moments ; and then desiring me to raise myself, they drew in the rope until I was close to them in safety.

The reason for this proceeding is obvious : — had they attempted, on the bad and uncertain footing in •which they stood, to check me at the first gliding, they might have lost their own balance, and our destruction would have followed; but by fixing themselves firmly in the cut step, and securing themselves with their batons, they were enabled to support me with certainty when the rope had gone its length. This also gave me time to recover, that I might assist them in placing myself out of danger; for it is not to be supposed, that in such a situation I did not lose, in a great degree, my presence of mind. These were good reasons, no doubt; but placed as I was, in such imminent peril, I could not have allowed them to be so.

* * * *

SUNSET AND NIGHT ON THE GRAND MTLETS.

(9000 FEET IIIGII.)

THE sun, now about to set, tinged with a purple of the softest hue the whole scene below us, which gradu- ally deepening into a beautiful crimson, shaded every thing with its colour: the Jura seeming on fire, and the lake of Geneva reflecting the glow ; every moment, as the sun retired from the world beneath us? the hue shed

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 121

by his departing rays became deeper, and then wore into a dull gray. The lake and the lower mountains were soon clothed in the sombre shade, but we still enjoyed the presence of the God of Day. Now the violet tint was on us, but the summit of the mountain was still burnished with a line of bright gold; it died away, leaving a bright lovely red, which, having lingered long, dwindled at last into the shade in which all the world around was enveloped, and left the eky clear and deeply azure.

It was getting cold (the thermometer had descended to 45° Fahrenheit), and as we were to be early risers, I was not reluctant in preparing for my stony couch. I had the first place, Devouassoud next to me, and the rest of the guides, in a row alongside each other, lay as close as they could. I soon fell asleep, though the thunder of the falling avalanches might well have kept me awake. In the middle of the night I awoke, but experienced none of the unpleasant nausea and sickness which have attacked others when sleeping on this rock; nor did the guides appear to suffer from any such feel- ings. A solitude and stillness prevailed, which affected me more than any of the occurrences of the day, though they were crowded on my mind.

None of the beauties, none of the dangers, have made a more lasting impression on me than the awful silence of that night, broken as it was only by the loud crash of falling ice, echoing and re-echoing with thrill- ing sound in the death-like stillness

122 ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.

The sky had become more darkly blue, and the moon shone in the softest brightness, the stars shedding a dazzling and brilliant lustre. The avalanches continued falling, but neither they nor the reflection on the past day, nor the anxieties for the coming one, could keep me from sleep, into which I again sunk; but before I did so, I sat up and looked at my companions, all sound at rest, thinking not of the dangers they had passed, nor of those which they must meet with before the expedition they were engaged in could be finished. They slept placidly, yet I longed to get out of the tent, to behold the wonderful scenery under the influence of the moonlight; but I could not have done so without awakening every one of my dormant guides, and I was unwilling to sacrifice their repose to this gratifi- cation. I laid me down, and it was not long before I participated in the sound sleep which they enjoyed, and with the return of morn, was prepared to continue my journey.

* * * *

SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC.

(15,660 FEET HIGH.)

THE wind blew with considerable force, and I was too much worn out to remain there long, or to examine the scene around me. The sun shone brilliantly on every peak of snow that I could see; hardly any mist hung over the valleys — none was on the mountains. The object of my ambition and my toil was gained, yet the

ASCENT OP MONT BLANC. 1215

reward of ray dangers and fatigues could hardly pro- duce enjoyments enough to gratify me for a few moments. The mind was as exhausted as the body ; and I turned with indifference from the view which I had endured so much to behold; and throwing myself on the snow, behind a small mound which formed the highest point and sheltered me from the wind, in a few seconds I was soundly buried in sleep, surrounded by the guides, who were all seeking repose, which neither the burning rays of the sun, nor the piercing cold of the snow, could prevent or disturb. In this state I remained a quarter of an hour, when I was roused to survey the mighty picture beneath. I found myself much relieved, but still had a slight shivering. The pain in the legs had ceased, as well as the headache, but the thirst remained ; the pulse was very quick, and the difficulty of breathing great, but not so oppressive

as it had been.

* * * *

Having placed the thermometer on my baton, in a position in which it might be as much in shade as pos- sible, I went to the highest point, to observe my friends on the Breven and in Chamois once more, but was summoned immediately to a repast, and willingly I obeyed the call, for I fek as if I had a good appetite; some bread and roasted chicken were produced, but I could not swallow the slightest morsel; even the taste of food created nausea and disgust. One or two guides ate a very little ; the rest could not attempt to do so.

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC.

I had provided a bottle of champagne, being desirous to see how this wine would be affected by the rarity of the air. I also wished to drink to the prosperity of the inhabitants of the world below me, for I could believe that there were no human beings so elevated as we were at the moment. The wire being removed, and the string cut, the cork flew out to a great distance ; but the noise could hardly be heard. The wine rolled out in the most luxuriant foam, frothing to the very last drop, and we all drank of it with zest; but not three minutes had elapsed when repentance and pain followed, for the rapid escape of the fixed air which it still contained, produced a choking and stifling sensa- tion, which was. very unpleasant and painful while it lasted, and which frightened some of the guides. A very small quantity was sufficient to satisfy our thirst, for nine of us were perfectly satisfied with the contents of one bottle, and happily its unpleasant effects were but of short duration.

The most peculiar sensation, which all have felt who have gained this great height, arises from the awful stillness which reigns, almost unbroken even by the voices of those speaking to one another; for its feeble sound can hardly be heard. It weighs deeply upon the mind, with a power the effect of which it is impossible to describe. I also experienced the sen- sation of lightness of body, of which Capt. Shcnvill has given a description in the following words : — " It appeared as if I could have passed the blade of a knife

ASCENT OF MONT BLANC. 125

under the sole of my shoes, or between them and the ice on which I stood."

The shape of the summit has been well likened to the das d'ane (ass's back), the broadest and highest part being towards the north, or Chamonis, and nar- rowest inclining a little to the cast. An idea of the summit, as we found it, may be formed by cutting a pear, longitudinally, into halves, and placing one of them on its flat side; but, consisting as it does of snow drifted about by the wind, and subject to increase and diminution by the accumulation of the winter's storms and the influence of the winter's sun, it may probably present some novelty of form to every traveller who visits it. We found it to be about one hundred and seventy feet in length, and its greatest breadth about fifty. The hard snow of which it is composed, bearing a resemblance to a conglomerate of crystal beads ap- peared to be of the depth of from two hundred to three hundred feet unon its rocky foundation, which probably consists of a cluster of pinnacles .similar to the Derniers Rochers, some points being visible, protruding through their snowy mantle nearer to their summit, although from their situation they were inaccessible. We found no living thing upon it; but Mr. Fellows mentioned to me that he had seen a butterfly, borne by the wind,

pass rapidly over his head while on the summit.

11—11

SONNET TO MELANCHOLY.

(FROM AN OLD ALBUM.)

MAID of the pensive look, and brow austere, Who oft, in groves impervious to the day, Wrapt in impassioned musings, sometimes near The time-reft tower, or convent, loved to stray, The giddy tribe who bow to Folly's power, Deride, but dread the glances of thine eye, With hurried step pass Contemplation's bower, Eager thy frown, calm monitress, to fly ! Thou, in thy solitary shades retired, Whate'er men deem of thee, art least alone, With thoughts beyond their reach, thy heart inspired, Tastes the sweet sacred calm, to them^tnown.

»a

I leave the halls where mirth and wassairbe, To wander, gentle Eremite, with thee.

GUARD AGAINST A RAINY DAY.

BY A. A. WATTS.

UARD against a rainy day ;—

Though the skies be now so fair, Yet a little while and they

May a gloomier aspect wear : Fortune, too, so smiling now,

Seeming all thy hopes to crown, Soon may show an altered brow, And assume an angry frown !

Guard against a rainy day; —

What though life were always Spring Even a smiling morn of May

Unexpected showers may bring : Friendship, though so warm of old,

Will not bear an adverse sky ; Even Love, for lack of gold,

May unfold his wings and fly !

Gold our master, and our slave,

Can both dictate and obey : What is there on earth we crave,

That will not confess its sway ?

130 GUAKD ACAINM1 A RAINY DAY.

Honour, friendship, love, and fame, Title, power, and men's respect,

He who highest bids may claim, If he be but circumspect.

Call not gold then worthless dro^s,

That can purchase wealth like this ; And lend virtue's self a gloss,

Fools might else be fain to miss. Jewels, to the vulgar ken,

Though they be of price untold, Are but duly valued, when

They are set in frames of gold.

Prophecies of future sorrow,

Who may venture to gainsay ? Clouds may break in floods to-morrow,

Gather honey whilst you may : Nor forget to lay up store,

Where it ne'er can know decay ; Spring and summer soon are o'er,

Guard against a wintry day !

THE DELIVERANCE.

IT was a Sabbath afternoon early in the year, and a crowded congregation were seen leaving a small kirk in the mountains of Perthshire. The annual celebration of the sacrament had taken place there that day, which had attracted, as is usual in Scotland, great numbers of persons even from parishes at many miles distance. The services of the day were now over, and the people separated into different groups as they took their re- spective roads homewards ; all, even the youngest and most thoughtless, walking on with a quietness and seriousness of deportment befitting the holy day, and the solemnity of the occasion which had called them together. A numerous party set out together to the eastward, conversing as they walked along, some on the more worldly topics of country discourse, — the state of the weather, the crops, and the markets; others, on the various services they had that day heard, and the gifts and graces of their respective ministers. Their numbers gradually diminished as one party after an- other branched off up the glens, or over the hill-paths leading to their distant farms and cottages, until at last only four persons remained. These were Donald

Mac Alpine and his wife, who lived at Burnieside, to

11—11*

132 THE DELIVERANCE.

\vliich place they were now fast approaching; and his brother Angus, who, with his son Kenneth, had corue that morning from Linn-head, about five miles further.

A February evening was closing in dusk and cold, •with every appearance of a stormy, wet night, when the lights in the casements of the farm at Burnieside ap- peared flickering in the distance, cheering the hearts of Donald and his wife with thoughts of the comfort of their own warm hearth, and their children's hearty welcome, after the fatigues and weariness of their day's journey. Angus and Kenneth entered with them, to rest and refresh themselves before they proceeded on- wards ; and, as they were much beloved by their young relatives, they met a welcome, only second in cordiality and delight to that given to the parents. The large and happy party were soon seated comfortably round a glowing peat fire ; and cheerfully partaking, after thanks had reverently been paid to the Giver of all good, of an excellent and substantial supper. When it was over, Angus summoned his son to depart. — " Come, Kenneth, my boy, it is getting late, and we have five long miles to go yet." Donald, who had risen to look out into the night, now endeavoured to persuade his brother and his nephew to remain where they were till morn- ing. " The wind is rising, and driving the hail and rain before it, and it is pitch-dark. I cannot let you leave this warm hearth on such a night." — "Nay, Donald, we must go, indeed. What would Marion and poor little Lily say if we did not come home ? We know our road

THE DELIVERANCE. 133

•well, so we need not be afraid of the darkness ; and as to the wind and rain, we are used to that, and the warm fireside at Linn-head, and a good bed, will be all the more welcome after it. So, good night, Donald; good night, Janet j good night, children."-— " Well," replied Donald, " a wilful man must have his way; but mind when you come by the Black Linn. It is a very fear- ful path along there on a dark night." — "As to that, Donald, I do not think either Kenneth or I would fear to pass the Linn on the darkest night in the year ; we know every rock and stone so well. We are almost at home when we have got there." Angus then taking up his thick walking staff, and Kenneth slinging over his shoulder the .little wallet in which he had carried their simple dinner, they ventured out into the storm, and the hospitable door of Burnieside was reluctantly closed behind them.

For some time they trudged on without much diffi- culty, though the wind and rain beat directly in their faces, and were gradually becoming more violent. In the intervals between the gusts, the father and son conversed together, and Kenneth was pouring forth some of the feelings which the day's services had excited in his pious and serious young heart. He was now about fifteen years of age, the pride and delight of his parents, and of his sister Lilias, who was a year or two older than himself. Marion MacAlpine, his mother, had from his infancy cherished the hope, that this her only son might become a pious and useful minister in

134 THE DELIVERANCE.

the church; she wished, like Hannah with the youthful Samuel, " to give this child, for whom she had prayed, unto the Lord all the days of his life ; and as he in- creased in stature, his parents' hearts glowed within them as they marked his studious, serious disposition, and the heavenly-mindedness of his simple character. The great object of their desires was to afford him the advantages of a college education, and the toils by which they strove to secure the means of doing so were made sweet both to his father, mother, and sister, by the love with which they regarded him. Lilias, indeed, looked on Kenneth as on some superior being. She was a sweet-tempered, active, industrious girl, and though her mental powers were not fashioned in so fine a mould as her brother's, she had a heart to love and admire him, and would have made any sacrifice of her own ease and comfort, to have added to his happiness or promoted his welfare. His progress in learning, under the care of the good minister of Linn-head, had been very rapid ; and as both his age and his acquirements were now such as nearly to fit him for college, it was intended that he should be entered a student at the University of Glasgow in the following year.

" Father," said the boy, " that was a fine discourse of Mr. Muir's, < the Lord is a very present help in trouble.' " — " It was, Kenneth j but one to be better understood by the aged than the young Christian." — "Just what I thought, father. The words went like fire into my heart ; yet, to me, they were but words of

THE DELIVERANCE. I:),")

promise ; to you, and others, who have gone through suffering and tribulation, they were words recalling blessed experience. So far in my life, thanks be to God, and under Him, to you, and my mother, and dear Lily, ' the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places ; I have a goodly heritage ;' but I know it must needs be that afflictions conie, and when they do— "May you find the truth and power of the promises," interrupted his father. "Amen!" said Kenneth, with fervour.

In these sweet communings, they beguiled the weary way. They had proceeded more than three miles of the distance, and had entered a deep defile in the mountains, at the bottom of which ran a rapid stream. This river, at all times considerable, now swollen by the melting of the snows, roared along its rocky channel. It entered the defile about a mile and a half higher up, over a tremendous precipice, forming one of the wildest and most terrific cataracts in the Highlands, which was known in the country by the name of the Black Linn. The water was precipitated into a deep, dark chasm, where it boiled and wheeled with terrifying impetuosity, and then broke away with fury through rents and channels in the rocks, which the force of the stream had in the lapse of ages worn. This scene of awful sublimity was surrounded by abrupt walls of rock two hundred feet in height, grey and bare, and overshadowing the depths below, so that the rays of the bright sun could never penetrate further than to

10G THE DELIVERANCE.

paint a rainbow on the spray of the fall about midway of its descent. A narrow and unprotected mountain road led up the defile past the cataract to the village of Linn-head, which, on such a night, would have been far from safe to less experienced travellers than those who were now toiling along it. They were wet, cold and weary; and the force of the wind pouring down the glen, the cold and sharp rain beating in their faces, and the pitchy darkness of the night, began almost to be- wilder them. They ceased to speak, but struggled on in silence. At length, by the increased roar of waters, they perceived that they were approaching the Linn. " Courage ! my boy, we shall soon reach home now," said Angus. A fresh and more violent gust of wind bringing a heavy hail shower, obliged them to turn from its fury. Again they groped their way afterwards. "Father," said Kenneth, in a voice whose tremulous tones were almost drowned by the fury of the elements, "we have missed the path — we are on the wrong side of the oak tree — we are on the top of the crag over the Black Boiler, I am sure — take care of yourself — I am trying to find— A piercing cry of agony, heard

above the rushing of the winds and waters, froze the father's heart within him. " Kenneth !" he cried, in a voice of horror, "my child, my child ! where are you?" There was no answer. The unhappy father called again and again. The torrent rushed on in its resistless might, and the wind howled past him, till his brain was almost maddened by the roar, and the solid rock be-

TUB DELIVERANCE. 137

neatb him seemed to tremble, as if an earthquake were shaking the globe to its foundations. He flung him- self on the ground, and dragging himself along, felt, with outstretched arms, for the edge of the precipice. His hand at length reached it, where the broken earth and some tufts of grass hanging by their slight fibrous roots, showed the very spot where it had yielded under Kenneth's tread. He looked over, and strained his eyes in the vain endeavour to pierce the thick darkness beneath. All was hid in deep gloom, except where a gleam of pale light marked the broken, foamy edges of the falling waters far, far below. A sickness, like death, fell upon the heart of poor Angus, as the con- viction forced itself on him, that his child was indeed gone — lost to him for ever. He tried again to call, but his voice refused to give utterance to a sound, and having groped his way back to the oak tree, the land- mark already mentioned, he leaned against it for some moments as if to collect strength, and then, making a desperate effort to move forward, he reached the village. All the lights in the cottages were by this time ex- tinguished for the night, except those which gleamed from his own windows, whose brightness showed that those within were still waking and watching for the return of their absent ones. Marion and Lily had just heaped the fire with fresh wood and peat, which threw a bright cheerful light round the cottage. The singing kettle, hanging on the hook over the fire, sent its light clouds of curling vapour up the wide chimney. Before

138 THE DELIVERANCE.

the fire was a small table, with the great family Bible lying on it, in which Lilias had been reading to her mother, till the increasing storm, and the growing late- ness of the hour, began to awaken their anxiety for Angus and Kenneth's return, and prevented their giving to the word of God that undivided attention, without which they thought it but a mockery to read. They sat listening to the wind and rain beating against the cottage, sometimes expressing their anxieties to each other, then striving to forget for a time the sense of them, by busying themselves in all the little arrange- ments they could devise, for the comfort of the wet and weary wanderers. At length a hand touched the outer latch. "Here they are!" exclaimed the listening in- mates. But almost a minute elapsed before that hand found courage again to try and open the door. When it did open, and the pale and horror-struck figure of Angus entered, a sense of awful calamity in an instant struck both Marion and Lilias. He closed the door, and leaned against it, as if he could neither speak nor move. "Kenneth !" they both exclaimed. "The Linn — the Linn — lost!"-— was all that the unhappy father could utter. Then staggering to his chair, he burst into a passionate flood of grief, so unlike any thing his wife and daughter had before witnessed in his steady, com- posed character, that, for the moment, they lost all thought of every thing else in the endeavor to soothe him. But the relief of tears seemed to take the heavy load oil his heart, and before long he could with great

THE DELIVERANCE. 139

calmness tell of the awful bereavement they had sus- tained, and endeavour, in his turn, to comfort the stricken hearts of his wife and daughter. A family of sorrow, they sat by the dying embers of their hearth that long and bitter night; but an unskilled pen may not dare to describe their feelings, nor the power of the consolations from on high, which visited them in their affliction.

Towards morning poor Lilias, exhausted by sorrow, had sunk into a deep sleep, with her head resting on her mother's shoulder. Angus kept walking continually to the little window, to watch for the first streaks of light in the east, intending as soon as the day dawned, to take some of his neighbours with him to assist in finding all that was left to him of his beloved child. At length the grey of the morning broke over the hills — he took his hat and went out, leaving Marion supporting her daughter's head — her lips moved in inward prayer as he left the house. The melancholy news rapidly spread through the village ; for Kenneth was as much loved by all who knew him as his father was respected, and all the neighbours and friends were soon collected to go with Angus to find the body; while some of the women went in to Marion to console and support her during this trying time.

In the meantime, he for whose loss all were thus sorrowing, was yet living. He had been saved from destruction by the stems of three or four saplings of mountain-ash and weeping-birch ; which had taken root

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140 TIIE DELIVERANCE.

in a fissure of the almost perpendicular crag, and Lung their light elegant foliage, nearly horizontally, over the black whirlpool below. The slight stems had bowed fearfully under the pressure of Kenneth's falling weight, but springing up again by their elasticity, they now held him suspended, and rocking with every blast, over the yawning chasm. He lay unconscious for a long time, from the stunning effects of the fall, and of a severe blow which his head had received against the rock; but his senses gradually returned, and he awoke to an acute sense of pain both bodily and mental. When he understood his awful and precarious situation, an overpowering terror came over his mind, and he wreathed his arms round the branches of the trees, with the con- vulsive instinct of self-preservation. His calls for help were piercing and continual ; but they reached no human ear. At this trying moment, the words which he had been dwelling on all the day, " the Lord is a very present help in trouble," recurred to his thoughts like oil upon the stormy waves, leading them into peaceful tranquillity. "Yea," he mentally exclaimed, " even in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me." His mind then rapidly glanced at all the circumstances of his situa- tion. He was instantly aware that he could neither make any exertions to release himself, nor hope for any assistance till the morning dawned; and that nothing remained for him but to rest where he was in quietness, and reliance upon his Almighty Father,

THE DELIVERANCE. 141

till day-light. Though the violence of the storm gra- dually abated, his sufferings from wet and cold, were extreme during that apparently endless night. He endeavoured to beguile the time by repeating pas- sages of Scripture, with which his memory was amply stored; and when these failed to divert his mind from the oppressive weight of pain and dread, or when thoughts of his dear home, and all whom he loved there, would force themselves upon his recollection, he poured out his soul at the throne of mercy, and was strengthened. But the vigor of his mind began gradually to yield to the anguish of his frame; and before morning, the powers of life seemed to be ebbing fast away, leaving him in a state almost of insensibility. He closed his eyes, and consciousness grew fainter and fainter. When he again languidly raised their lids, they rested, as he lay with his face upturned towards heaven, on lightly tinged rose-coloured clouds, the fore- runners of the rising sun, sailing slowly and peacefully over the abyss. The sight seemed to revive the dying spark within, and sent a thrill of hope and joy through his stiffening limbs. But as the increasing light showed him the height and the inaccessible steepness of the precipice above him, and he felt his own incapacity to move, his heart again sunk within him. " Yet, surely," thought he, " they will come to seek me;" and, for the first time, a movement of restless'impatience began to agitate him.

About this time the villagers, being collected together,

142 THE DELIVERANCE.

were proceeding to the fall. Angus in vain endeavoured to maintain his wonted steadiness of demeanour. At one time he hurried on, as if impelled forwards by an irresistible power ; and then, as if nature recoiled with dread from the sight of his beautiful child, changed to a pale and disfigured corpse, he lingered in the rear. When they reached the oak tree before mentioned, he remained motionless, while the rest advanced on to the crag, more from the desire to see the very spot of Ken- neth's fall, than from any expectation of finding his remains, which they doubted not the stream had, by that time, carried farther down the country. Malcolm, a young blacksmith of the village, of remarkably active and enterprising character, was first. He advanced close to the edge of the cliff, which his steady head enabled him to look over without fear. The others remonstrated with him on his rashness, but Malcolm had caught a glimpse of something which made him thoughtless of himself; and in order to be certain that it was what his hopes suggested, before he mentioned them to any one, he lay down on the ground, and stretched his body half over the brink to gain a distinct view. " It is — it is/' he exclaimed — " What I" cried many voices. — "Himself!" cried Malcolm springing up; — "fetch ropes;" and he ran off instantly to the village to execute his own orders, followed by several of the boys and younger men. Angus gazed at this sudden move- ment with a bewildered eye, till some of the others, who had also looked down, came to tell him that his son

THE DELIVERANCE. 14:J

was indeed there, and, they hoped, alive, though they could hardly distinguish whether the slight trembling of the tree was caused by the breeze, or by an endea- vour to make a signal The father's eyes were again blessed by the sight of his child; but the agony and suspense of hope tried him, if possible, more severely than the certainty of calamity. He kneeled down, covering his face with his hands, during the minutes, which to him seemed hours, that elapsed before the return of Malcolm and the ropes. It was some little time after they were got back, before they had lashed together strong cords sufficient to reach Kenneth's rest- ing-place ; but, at length, having secured one end of them strongly round the oak tree, they gradually lowered the other over the face of the crag. Kenneth saw it descending, like the angel of his rescue, and watched its gradual progress, till it reached the level at which he lay; and, after swinging to and fro, finally rested upon his body. But when he tried to untwine his benumbed arms from the branches round which they had so long been clinging, he felt almost with despair that he could not stir. Those above tried with shouts to encourage him, and to persuade him to tie the rope round his waist. He could not. Neither could he raise his hoarse and feeble voice to make them hear. They began to be quite at a loss what to do, and almost to doubt whether life were not fled. In this emergency, Mr. Cameron, the minister of Linn-head,

was seen coming up the road mounted on his rough

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144 THE DELIVERANCE.

little Shetland pony. He had been assisting in the celebration of the Sacrament the preceding day, and having remained to spend the evening with his fellow- ministers, whom that occasion had collected together, was returning, at this early hour, to his home and his duties, principally to be in readiness for his beloved and favorite pupil Kenneth. He wondered to see so many of his parishioners assembled, but a few words explained the whole ; and surprised and agitated as he was by the suddenness of the shock, he retained presence of mind sufficient to direct what was best to be done. " Some one must be lowered to his assistance," said he. Malcolm immediately volunteered himself; and while the active young Highlander drew up the rope, and fastened it round his own waist, Mr. Cameron went to support Angus. All the people present assisted in lowering the courageous youth, who guided himself by a long stick, which he held in his hand, and by which he kept himself from striking against the rock. Having reached the proper station, he planted one foot firmly on a slight projection, and, steadying himself with his stick, this active and powerful young man stooped down, loosened Kenneth's hands, and grasping the poor exhausted boy with his strong muscular arm, gave the signal to be drawn up. As they slowly ascended, he held his drooping charge firmly, yet tenderly, and, with surprising skill and dexterity, guided their course, till with great exertion, and some little difficulty, they safely reached the top.

THE DELIVERANCE. 145

Mr. Cameron no sooner saw Kenneth safely laid in his father's arms, and had ascertained that, though fainting, life was not extinct, than, leaving all the rest to follow slowly, he mounted his pony, and rode briskly forward to break the joyful tidings to poor Marion. When he entered the cottage, which the care of her kind neighbours had restored to its wonted look of comfort, she rose to meet him with calmness and com- posure, but with a face, on which one night seemed to have done the work of years. " Oh ! Mr. Cameron, you are come, indeed, to the house of mourning; Lave you heard all?" « Yes, my good Marion, I have seen Angus." -"And have they found - — " She could say no more; her tears choked her. "Yes, they have, Marion," said the good pastor, hardly knowing how to break it to her ; " your son shall live again." — "I know," replied the devout Christian mother, "I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Oh ! Mr. Cameron, our hearts' desire for him was, that he should serve the Lord in his courts here below, and if he calls him so soon to stand in the holy of holies, what are we, that we should gainsay his will ? and yet, it is hard to say, Thy will be done!" Mr. Cameron was so much affected, that it was some time before he could say, " Marion, the Lord's arm is not shortened that he cannot save ; and what is impossible with men, is possible with God." Marion lifted up her eyes, with an expression of wild doubt. Lilias sprung forward, and seized his hand, and the neighbours

1 Hi THE DELIVERA.xn:.

drew round inquiringly. " Yes ! my friends, he lias been wonderfully delivered, and he is yet living; but Marion," he added, observing that she turned deadly pale, "you must command yourself. He has suffered severely, and his life may depend on your composure, and ability to do all that may be required for him. Now, my good friends, prepare a warm bed, and get all things in readiness." While the other women were busying themselves according to their minister's desire, the mother and daughter, with their arms round each other, were standing on the threshold, looking out for the first sight of him who had been lost, but was found ; while Mr. Cameron gently related to them the history of his wonderful escape, mingling with his relation words of religious comfort and exhortation, which fell like balm upon their hearts. At last, the party came slowly up, bearing Kenneth on a rude litter which they had hastily put together; and as he crossed the threshold of his home once again, his mother and sister quietly kissed his cold pallid cheek, and he opened his eyes on them with a look of love. He was laid in his warm bed, and they proceeded to restore warmth and animation by cordials, and by rubbing his limbs with spirits. But whether their applications were too stimulating, or it was the natural effect of his long exposure to the cold, added to the blow on his head, fever rapidly came on, and, for several days, he lay in violent delirium. It almost broke the hearts of those who were watching by his bedside, to hear his screams of horror, and broken

THE DELIVERANCE. 147

snatches of prayer and supplication, which showed that he was continually living over again that fearful night. The following Sabbath, all the little congregation of Linn-head joined, as with one heart, in their minister's fervent intercession, that the life, already so wonder- fully delivered, might yet once more be spared. Their prayers were granted; youth and a good constitution, aided by the unwearied and judicious care of his affec- tionate nurses, triumphed over the disease. That once subdued, his strength rapidly returned, and, on the third Sunday after, Kenneth, supported by his father and mother, and followed by his sister, again entered the sanctuary, and took his accustomed place there ; and when they all kneeled in prayer, their hearts burned within them, as Mr. Cameron poured forth their thanksgivings to the Almighty. He chose for his text the opening verses of the hundred and third Psalm — " Bless the Lord, 0 my soul, and forget not all his benefits : who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction ; and crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercy." From these appropriate words he uttered a most affectionate and persuasive exhortation, not only addressed to him who had been the subject of such striking mercies, but to all the youthful members of his flock, who had been witnesess of them. The good seed thus scattered, falling on ground differently prepared to receive it, brought forth fruit variously. In Kenneth's heart, it brought forth fruit a hundred-fold;

148 THE DELIVERANCE.

and during the course of a long after life, be was, as far as the weakness of human nature may be, " stead- fast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord," and was blessed in the conviction that his " labours in the Lord were not in vain."

Y 0 U T II.

BY MISS ATWELL.

SAY, what adorneth youth ? Buoyant heart and sunny smile, Free from bitterness and guile ; Voice of mirth and step of air ; Laughing eye and clustering hair; Soul of spotless truth.

Liberal hand ! is thine, in sooth, With all that's beautiful and bright ; Active form and spirit light — Warm affection's gentle gush — Feelings prompt, and fancy's flush- All belong to youth.

THE BROKEN HEART.

WHEN the knell, rung for the dying, Soundeth for rne, And rny corse coldly is lying

'Neath the green tree; When the turf strangers are heaping,

Covers my breast,

Come not to gaze on me weeping;— I am at rest!

All my life coldly and sadly

The days have gone by ; I, who dream'd wildly and madly,

Am happy to die. Dear friend, my heart hath been breaking,

Its pain is all past ; A term hath been set to its aching, —

Peace comes at last !

ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITION OF FIRST LOVE BEING LASTING.

BY R. BURNAL, ESQ.

1 ^IRST love is a pretty romance,

Though not quite so lasting as rcckon'd ; For when one awakes from its trance, There's a great stock of bliss in a second.

And e'en should the second subside,

A lover can never despair ; For the world is uncommonly wide,

And the women — uncommonly fair.

Then poets their raptures may tell,

"Who never were put to the test; A first love is all very well,

]>ut, believe me, the last love's the best.

THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP.

[, Edward/' murmured, Julia Harcourt to her 'brother, as she laid her head upon his shoulder, believing herself unobserved, " where will you be at this hour to-morrow evening ?"

He answered only by an affectionate pressure of the hand which he held in his; the tears started in his eyes, but anxious to conceal his emotions, he turned to his father, and was about to address him.

"My children," said the General tenderly, "there is no need of concealment of feelings, which honour rather than disgrace our nature. It is only the indul- gence of vain regret that is censurable, not regret itself. It is one of the penalties of humanity to separate from those we love, and most pitiable is that insensibility which can remain unshaken upon such occasions. You, Edward, will not make a worse soldier because your sister's tears have brought a corresponding sympathy in your eyes; nor will you, Julia, enjoy less the future honors of your brother, because you now weep that he must leave you. And think not," added he, in a voice which gradually lost its firmness as he continued to speak; "think not that the moment when a son is about to quit his parental roof, and engage in the busy

-jo 10 Id Id

152 THE YOUXG AID-DU-CAMP.

scenes of life, is a painless one to a father. In Lhu, to natural regret is joined a knowledge of the shoals and quicksands that lie in his path, and remembrance of these gives to the anxiety of maturity the acuteness of sorrow that properly belongs to youth." He paused, and then with greater steadiness continued; — "The path before you, however, is an honorable and an open one. Acquit yourself in it, therefore, as becomes a man and a Christian. But 1 will not now repeat the advice I have already so earnestly given you, and the more so as I ani not aware that I have omitted any material point of conduct. On one subject alone I have been less diffuse than you might probably have expected me to be, but this arose solely from its being too painful a one to dwell openly upon." He passed his hand over his brow, but could not conceal the agitation of his features; "Here is a packet, however," added he, "which will supply the omission; read the narrative it contains attentively, and oh ! may you escape the anguish that its writer has been so long doomed to feel !"

Edward received the paper with reverence, and the General now rising, fervently blessed both his chil- dren, and retired to rest.

This was the last evening that Edward Ilarcourt was to spend in his father's house previous to his joining his regiment, which was under sailing orders for Spain. He was a high spirited, amiable youth, the secret pride of his father, and the avowed delight

THE YOUNG AID-UU-CAMP. 153

of his sister. lie had scarcely passed his seventeenth year; but in talent, manner and appearance, he was many years older. Brought up from his childhood with a view to the profession of arms, he had been for some time impatient to take an active share in the clangers and honors which at that time so particularly distinguished the British name, and he looked forward to the scenes of glory which he had pictured to himself with an eagerness that allayed, though it could not extinguish, the sorrow of parting from those who were so dear to him. By way of enlivening their spirits, they had been romping in the garden; Edward assuming a fantastic dress, had been playing all manner of pranks with some female- friends; but all his natural gaiety and high spirits were unable either to subdue the feel- ings of an affectionate son and brother on parting, or prevent the visible sorrow which showed itself on the cheek of a beloved sister. The next day saw him far on his journey towards the metropolis, where, having remained only sufficient time to equip himself, he pro- ceeded to Plymouth, and was soon afterwards launched on the bosom of the ocean, under a favorable wind, and with companions whose spirits were almost as buoyant as his own.

He had hitherto been too much engaged to open the packet which the General had given him, or indeed scarcely to give it a thought; but he had now abund- ance of leisure for the purpose, and withdrawing himself from observation, he with no slight degree of interest,

154 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP.

not unmingled with curiosity, broke the seal. The latter feeling had probably not obtruded itself, but for the idea that it contained an elucidation of an occasional melancholy, which both he and his sister had observed in their father, and which had excited alike their surprise and coinmisseration. Loved and respected by them in the highest degree, they had carefully abstained from appearing to notice it, and had sought only by every delicate and tender atten- tion, to win him from his abstraction, and to soothe him to composure and cheerfulness. Frequently in the midst of social enjoyment, a sudden pang would seem to cross his heart, and in an instant to change the hilarity of his countenance into an expression of the deepest anguish. Frequently, even in moments of paternal tenderness and delight, when his breast ap-~ peared to overflow with the purest felicity, a look of indescribable agony would ensue, and tears, which he endeavored in vain to conceal, would start from his eyes.

A natural feeling of respect and delicacy made him pause, before he could examine the paper which he held in his hand. This he found to be a long letter from the General, who, after enforcing many excellent rules for his future conduct, thus proceeded : —

" And now, Edward, let me address you on a subject to which I attach the deepest importance. I mean that of duelling. By every consideration, moral and divine — by every tie of affection to me, of allegiance to your

THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP. 155

king, and of duty to your God, — I charge you never to be either a principal or an accessory, in a crime which reason and religion alike condemn as utterly indefensible, although false honor and heartless soph- istry have endeavoured to establish its propriety and necessity. Continue to preserve that control over your passions which has hitherto distinguished you; give no offence, and be not ready to receive one ; enter into no dispute, and whilst with a manly firmness you main- tain your own independence of thought and action, avoid all interference with that of others, never for- getting that when you became a soldier, you ceased not to be a Christian; but increased, rather than diminished your obligation, by having dedicated that life to your king, which you received from your God, for the proper disposal of which you are now accountable to both.

" But if argument fail, let the recital I am about to make, effectually deter you from the commission of so heinous an offence. Yes, I will raise the veil that has long covered the anguish of my heart, although I am well aware that the effort will be most distressing to me, and that the exposure of past errors to a son's eyes must prove a bitter task to a father.

"I was early destined like yourself to the army, and entered upon life with prospects as fair as your own. My connexions were powerful, my fortune was good, and my friends consequently were numerous. Nature had done much for me, adventitious circumstances more. My society was everywhere sought, I was a

13—13*

156 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP.

general favorite, and though reason pointed out the motive of the attention I received, self-love and vanity resolved the unmeaning homage into a debt due to my peculiar merit. I became addicted to pleasure, grew haughty and impatient of control, and while I pursued gratifications which my better principles condemned, I allowed neither the inward monitor of my own breast, nor the remonstrances of my real friends, to have any influence over my actions. Real friends, perhaps, I had few ; but I possessed one, — alas ! how my heart throbs at the recollection! — whose worth alone was sufficient to outweigh the loss of hundreds. Melville was my cousin by my mother's side — he, too, was an only son ; but as his parents were by no means in affluent circumstances, he became at the death of his father entirely dependant upon mine. We had been brought up together, and he had hitherto shared in all the advantages which had been so liberally bestowed upon me. I fear he was much more attached to my person than I was alive to his merits. We were indeed very dissimilar. He was gentle, patient, endowed with ex- traordinary powers of self-control, moderate in all his desires, just, honorable, generous and brave; while equally correct in practice as in principle, his rectitude amidst all temptation remained unshaken. My tears fall fast at this feeble testimony to his worth ; alas ! that the loss of blessings should best teach us their value.

"Melville had frequently, in forcible but gentle term?,

THE YOUNG A1D-DU-CAMP. 157

remonstrated with me on my conduct. I at first listened to him without displeasure, and even with secret admi- ration of the manner he adopted towards me, but in proportion as my behaviour grew irregular, and the upbraidings of my conscience more severe, his admoni- tions became less endurable. The sneers, also, of my profligate associates at his influence provoked me, and I gradually absented myself from his society, till at length I totally withdrew myself from him. Melville was much hurt by this procedure, and for a time endeavored by every means to win back my confidence, but finding that he rather defeated than promoted his views by seeking me, he forbore to intrude. Often did my heart reproach me for the unmanliness and in- gratitude of my conduct, and as often did I long for a renewal of that cordiality which was once my happiness, and had always been my safety; but pride and the ridicule of my companions withheld me from making any advance towards a better understanding, and in the end I scarcely even deigned to speak to him.

" Among other evil propensities, I had contracted a love of gaming, to supply which even the liberal allowance of my father was inadequate. I became involved in debt, and was guilty of many petty acts of meanness, which at a former period of my life I should have abhorred. Alas ! little did I think at the time that it was Melville, the honorable, self-denying Mel- ville, who, out of the savings of his own comparatively scanty purse, preserved ine frequently from exposure

158 THE YOUNG AID-DU-CAMP.

from my trades-people. I thought neither of him nor of them, — I was selfish, wilfully heedless and extrava- gant, merely because I would not allow myself to reflect. " One evening I had played to a considerable amount, and had been particularly unfortunate. In my agitation, I drank largely, and thus the irritation of intoxication was added to the irritation of excited feeling. We were seated in our tent, for it was summer. Melville passed us on his way to the guard-room. He cast, or I fancied that he cast, a look of peculiar meaning towards me. I was provoked at having been seen at all by him, and I turned myself from him with as little apparent inten- tion as possible. lie however turned