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^.3

A BOOK

e^/2

FOR THE YOUNG.

DEDICATED, BT PBRMISSION|

TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON.

BY A LADY.

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^ftA^c^, ;;>"«Mr^'C^

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SAINT JOHN, N. B. :

J. & A. McMillan.

18§6.

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SAINT JOHN, N. B.,

prixtxd bt j. k a. m'millan, pbobxix bousk,
78, Pbimcx Wm. Strut.

TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON.

Madam,—

With every feeling of deference and respect, do I beg
to ofier my grateful acknowledgments for your kindness
in according me the honor of your influential name, in
oficring my Little Book to the public ; and I can only
regret my humble efforts are not more worthy your
patronage.

I have the honour to be. Madam,

Your obliged and obedient servant,

SARAH FRENCH.

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PREFACE.

COUBTEOUS ReADEB,

In offering a second effort from her
pen, the Writer begs, most humbly, to
deprecate all criticism; for much of which,
there will, doubtless, be found ample room.
This little book has been written in the
hope. that, ^otwithstandingg its many im-
perfections, it will not be altogether useless
to thoscg^for whom it is especially intended,
— the Young; and should the Authoress fail
in effecting all the good she desires, she
trusts, , she may take refuge under the ne-

iri

PBS7ACX.

gative merit, of not having written one word
that can do harm.

If it be objected to, that the Poetry is not
original; it is, she would beg to say, not
only good, but far better than that which,
had it depended on her own efforts, could
have been in its place. It will be seen that
the Book was intended to have been brought
out for Christmas and New Year's Days:
this desirable end could not be accomplished,
but as recommended to do, she has inserted
the "Address to the Young." "' *-

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■'■>'

CONTENTS.

An Address to the Young, 1

The Dying Horse, 9

Coquetry, 12

Lines on seeing in a list of new Music "The Waterloo

Waltz," 49

The Boy of Egremont, 51

Lines written on the Prospect of Death, 68

An Embarkation Scene, 60

The Execution of Montrose, 76

A Ghost Story 83

Lord Byron, 106

Self Reliance, 109

Idle Words, 167

The Maniac of Victory, 168

God doeth all things well, 170

How old art thou, 172

Time, 173

The Young Man's Prayer, 176

■ - . ." ■ _,,- .'■-,'- ..,-'- -.:'.', . , ,.i t. W

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AN ADDBESS TO THE TOUNa.

A HEARTFELT greeting to you, my young
friends ; a merry Christmas and a happy New
Year to you all. Of all the three hundred and
sixty-five days none are fraught with the same
interest — there is not one on which all man-
kind expect so great an amount of enjoyment,
as those we now celebrate : for all now try
not only to be happy themselves, but to make
others so too. All consider themselves called
on to endeavour to add to the aggregate of
human happiness. Those who have been
estranged, now forget their differences and
hold out the hand of amity ; even the wretch-
ed criminal and incarcerated are not forgotten.
Yes, to both the Christian and the world-
ing, it is equally the season for rejoicing. Oh
yes ! view them in any of their bearings, joy-
ful are the days that mark the anniversary of
the Redeemer's Nativity, and the commence-
ment of the New Year. Fast as the last

% AN ADDRESS

twelve months have sped their circling course,
yet they have, brought changes to many.
Numbers of those we so gaily greeted at their
beginning, now sleep in the silent dust, and
the places they filled know them no more !
And we are spared, the monuments of God's
mercy; and how have we improved that
mercy, I would ask? or how do we purpose
doing it ? Have such of us as have enjoyed
great and perhaps increased blessings, been
taught by them to feel more gratitude to the
Giver of all good. If the sun of prosperity
has shone more brightly, has our desire to do
good been in any way proportionate. Has
God in his infinite wisdom seen fit to send us
trials, — have they done their work, hive they
brought us nearer to Him, have they told us
this is not our abiding place, have they shown
us the instability of earthly happiness ? Have
you reflected for one moment, amidst your
late rejoicings, of the hundreds whose hearths
have been desolated by cruel but necessary
war, and then with a full and grate Ail heart
humbly thanked the God who has not only
spared you these heavy inflictions, but pre-
served all near and dear to you. m

TO THE rOUNO.

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

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

Has every blessing and every mercy been
taken as a matter of course, and every plea-
sure been enjoyed with a thankless forgetful-
ness of the hand from which it flowed ? If
such has been the case, let it be so no longer;
but awake and rouse ye from your lethargic
slumber, be true to yourselves, and remember
that you are responsible beings, and will have
to account for all the time and talents mitt-

Air ADDRESS

spent and misapplied. Reflect seriously on
the true end of existence and no longer fritter
it away in yanity and folly. Think of all the
good you might have done, not only by indi-
vidual exertion, but by the influence of your
example. Then reverse the picture and ask
if much evil may not actually have occurred
through these omissions in you.

To many of you too, life now presents a
very different aspect to what it did in the
commencement of the year. A most impor-
tant day has dawned, and momentous duties
devolved on you. The ties that bound you
to the homes of your youth have been severed,
and new ones formed, aye stronger ones than
even to the mother that bare you. Yes, there
is one who is now dearer than the parent who
cherished, or the sister who grew up with you,
and shared your father's hearth. Oh ! could I
now but impress upon your minds, how much,
how very much of your happiness depends on
the way you begin. If I could but make you
sensible how greatly doing so might soften the
trials of after life. Trials ? I hear each of
you exclaim in joyous doubt. What trials ?
I am united to the object of my dearest affec-

TO THE TOUNO.

tions ; friends all smile on, and approve my
choice ; plenty crowns our board : have I not
made a league with sorrow that it should not
come near our dwelling? I hope not; for it
might lead you to forget the things that belong
to your peace. I should tremble for you,
could I fancy a life-long period without a
trouble. You are mortal and could not bear
it, with safety to your eternal well-being.
This life being probationary, God has wisely
ordained it a chequered one. Happy, thor-
oughly happy as you may be now, you are
not invulnerable to the shafts of sorrow ;—
think how very many are the inlets through
which trial may enter, and pray that when-
ever and however assailed, you may as a
Christian, sanctify whatever befalls you to
your future good.

But while prepared to meet those ills "the
flesh is heir to " as becomes a Christian, it is
well to remember that you may greatly dim-
inish many of the troubles of life, by forbear-
ance and self-command, for certain it is, that
more than one half of mankind make a great
deal of what they suffer, and which they might

;^ AN ADDRESS

;.\

avoid. Yes, much of what they endure are
actually self inflictions.

There is a general, and alas ! too true an
outcry, that trouble is the lot of all, and that
''man is born to trouble as the sparks fly up-
ward*," but let me ask, Is there not a vast
amount made by ourselves ? and do we not of-
ten take it up in anticipation, too often indulge
and give way to it, when by cheerful resigna-
tion, we might, if not wholly avert, yet greatly
nullify its power to mar our peace. Mind, I
now speak of self-created and minor troubles ;
not those coming immediately from God. Are
we not guilty of ingratitude in acting thus ; in
throwing away, or as it were thrusting from
us the blessings he has sent, — merely by in-
dulging in, or giving way to these minor trials.
It may be said of these sort of troubles, as of
difficulties, " Stare them in the face, and you
conquer them; yield to, and they overcome
you, and form unnecessary suflering.'^
• If we could only consider a little when
things annoy us, and reflect how much worse
they might be, and how differently they would
affect U8 even under less favourable circum-
stances than those in which we are placed;

TO THB TOUNO.

but instead of making the best of every thing,
we only dwell on the annoyance, regardles of
many extenuations that may attend it.

As one of the means to happiness, I would
beg of you, my fair young Brides, not to fix
too high a standard by which to measure
either the perfections of your beloved partners
or your own hopes of being happy. Bear in
mind that those to whom you are united are
subject to the same infirmities as yourself.
Look well to what are your requirements as
wives, and then prayerfully and steadily act
up to them, and if your hopes are not built
too high, you may, by acting rightly and ra-
tionally, find a well spring of peace and enjoy-
ment that must increase. Think what very
proud feelings will be yours, to find you are
appreciated and esteemed for the good quali-
ties of the heart and endowments of the mind,
and to hear, after months of trial, the u;(/e
pronounced dearer than the bride.

Look around at the many who have enter-
ed the pale of matrimony before you, equally
buoyant with hope; with the same loving
hearts and the same bright prospects as you
had, — and yet the stern realities of life have

AN ADDRESS

sobered down that romance of feeling with
which they started; yet they are perhaps
more happy, though it is a quiet happiness^
founded on esteem. Oh, you know not the
extent to which the conduct I have urged you
to pursue, may affect your well-being, and that
of him to whom you are united.

And now with the same greeting I com-
menced with, will I take my leave — a Merry
Christmas and Happy New Year to you all,
and may each succeeding return find you
progressing in all that can give you peace and
happiness, not only here but hereafter !

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TBE. DYING HORSE.

HiAYiM ! what enormouB strength does death pocsesa !
How mascular the giant's arm must be
To grasp that strong boned horse, and, spite of all
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth !
Tet, hold, he rises ! — no — the struggle's vain ;
Hw strength avails him not. Beneath the gripe
Of the remorseless monster, stretched at length
He lies with neck extended ; head hard pressed
Upon the very turf where late he fed.
His writhing fibres speak his inward pain !
.His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire!
Oh ! how he glares ! and hark ! methinks I hear
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst the veins.
Amazement! Horror! What a desperate plunge.
See ! where his ironed hoof has dashed a sod
With the velocity of lightning. Ah ! —
He rises, — triumphs; — yes, the victory's his!
No— the wrestler Death again has thrown him
And — oh ! with what a murdering dreadful fall !
Soft! — he is quiet. Yet whence came that groar,
Was't from his chest, or from vhe throat of d^:.(h
Exulting in his conquest? I know nuCi
But if 'twas his, it surely was his last;
For see, he scarcely stirs I Soft ! Does he breathe 1
Ah no ! he breathes no more. Tis very strange I

THE DTINa HORSE.

How still he*s now ! how fiery hot— how cold

How terrible! How lifeless! all within

A few brief moments ! — My reason staggers !

Philosophy, thy poor enlightened dotard,

Who canst for every thing assign a cause,

Here take thy stand beside me, and explain

This hidden mystery. Bring with thee

The head strong Atheist; who laughs at heaven

And impiously ascribes events to chance,

To help to solve this wonderful enigma !

First, tell me, ye proud haughty reasoners.

Where the vast strength this creature late possessed

Has fled to ? how the bright sparkling fire.

Which flashed but now from those dim rayless eyes

Has been extinguished? Oh — he's dead you say.

I know it well : — ^but how, and by what means 1

Was it the arm of chance that struck him down,

In height of vigor, and in pride of strength.

To stiflfen in the blast 1 Come, come, tell me:

Nay shake not thus the head's that are enriched

With eighty years of wisdom, gleaned from books,

From nights of study, and the magazines

Of knowledge, which your predecessors left.

What ! not a word ! — I ask you, once again,

How comes it that the wond'rous essence.

Which gave such vigour to these strong nerved limba

Has leaped from its enclosure, and compelled

This noble workmanship of nature, thus .

To sink into a cold inactive clod ?

Nay sneak not off thus cowardly — poor foolf

ITe are as destitute of information ^.^^ y^r

As is the lifeless subject of my thoughts !

"»",

THE DTINO BOasE.

The ntbjed of my thoughts? Yes — there he lies

As free from life, as if he ne'er had lived.

Where are his friends and where his old acquaintance

Who borrowed from his strength, when in the yoke,

With weary pace the steep ascent they climbed 1

Where are the gay companions of his prime,

Who with him ambled o'er the flowery turf.

And proudly snorting, passed the way worn hack.

With haughty brow ; and, on his ragged coat

Looked with contemptuous scorn 1 Oh yonder see,

Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun

They lie, and heed him not ; — little thinking

While there they triumph in the blaze of noon,

How soon the dread annihilating hour

Will come, and death seal up their eyes,

Like his, forever. Now moralizer

Retire ! yet first proclaim this sacred truth ;

Chance rules not over Death ; but, when a fly

Falls to the earth, 'tis Heaven that gives the blow.

— BLACEKtT.

:«S;

•-*»

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COaUETRY.

I i

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It was in one of the most picturesque parts of
South Wales, on the banks of the lovely Towy,
that two ladies sat working at an open case-
ment, which led into a veranda, covered with
clematis and honey-suckle. The elder of the
two might be about fifty, perhaps not so much,
for her features bore traces of suffering and
sadness, which plainly told, that sorrow had
planted far deeper wrinkles there than time
alone could have done. The younger, an in-
teresting girl of nineteen, bore a strong resem-
blance to her mother ; they were both dressed
in deep mourning. The room which they
occupied, though plainly and simply furnished,
had yet an air of taste and elegance.

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer,
who died of cholera in the East Indies, leaving
her with one daughter, and no other means of
support than a small annuity and her pension.
An old servant of her own had married a cor-

COQUKTBT.

poral in the same regiment, who having pur*
chased his discharge, now followed the trade
of a carpenter, to which he had heen brought
up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in
his native place, and the faithful Hannah,
hearing of the Captain's death wrote to Mrs.
Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty
of the spot, but the cheapness of living in that
part of the world, concluding by saying, a
house was then vacant, and could be had on
very reasonable terms. Mrs. Fortescue im-
mediately wrote and engaged it. Though a
common looking building, yet by putting a
veranda round, and making a few alterations
inside, it soon, with a little painting and paper-
ing, was transformed into a prett}'' cottage.
The work required was an advantage to Mrs.
Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind
and thus prevented her dwelling on her recent
affliction, in other respects too, she felt that a
kind providence had directed her steps to the
little village in which we find her — and the
good she found to do, was the greatest balm
her wounded spirit could receive : for though
her means were so limited, still, a wide field
of usefulness lay before her. *■>

til

COQVSTRT.

Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and
though her trial was hard, very hard to bear,
she remembered from whom it came, and not
a murmur escaped her. Devotedly attached
to her husband, she deeply lamented her loss,
still she sorrowed not as one without hope:
she had the consolation of knowing few were
better prepared for the change ; and she strove
to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her
grief would have been augmented, were not
such the case. But she felt that her shield
had been taken from her; and knowing how
precarious was her own health, she saw how
desolate would be her child, should it please
God to remove her also, but a true christian
cannot mourn long; and as the tears of agony
would force themselves down her cheek, and
her feelings almost overpower her, she flew to
her bible and in its gracious promises to the
afflicted, found that support and consolation,
the mere worldling can neither judge of, nor
taste. Some delay, though no actual doubt,
as to ultimately obtaining her peusiot;, i»ad
caused inconvenience, as all their re : !y riiC: ey
had been absorbed in the alterations of their
house, though they had observed the utmost

III

! li

COQUXTBT.

nd, and
to bear,
and not
attached
her loss,
It hope:
5W were
le strov©
jatly her
veve not
jr shield
ing how
aw how
t please
hristian
)f agony
;ek, and

flew to
)s to the
solation,
3 of, nor
lI doubt,
lot:, had

niC:'ey
of their
'• utmost

economy, and demands were made which they
had not at the time fund& to meet. Ethelind
was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against
all, trusting something would turn up, — and so
it did; fcr v/hile discussing the matter, a letter
caiai. ••ri'p an enclosure, from an old school
ibilo w, begging them to procure her board and
Jod^ijg in the village for a few months, inti-
mating how much she would like it, if they
could accommodate her themselves. The
terms for the first quarter were highly remu-
nerative and they gladly acceded to Miss
Trevor's proposition, and the few requisite
preparations being made, we will, if our reader
pleases, go back to the evening when mother
and daughter sat awaiting the arrival of their
new inmate.

Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice
Trevor, but Ethelind was loud in her praises.
They sat in anxious expectation much be-
yond the usual time for the arrival of the stage,
and were just giving her up for the night,
when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and
a post chaise drove up, out of which sprang
a young lady who in another moment was
clasped in Kthelind's arms, and introduced to

COqUETBT.

her mother, who welcomed her most kindly.

"Oh what a little Paradise ! said Beatrice,"
looking round her, "how happy you must be
here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep out-
side ere daylight is gone ;" so saying, she
darted through the French casement, on to the
lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge.
"Well I declare, this is a perfect Elysium, I
am so glad I made up my mind to come here,
instead of going with the Fultons to Chelten-
ham." '. \

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

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

Mrs. Fortescue smiling bonignly promised
acquiescence, and taking her hand, which she
grasped affectionately ; led her into the next
room, where tea was waiting. After which,
Ethelind took her up stairs, and showed her
the little bedroom prepared for her. They

COQUETRT.

remained here some time, chatting over their
old school days, till summoned to prayers.
On taking leave for the night, Mrs. Fortescue
begged if at all heavy in the morning, that
Beatrice would not hurry up. But she arose
early, much refreshed and delighted with all
she saw. Ethelind soon joined her, and offered
to help her unpack, and arrange her things,
while the only servant they had, prepared the
breakfast.

Soon as the morning meal was over, and
little necessary arrangements made, Ethelind
proposed a ramble, which was gladly acceded
to on the part of Beatrice. They passed
through an orchard into a lane, and as they
crossed a rustic bridge, the village church
came in view. It was a small gothic struc-
ture, standing in the burial ground, and as
they approached it, Beatrice was struck with
admiration at the beds of flowers, then bloom-
ing in full perfection on the graves ; this is a
very beautiful, and, by no means, uncommon
sight in South Wales ; but she had never seen
it before. "Well, I declare, this is lovely;
really, Ethelind, to render the charm of ro-
mance complete, you ought to have a very
■2

M '

ilii
iifi'ii

COQXJETRr.

interesting young curate, with pale features
and dark hair and eyes."

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

" I think," said Beatrice, " it is well he is
not, for I might fall in love with him, and
then—"

"And then, what ?" asked Ethelind,

"Why it must end in disappointment to
both ; for if he is poor and I am poor, it would
be little use our coming together ; but were I
rich, as I expected to have been, then I might

COftXTETRT.

hare set my cap at your young curate, and
rewarded his merit." - v,

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

" Charitable ! " re-echoed Beatrice, " a cu-
rate, on perhaps less than a hundred a year,
must have a deal to be charitable with. Ab-
surd : I grant you he may have the heart, but
certainly not the means."

" I know not," said Ethelind, " but I hear
continually of the good he does, and his kind-
ness to the poor, and doubt if the Honourable
Frederic Eardly will do as much."

" Out upon these proud scions of nobility, t
have not common patience with the younger
members of the aristocracy, taking holy orders
solely for the sake of aggrandizing the elder
branches of the family ; they are rarely actu-
ated by pious motives."

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

' \

COQUETRr.

'i!ii

i I

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

« That is Eardly House."

"And do the family ever reside there ?"

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

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

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

"Why, Mr. Barclay," exclaimed Ethelind,
" where, in the name of wonder, did you come
from ? did you rise from the lake, or drop from

C0QUETR7.

the clouds ? I thought you were many miles

away

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

"And are you going to remain ?"

" For some months, I believe."

"I am really glad to hear it, and so, I am
sure, will mamma be ; but in the agreeable sur-
prise your unlooked for return gave, I forgot
to introduce Miss Trevor." The conversation
now look a general turn, and Mr. Barclay ac-
companied them to their door, where he only
staid to shake hands with Mrs. Fortescue, and
then took his leave, promising to return in the
evening.

As may naturally be supposed, many weeks
followed of delightful intercourse ; Mr. Bar-
clay, when ever it did not interfere with his
duties, was the constant attendant of Ethelind,
and Beatrice ; he spent every evening at Mrs.
Fortescue's cottage, affording much specula-
tion to the village gossips, as to which of the
two young ladies would ultimately become
the curate's choice. With their aid he carried

( \

iii

I ifi^

I It.

i I

COQUETRY.

out his much cherished object of establishing
a Sunday School, and everything was going
on quietly, till, at length, an unusual bustle
Was observed in the village ; artizans of every
description were sent from London, and the
news was soon spread, that after the necessary
repairs and preparations were completed, the
family might be expected. - . ... x ■-■

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

" It is really provoking," said Ethelind " I
am quite of Beatrice's opinion, and think great
folks anything but desirable in such a smaU
place, at least, to people circumstanced as we

are.

" I am of opinion," said Mr. Barclay, " you
■will find it quite the reverse." i

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

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

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

COqUETRT.

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

" But will he," said she, " I really feel cu-
rious, to see how this embryo bishop will get
on, as I suppose nothing less is the object of
his taking orders."

" Oh, Miss Trevor, judge not so harshly.
Is it not possible that in singleness of heart,
he may have gone into the Church, unmind-
ful of all but the sacred calling ? I do not pre-
tend to judge, but I believe no worldly honour
or pecuniary consideration influenced his
choice, as I know his grandfather left him
quite independent." «^ ui • *; . • ^ ^ ^ r

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

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

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

"I am a poor judge of character, besides^

liiiiiii

in ill

COQUETRY.

you would hardly give me credit for being im-
partial. They say he is spoilt by his mother
and sisters, by whom he is perfectly idolized
and to whom he is, in return, devotedly at-
tached.*' V ^?v

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

Mr. Barclay too, was much confused ; and
Beatrice was greatly relieved when Mrs.
Fortescue turned the conversation. She had
long remarker' to herself, there was a mystery
about Mx, Barclay which she could not un-
derstand. There was, at times, a reserve she
attributed to pride. If not well born, he was
quite au fait in all the usages of well-bred
society. He never spoke of his family, but
Mrs. Fortescue once asked him if he had any
sisicrs, when he replied, '* Two, such as any
brother might be proud of;'* but, while he
spoke, the blood mantled in his forehead, and
fearing it might result from pride, she dropped
the subject^ and, for the future, avoided saying

COQUETRT.

anything that might recal it, trusting that^ in
time, she might win his confidence.

Almost unconsciously to herself, was Ethe-
lind, under the garb of friendship, indulging
a preference from which her delicacy shrank.
She could painly see a growing attachment in
Mr. Barclay to Beatrice, and could not, for a
moment, suppose he could be insensible to
her friend's fascinations, which certainly were
very great. She was the more convinced that
Mr. Barclay loved Beatrice, for his manners
evidently changed, and, at times, he was ab-
sent and thoughtful, and she sometimes fancied
unhappy. Once it struck her, his affections
might be engaged elsewhere, and that Beatrice
had shaken his faith to her to whom it was
plighted. She observed Beatrice using all her
efforts to attract and win Mr. Barclay, and yet
she doubted if she were sincere. Many things
in her conduct led to this conclusion, and
showed no little coquetry in her disposition.
Be it as it may, she met Mr. Barclay's atten-t
tentions more than half way, and seemed
never in such spirits as when with him ; at
any rate, poor Ethelind's delicacy took the
al^rm^ and she resolved to crush her own

;•'•

:ii i

in I

IIWI. ,,

COqUETBT.

growing attachment in the bud, and hide her
feelings in reserve, and so great was her self-
command, that her love for Mr. Barclay, was
unsuspected by all save her mother.

As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning
one evening from a long walk, and being very
tired, they sat down on a bank facing the
Towy to rest themselves, and watch the set-
ting sun sink behind the undulating moun-
tains that almost surrounded them. 7'hpy
were, for some minutes, so absorbed in the
scene before them, that neither spoke ; at last»
Beatrice exclaimed : —

" What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and
Mr. Barclay never took it into your heads to
fall in love with each other ; you would make
such a capital clergyman's wife." s-r'un^tkt^

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

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

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

COQUETRT

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

" Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the
pain you might inflict by leading him to sup-
pose his affection was reciprocated,"

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

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

"And do you think, if I do recover it, I
should throw myself away on a poor curate,
and that I should like to lead such a quiet
hum-drum life. No, my dear girl, I was
never made to appreciate such goodness or
imitate it either." -^ « . «

" Then, of course, you will alter your con-
duct, ere you go too far, and not render him
wretched, perhaps for life." ;- ?v i c y^« ^^^ -

^' Of course, I shall do no such thing, his
attentions are too pleasing ; it does not ap-
pear he will be here long, so I must make the
most of the time."

/, •■'■

i I

lit'

COQUETBT.

*i- . j-tk

. " Oh, Beatrice, think what havoc you may
make in the happiness of a worthy man ; look
at his character ; see his exemplary conduct ;
and could you, for the paltry gratification of
your vanity, condemn him to the pangs of un-
requited love. He has now, I fear, the ills of
poverty to struggle against ; did you notice his
emotion when speaking of his mother and
sisters ? perhaps they are dependant on him,
— ^you must not, shall not trifle with him thus."

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

" I think," said Ti^thelind, " any one would
colour at such an accusation."

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

" No heart to give ! surely you are not en-
gaged, and act thus ?"

" I am, indeed."

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

" I do most solemnly affirm it ; but I will
tell you all bye and bye : now I cannot. I am
smarting too much under you severe philippic,
you shall indeed know all, — ^but," said the

ii!

■ t

ill.

COQUETRT.

thoughtless girl, ^Met us go home, as your
mother will be waiting tea, and Mr. Barclay
with her."

" How can you face one you have so in-
jured," said Ethelind, " I could not."

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

" I hope," said Ethelind, " I shall never call
wrong right, or right tvrong; neither, I trust,
shall I ever act as if I thought so."

They reached home, and found tea ready,
but Mr. Barclay was not there, nor did he visit
them that evening, but about eight o'clock Mrs.
Fortescue received a note, begging her to ex-
cuse him, as he had so much to attend to, pre-
paratory to the family coming to the Park. - ?
They saw no more of him during the
week. On Sunday, he looked, Ethelind
thought, very pale. Coming out of church
he spoke to her mother, and she thought there
was a tremor in his voice as he spoke, as if
concealing some internal emotion. They
made many conjectures as to the cause of this
extraordinary conduct, but both Mrs. Fortes-
cue and Ethelind felt certain there must be

COQUETRY.

i Ml

some good reason, as caprice had, never since
they had known him, formed any part of his
conduct ; they were, therefore, obliged to come
to the conclusion, that if they knew it, they
would find he had good reason for his conduct.
' To Ethelind, when he met her alone, his
manner was friendly as ever, but she fancied
he had often avoided them, when she and
Beatrice were together; sometimes she sus-
pected he doubted Beatrice's sincerity. He
sent books and fruit to Mrs. Fortescue, as
usual, but rarely went to the cottage, and if
he did, always timed his visits, so as to go
when the younger ladies Avere out. He would
however, saunter home with Ethelind, if alone,
after the duties of the Sunday School, and
consult her on many of his plans ; in short,
he daily became more like his former self.

The fact was, that the day on which Bea-
trice and Ethelind held the discussion, he had
started to meet them, but feeling tired, sat
down to rest on the very same bank they af-
terwards occupied : but the sun shining full
on it, he had retreated behind a large tree, and
having fallen asleep, was awakened by their

COQUETRY.

talking, and thus became an unintentional au-
ditor of their conversation, t
It was a thunderbolt to him, to hear Beatrice
acknowledge herself positively engaged, and
yet wilfully resolve to encourage his atten-
tions, and thus trifle with his feelings. Before
Beatrice came, he had been much pleased
with the unaff'ected manner of Ethelind, whose
character he highly respected ; but her reserve
made him conclude she was indiflerent to him,
but how did she rise in his estimation, as he
heard the conversation. Not a word of her
advice to Beatrice was lost on him, and he
only wondered he had not done her more jus-
tice ; how grateful he felt for the noble indig-
nation she expressed at her friend's levity,
and the honest warmth with which she took
his part, and strove, as it were, to prevent his
being betrayed by the heartless coquetry of
Beatrice. He regarded all that had occurred
as a special intervention of Providence to save
him from future misery. His regard for Bea-
trice was daily increasing and believing her
good and amiable, he desired to win the af-
fection, which he fully thought was reciprocal ;
and how did the discovery of her treachery

COQUETBT.

dash the cup of happiness from his lips } but
as it was because he believed her truly amia*
ble that he loved her, he thought, now the
veil was drawn aside, he should soon get over
his disappointment. But, unworthy as she
yrsiSf she had so entwined herself in his heart,
that it was no easy task to tear her image from
it — ^however, he was strong-minded, and soon
reflected that instead of grieving, he ought to
be thankful for his escape. Ethelind saw he
was wretched, and fancied Beatrice was, some
how or other, the cause. She pitied him, and
prayed for him, but it was all she could do ;
but she was not sorry to hear Beatrice say she
had an invitation to Miss Fulton's wedding,
which she was determined to accept. The
night previous to her departure, Mr. Barclay,
unasked, remained to tea, and when he took
leave, he put a letter into the hand of Beatrice,
which she slipped into her pocket, she thought,
unseen by any one, but Ethelind saw it, though
she took no notice, nor did Beatrice mention it
Before retiring to rest, she read as follows:—

" My Dear Miss Trevor, ' -'"^

*' I should ill act up to that fearless line of
duty my sacred calling prescribes, were I not,

i )

G0QT7ETR7.

as a friend, to urge you to reflect on your pre*
sent line of conduct, and ask you to pause on
it, ere you wreck, not only the happiness of
others hut your own, at the shrine of inordin-
ate vanity. Shall I honestly own, that mine
has narrowly escaped heing wrecked; and
that, from your own lips, I learnt such was
the case. Believing you good and amiahle,
as you seemed, I was fascinated, and allowed
my feelings to outrun my judgment, and yet
I can hardly say that such was the case, for I
thought you all a woman should he. Let me
warn and entreat you, on all future occasions,
as you wish to be happy, to deal fairly and
truly with him who may seek to win your af-
fection. I was an unwilling listener to your
conversation with Miss Fortescue, the other
day, and there, from your own lips, learnt
that while engaged to another, you scrupled
not to receive and encourage my attentions ;
and more than that, you declared your resolu-
tion, of holding out hopes you never meant to
realize. Had I knowa you were bound to
another, whatever my jeelings had been for
you, I had never sought to win your love, but
I fully believed you ingenuous as you seemed.

COQUETBT.

Had you not met the adTanees so sincerely
made by me, with such seeming pleasure,
whatever the struggle might have cost me, it
had passed in silence. I will candidly own,
that while my respect is lessened, I cannot
forget what my feelings towards you have
been. Time alone can heal the peace of mind
you have so recklessly wounded ; but I again
advise you to reflect seriously on the past, and
be assured, that she who pursues such a line
of conduct as you have done, will ever find ifi
militate against her own happiness, as well aa
that of others ; and I fear, it has done so in the
present instance, for while smarting under tho
bitter feelings your behaviour called forth, t
wrote to an intimate friend, and spoke of my
disappointment, and the struggle I had to
obtain such a mastery over myself, as would
prevent it interfering with my duty. Unfor-
tunately, that friend was the very man to
whom you are engaged ; which I did not
know at the time, nor am I prepared to say if
I had, how I should have acted. George
Graham is an honourable fellow, who believed
you as faithful as himself. Thus has your
thoughtless, nay, I will go farther, and say

\i.

COQUETRT.

highly culpable levity, sacrificed the happinesart
of two as honest hearts as ever beat in the
hitman breast ; I would say I pity you, but I-
can hardly expect your own peace to have
suffered.

*^ Mine is a responsible and sacred calling ;
and feeling it to be such, I want, when I
marry, a woman who will aid, not hinder me
in my arduous duties. I have, as far as human •
infirmity permits, done wi^h the world and its^
pleasures; but I am but mortal, and who*
knows to what frivolity, nay to what sin, but
for the merciful interposition of God, yoii
might have led me ; and that, while bound to
teach and guide others, I might, in my daily
conduct, have contradicted the truths I was'
bound to enforce. > ' ■ '- tW^ : « iv isfv*
■ " On first coming to reside here, I was much
pleased with Miss Forte scue, and I felt that
with her, I could be happy, but her reserve
made me fancy her indiflferent to me, and I
judged she could not return my love; and
while her conduct increased my esteem, I re-
solved that I would not forfeit her friendship
by persevering in attentions, I feared, she
cared not for. You came : your beauty struck

COQUETRY.

n ' 1'

I li

me ; your fascinating manners made an im-
pression I could not resist ; your seeming
pleasure in my attentions misled me, and my
heart was enslaved ere my judgment could
act. But no more ! you have yourself, un-
drawn the veil, and humbly do I thank the
merciful Providence that has thus over-ruled
things, and interfered to save me from — , I
hardly know what. You can scarcely wonder
that I avoided you, after what I heard ; and it
was not till to-day I could sufficiently com-
mand my feelings, to stay at Mrs. Fortescue's,
and see you; it is not that I still love you, for
I cannot love the woman I no long ^r respect.
I do not hate you ; but I do sincerely pity
you, and humbly, and fervently do I pray that
you may, ere too late, see the errors of your
conduct. You, by your own confession, deem
coquetry a venial error ; can that be such,
from which come such cruel and mischievous
results. But no more. I forgive you most
freely, and shall ever fervently pray that you
may see and feel how inimical to peace here,
as well as hereafter, is such conduct as you
have shown.

"Ever your sincere friend, " F. B." .

m;\ 11 .!

COqUETRT.

"^ No words can do justice to the agony of Bea-
trice's feelings, as she read the foregoing let-
ter. She was thunderstruck; here was a
blow to her happiness, how completely was
she caught in her own toils ; she could but
feel the retribution just. Of all men, she knew,
George Graham to be one of the most fastidi-
ous, and that of all things he held the most
despicable, she well knew, was a coquette.
She loved him with passionate devotion, but
knew, if the eiSbrt cost him his life, he would
cast her from his afifections. She was almost
maddened with the thought. She did indeed
feel that Mr. Barclay was amply revenged,
and in feeling every hope of happiness was
lost, she could judge to what she had nearly
brought him ; though she perhaps forgot that
he had a support in the hour of trial to which
she could not look, for she had wilfully erred.
It had always been her practice to go daily to
the village post office, consequently, no sus-
picions could arise on the part of Ethelind, as
they would have done, had she seen the fre-
quency of her friend's receiving letters. She
rose early, and went the morning she was to
leave. She started, as the well known writ-

flS

OOqUETRT.

n .;

ing met her eye on the address : her limbs
trembled; and she feared to open the paoj^et
fput into her hands. Her own letters were re-
iturned with ^e accompanying note :-^ g

** Faithliss, but still Dbak Bkatbiob, '^^W

;, "Farewell, and for ever ! May you never
Imow the bitter pangs you have inflicted ! I
may be too fastidious, but I could never unite
my fate with yours ; the woman I marry I must
;respect, ox I can never be happy ; and miser-
able as I shall be without you, I feel that I
should be still more wretched did I unite my
fate with yours. My whole heart was, and is
yours only, and had your feelings been what
they ought, you would have spurned the pal-
try gratification of winning the affection you
could not return. I sail for India to-morrow ;
to have seen you would be worse than use-
less ; as we can never now, be anything to
each other. — Once more, adieu ! *' i •'tr r«

' " Your once devoted,

"George Graham."

^1^

ri'Vf

|h ^{f]:f^^^'<rf}

d^-

,M'^v* ■if'^'^i^il ■■ lfhiiv#?:.^^t*ii

Beatrice's eyes were red with weeping
•when she returned from the village. She
hesitated whether or not to show Ethelind the

COqUETRT.

letters; but she well knewber disposition and
that although she highly disapproved her con-
duct, still she would feel for her, and she
needed consolation ; accordingly, calling her
into her bed room, she put both epistles into
the hand of her friend, begging her to try and
read them through before the carriage came
that was to take her away. Ethelind was
little less astoni&hed than Beatrice had been,
and truly did she feel for her mortification.
Many and bitter were the tears she shed on
reading Mr. Barclay's letter, for she well knew
how strongly he must have felt. Most thank-
ful,^too, was she that, by striving to overcome
her own attachment she had spared herself
from having it even suspected. Without a
remark she returned the letters to Beatrice,
who could only beg to hear from her, and she
promised to write, when the post chaise drove
up, and after affectionately embracing Mrs.
Fortescue and Ethelind, she was soon out of
sight.

Mrs. Fortescue was, for some days, very
poorly, and at length took to her bed. Mr.
Barclay was daily in attendance, affording
her all the religious consolation in his power,

COQUETRT.

i t

but he sawy although resigned, there was
something on her mind ; and was not mista-
ken. Slie felt her earthly race was well nigh
run, and she was anxious as to Ethelind's
future fate. She knew God had said, << leave
thy fatherless children to me/' and she felt
she could do so, and she knew also, that it
\ A was written, "commit thy way unto the Lord,
and he shall bring it to pass ;" he had said,
and would he not surely do it? She was one
on whom sorrow had done a blessed work. '«r

Mr. Barclay calling one morning, found
Ethelind out. It was an opportunity he had
long^desired, and having read and prayed with
Mrs. F., he told her he feared some anxiety
was still pressing on her mind. >;?;**<> f?it-i^

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

" Make your mind easy on that head, my
dear Mrs. Fortescue, for if Ethelind will but
trust her happiness with me, gladly will I be-
come her protector." .^^i . -mm'-^.M.i^^ M.f^m'^mi

" Oh, Mr. Barclay how thankfully would I

111 I;' 'ill!

r" '

COQUITBY.

trust my child in such keeping, but would
your means support the incumbrance of a
wife." -,,„,,.->., t «- >^

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

<< Almighty God, I thank thee !" exclaimed
the invalid. ^ % *

Mr. Barclay now insisted on her taking
her medicine, which had such a soothing
effect that she soon after fell into a peaceful
slumber. He sat sometime musing, when
Hannah, who had alone been helping Ethe-
lind nurse her mother, came in, and Mr. Bar*«
clay rose to go.

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

<< Ethelind," said he with some emotion,
<<will you, dare you, trust your happiness
with me ? Can you be contented to share my
lot, and help me in the discharge of my duties.
Will the retired life I lead, be consonant with

ir¥

• \

Ml!>|l

COQITETAT.

your tastes and wishes. Tell me honestly ; you,
I know, will not deceive me. Your mother,
I fear, is seriously ill, and if, as I sometimes
d^re hope, you love me, let us give her the
satisfaction of seeing us united ere she is cal-
led hence."

" Mr. Barclay," said Ethelind, soon as she
could speak, " were I diflferently circumstanc-
ed, gladly would I unite my fate with yours,
hut with your present limited means, I should
only be a burden. You have, perhaps, a mo-
ther and sisters dependent on you, with whose
comfort I might interfere." <*i:iMii :>«m"i is^*

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

" Oh, Mr. Barclay, I shall be but too happy,"
said Ethelind, bursting into tears, " but can I
really believe you." .^m^,

<< I was never more earnest, and I will add,
more happy in my life ; but my Ethelind,"
continued he, "your mother's health is so pre-
carious that I must insist on your consulting
her, and naming an early day to be mine." I

COQUETRY.

:':t'M.

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

"You shall not, my sweet girl, leave your
respected parent. No, while it pleases God to
spare her life, you shall not be separated from
her one hour ; she shall live with us. But I
shall write to my mother and sisters, who must
witness my happiness ; — ^but you are agitated,
dearest, do you repent or desire to rescind ?'*

" Oh ! no ;" said Ethelind, " but this is so un-
pected. Oh, let me go to my beloved mother,
pray do, Mr. Barclay," said she, drawing
away the hand he still strove to retain in his,

" Have done with Mr. Barclay, and call me
Frederic." Waiting only till she assented to
this, he took his leave; and Ethelind went,
with a heart overcharged with joy, to her mo-
ther, who had just awakened from a tranquil
slumber. It is needless to say how truly
thankful Mrs. Fortescue was. Her child's
happiness seemingly so well secured, she had
only now to prepare for the solemn change
that she felt was not far distant.
. From this time, however, her health gradu-
ally amended, and the day was fixed for the
union of Ethelind and Mr. Barclay. He set-

COqUETRT.

tied that they should, for the present, reside at
the Rectory. Ethelind's countenance bright-
ened, for she fancied she had solved part of
the mystery, and that Mr. Eardly was not yet
coming, and till his arrival they would be per-
mitted to reside there.

The evening before the ceremony was to
take place, Mr. Barclay came in with two
ladies. One, a benign but august looking
personage ; the other, a sylph-like, beautiful
creature of eighteen, whom he introduced as
his mother and younger sister. Ethelind ti-
midly but gracefully received them. Their
kind and easy manner soon removed the little
restraint there was at first, but she was still
bewildered, and could hardly fancy she was
not dreaming ; their appearance, too, increas-
ed rather than diminished her wonder, for
they were most elegantly attired. After al-
lowing, a short time for conversation, she went
out and fetched her mother, and all parties
seemed delighted with each other. After
sitting some time, Mr. Barclay, looking at his
mother, rose, and taking Ethelind's hand, said^
" now, my disinterested girl, allow me to in-
troduce myself as Frederic Barclay Eardly !"

1!!' ''':i'; l;!i!|

i <•

COQVETRT.

"Can it be possible !" exclaimed Mrs. For-
tescue and Ethelind at once, and with the
utmost surprise, while Lady Eardly and her
daughter sat smiling and pleased spectators.

" Yes, my dear Ethelind ; but the deception
has been very unpremeditated on my part, as
you shall hear. Arriving in England alone,
I came down, merely intending to look round,
having had some reason to be dissatisfied with
Mr. Jones, the acting curate, by whom, when
I got to the inn, I was supposed to be the new
curate, and as such, I believe, received very
differently to what I should have been as the
rector ; and anxious to know exactly the state
of my parishioners, thought, in the humble
capacity, they had taken me, I might better
do this. In calling to see your mother, who,
I thought, from her previous good deeds in
the parish, was likely to be an efficient adviser,
I was invited to tea, and from the conversa-
tion of both you and her, I found, that while
as the curate I should have free intercourse
at the cottage, as the Hon. Frederic Eardly
the doors would be closed on me ; added to
this, was a lurking hope that I might, even-
tually, gain your affections, and know that

I
11

ir. It

IS'

I U-:l

'tl

COQUETRT*

you loved me for myself alone. Your reserve
however, dispelled, for a time, that illusion^
Beatrice Trevor came and threw out lures I
could not resist, and I was fairly entrapped ;
however, I will not dwell on what has led to
such happy results. Bennet, alone^ knows
my secret. ■•- - -' ' .1.

Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave.
She had brought a splendid wedding dress for
Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing
the plain white muslin she had herself pre-
pared.

A union founded on such a basis, could not
fail to bring as much real happiness as mor-
tals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, could
expect. Frederic Eardly passed many years
of usefulness in his native place, aided, in
many of his good works, by his amiable wife.
But though blessed with many earthly com-
forts, they were not without their trials, they
had a promising family, but two or three were
early recalled ; and in proportion to their af-
fection for these interesting children, was their
grief at the severed links in the chain of
earthly love. The mother, perhaps, felt more
keenly than the father, but both knew they

:'fi

COQUETRT.

were blessings only lent, and they bowed
sub ri iissively . , , . , . . ^ -- - - - -

Beatrice was not heard of for some time,
though Ethelind wrote repeatedly, and named
her second girl after her, and some eight or
ten years afterwards a letter came, written by
Beatrice as she lay on her death-bed, to be
given to her little namesake on her seventeenth
birth-day. She left her all her jewels and a
sum of money, but the letter was the most
valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors
into which she had fallen, and their sad re-
sults. S^ ] ad, it would seem, accompanied
the frien broad to whose marriage she had
gone, and had once more marred her own
prospects of happiness by her folly, and once
more had mq injured the peace of others.
Farther she might have gone on, had she not
sickened with the small-pox, of a most viru-
lent kind ; she ultimately recovered ; but her
transcendent beauty was gone, and she had
now time to reflect on the past. Her afflic-
tion was most salutary, and worked a thorough
reformation, which, had her life been spared,
would have shown itself in her conduct.

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a

< I

COQUETBT.

leMon to her to be, if possible, more careful
and anxious in the formation of her daughters'
principles as they grew up, and more prayer-
ful th^^ her efforts to direct their steps aright,
mighi De crowned with success. Her prayers
ware heard, and the family proved worthy
the care of their excellent mother.

v'f:r:

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V. >;;>'»> \;K'^';^

LINES,

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ON SEEING IN A LIST OP NEW MUSIC, "THE WATER-
• ' " LOO WALTZ."

BY A LADT.

i;»VW- /f *

-*,^>

A moment pause, ye British fair

While pleasure's phuitom ye pursuOi
And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterlool
Awful was the victoiy,
Chastened should the triumph be;
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a aon.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,

Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay;

How unfit for courtly ball,
Or" the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly vievr,
E're evening closed on WaterloOi

J'tti

nf'^iil

II! n

50 LINES, BT A LAOT.

See the Highland Warrior rushing

Firm in danger on the foe,
Till the life blood warmly gushing
Lays the plaided hero low.
His native pipe's accustomed sounds
"^"'d /ar's infernal concert drownedy
J inot Foothe his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuirassier,

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

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

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

The founders of Embsay were now dead,
and left a daughter, who adopted the mother's
name of Romille, and was married to William
Fitz Duncan They had issue a son, com-
monly called the Boy of Egremont, who sur-
viving an elder brother, became the last hope
of the family.

In the deep solitude ^ the woods, betwixt
Bolton and Barden t.ie river suddenly con-
tracts itself into a rocky channel, little more
than four feet wide, and pours through the
tremendous fissure, with a rapidity equal to its
confinement. This place was then, as it now
is, called the Strid, from a feat often exer-
cised by persons of more agility than pru-
dence, who stride from brink to brink, regard-
less of the destruction which awaits a faltering
step. Such, according to tradition, was the
fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderate-

y, bounding over the chasm with a grey*

THE BOr OF EGKEMONT.

hound in his leash, the animal hung back,
and drew his unfortunate master into the
torrent. The Forester, who accompanied
Romille and beheld iiis fate, returned to the
Lady Aaliza, and with despair in his counten-
ance, enquired, <'what is good for bootless
Bene," to which the mother, apprehending
some great misfortune, had befallen her son,
instantly replied, "endless sorrow."

The language of this question is almost un-
intelligible at present. But bootless bene, is
unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though
imperfectly expressed, seems to have been,
what remains when prayer avails not?

— Vide. Whitaker' 3 History of Cravtn.

Lady ! what is the fate of those ,

Whose hopes and joys are failing 1

Who, brooding over ceaseless woes, > •

Finds prayer is unavailing] . ' i "

The mother heard his maddening tone, - J' >

She iiiuiked his look of horror ;

She thought upon her absent son.

And answered, ''endless sorrow." '' '

How fair that morning star arose !
And bright and cloudless was its ray;
Ah! who could think that evening's close^
Would mark a frantic mother's woes,
And see a father's hopes decay 1 >

.t;:-'

■■■\\

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

Inhuman Chief ! a judgment stern

Hath stopped thee in thy mad career ;

And thou, who hast made thousands mourn,

Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear,

And long, in helpless grief, deplore

Thy only child is now no more.

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

The only hope of Rom ill«. »

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

I \

And ofl the huntsman by his side,
f Would warn him from the fatal tide,
And whisper in his heedless ear,
To think upon his mother's tear, <v

THE BOr OF EGSEMONT.

il!

Should aught of ill or harm befall
Her child, her hope, her life, her all ;
And bade him, for more sakeg than one^
The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.
He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.
And all his counsel to the air,
And laughed to see the old man's eye,
Fix'd in imploring agony.

V ij Where the wild stream 'n eternal strife^

Wake the dark echoes into life, ; '

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

The old man stretched his arms in air, '1^
And vainly warned him to forbear :
Oh f stay, my child, in mercy stay, '
And mark the dread abyss beneath; . v
Destruction wings thee on thy way,
And leads thee to an awful death. ^^

He said no more, for on the air v

Rose the deep murmuring of despair; ...;

THB BOT OF EOSKMONT.

One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on hi* ear, and all waa o'er ;
For midst the waves' eternal flow.
The boy had sunk to rise no more.

When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky.
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap.
And by this fatal check he drew . t
Death on himself and master too. ^ ,

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

And he was gone ! his mother^s smile
No more shall welcome his return. .

Ah ! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn !
And his stern sire ; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low !
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow !
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep ! for thee, no pitying eye
8hall shed the sympathizing tear ;
Hopless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct ; no more thy name
8h9ll proudly swell the lists of fame. '

t ^

•

THE BOT OF E6REM0NT.

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

Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.

Why has the Lady left her home,

And quitted every earthly care.

And sought, in deep monastic gloom,

The holy balm that centres there 1

Oh ! ill that Lady's eye could brook '

On those deserted scenes to look,

"Where she so oft had marked her child,

With all a mother's joy and smiled,

For not a shrub, or tree or flower.

But brought to mind some happy hour.

And called to life some vision fair.

When her young hope stood smiling there.

But he was gone ! and what had she :
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free.
Had left her when young Duncan died ;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet»
And that forbade her to forget ; '^

THE BOT OF E6REM0NT.

Forgot ! what spell can calm the soul 1
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief.
We still hope for the morrow ;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.

— Emma Tucebb.

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WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

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Sad solitary thought I that keeps thy vigils,

Thy solemn vigils in the sick man's mind ;

Communing lonely with his sinking soul,

And musing on the dim obscurity around him !

Thee ! rapt in thy dark magnificence, I call

At this still midnight hour, this awful season,

When on my bed in wakeful restlessness,

I turn me, weary : while all around,

All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness,

I only w.ike to watch the sickly taper that lights,

Me to my tomb. Yes, 'tis the hand of death

I feel press heavy on my vitals ;

Slow sapping the warm current of existence ;

My moments now are few ! e'on now

I feel tiie knife, the separating knife, divide

The tender chords that tie my soul

To earth. Yes, I must die, I feel that I must die

And though to me has life been dark and dreary

Though smiling Hope, has lured hut to deceive,

And disappointment still pursued its blandishments,

Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me.

As I contemplate the grim gulf,—

ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

The shuddering blank, the awful void futurity.
Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme,
Komantic schemes and fraught with loveliness;
And it is hard to feel the hand of death
Arrest one's steps ; throw a chill blast
O'er all one's budding hopes, and hurl one's soul
Untimely to the grave, lost in the gaping gulf
Of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence,
And who will think of Henry 1 ah, none !
Another busy world of beings will start up
In the interim, and none will hold him
In remembrance. I shall sink as sinks
A stranger in the crowded streets of busy London,
A few enquiries, and the crowds pass on.
And all's forgotten. O'er my grassy grave
The men of future times will careless tread
And read my name upon the sculptured stone ;
Nor will the sound, familiar with their ears,
Recal my vanished memory. I had hoped
For better things ; I hoped I should not leave
This earth without a vestige. Fate decrees
It shall be otherwise, and I submit.
Henceforth, oh, world ! no more of thy desires,
No more of hope, that wanton vagrnnt hope ;
Now higher cares engross me, and my tired soul,
With emulative haste, looks to its God,
And prunes its wings for heaven.

— KiRKE White.

; 1

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►»; f..u ■v;!'

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

;i;i ./ :■, '

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A SHORT time since, I found anriong other
papers, one containing an account of the em-
barkation of a few detachments to join thoir
respective regiments, then engaged in the
Burmese war, in India. It was written al-
most verhatim, from the description by one,
who was not only an eye witness, but who
took an active part in the proceedings of the
morning. As so very many similar and try-
ing scenes are occurring at the present time,
among our devoted countrymen, ieav :ig for
the Crimea, it may not be wholly uninterest-
ing now ; as it is founded on facts, which
alas, must be far, very far, out-numbered by
parallel facts and circumstances.

Having business at Gravesend, I arrived
there late at night, and took a bed at an Inn
in one of the thoroughfares of that place ; I
retired early to rest, and was awakened in the

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

mormng

•ost-

lich

ved
Inn
I
tho

by the sound of nmrtial music; and
ever delighting in the *' soul-stirring fife and
drum," I jumped out of bed and found it \va»
troops, about to sail for India ; 1 therefore,
dressed myself and strolled down to the beach
to witness what, to me, was quite a novel
sight, the embarkation.

It was a clear bright morning in June, and
the sun was shining in full splendor, while
the calm bosom of the beautiful Thames re-
flected back all its dazzling etfulgence. The
river was studded with shipping, and to add
to tlie beauty of the .-.cene, two or three East
IndiLunen had just anchored there, and as I
vi<!\ved them majestically riding, I could easily
fancy the various feelings their arrival would
create, not only in the breasts of those who
Were in these stately barks, hut of the hun-
dreds of expectant friends, who v/ere anxi-
ously awaiting their return. With how many
momentous meetings was that day to be filled.
How many a. fond and anxious mother, who
had, perhaps, for years, nightly closed her
eyes in praying for a beloved son, was in a
few hours to clasp him to the maternal breast.
Here, too, might be pictured, the husband and

iri'lll

! I ■

is;!'

n ■

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

father returning, not as he left his wife and
children, in the vigour of health and man-
hood, but with his cheeks pallid and his con-
stitution enfeebled by hard service in a tropi-
cal climate. Soniv^ few had, doubtless, realized
those gorgeous dreams of affluence and great-
ness which first tempted them to leave their
native land. I once knew one myself, whose
hardy sinews had for nearly sixty years,
braved the fervid heat of the torrid sun ; but
he returned to endure life, not to enjoy it.
He told me, he had left England at the early
age of fourteen. He had, as it were, out
grown his young friendships. Eastern habits
and associations had usurped the place of
those domestic feelings, which his early ban-
ishment had not allowed to take root, we
might question if the seeds were even sown
in his young breast, for he was an orphan,
with no other patrimony than the interest of
connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in
the East India Company's Service. On his
departure, he carried no parent's blessing for
him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indul-
gent mother wept and prayed. As I stood
musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

idler, like myself, joined me, and after many
judicious remarks on what was passing a-
round, informed me he was there to meet a
widowed sister, who only three years before,
had gone out in the very ship in which she
now returned, to join her husband, — the long
affianced of her early choice. For a short
period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness,
but it was only for a brief space ; for soon,
alas ! was she taught in the school of sorrow,
that this world is not our abiding place.

But the Blue Peter,* gently floating in the
scarcely perceptible breeze, betokened the
vessel from which it streamed, destined for a
far different purpose. It told not of restoring
the fond husband to his wife, the father to his
children, or the lover to his mistress ; it was,
in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these
endearing ties ; for very soon would the fa-
ther, the husband, and the lover be borne
many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very
far, from all they hold dear, and some with
feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not
all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory,

* A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail.

AN EMBA KKATION SCENE.

i I

■ 'ml

will restore their spirits to their wonted
tone.

Tiiere was one rletachment which greatly
struck me; it consisted of about one hitodred
and fifty fine atiielntic young men, w ho thtvigh
only recruitSj were particularly soldier-lik-o in
appearance. There was throughout, a sort of
determined firmness in their countenances,
which seemed to say, ^^\way with private
feelin^i^s ! we go on glory's errand, and at her
imperioi s bidfJing,andorher alone wethinlc!'*
Yet to fancy's cye,niighi be read an interest-
ing talc, in every face. We might trace, in all,
some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle,
that would say, *' With the deportment of the
hero, we have the feelings of the nian. One
young officer was there, belonging to a different
regiment, who, certainly, seemed to fiave none
of those amiable weaknesses, none of those
home feelings, which characterize the hus-
band or the lather. He had not even the
pains of the lover to contend with. Glory
was indeed his mistress, the all absorbing
ruling passion of his mind ; he dreamt not,
talked not of, thought not of aught, but glory I

ing

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

.^ Panting to distinguish himself with his
corps, he would gladly have annihilated time
and space to have reached it, without spend-
ing so many tedious months in making the
voyage. Led away by his military ardor, he
thought not of his anxious parents; little
recked he of his mother's sleepless nights,
und how her maternal fears would fancy
every breeze a gale, and every gale a storm,
while he was subject to their influence.

Among those waiting to embark, was one
who had just parted from his wife and child-
ren ; care and anxiety had set their marks on
him. He was a man of domestic habits, and
was now, perhaps, to be severed for years,
from all that gave any charm to life ; but the
fiat for separation had gone forth, and was in-
evitable ! Soon would immense oceans roll
between them; their resources, which, while
they were together, were barely sufficient for
their wants, were now to be divided ; and the
pang of parting, severe enough in itself, was
sharpened by the fear that poverty and pri-
vation might overtake them, ere he could send
remittances to his family.

II' if

i:l^: ::)

f ■■

i ■■ ' ' '^ '

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

A post chaise now came in sight, when an
officer stepped forward, as it drove to the wa-»
ter's edge, and assisted a lady to alight from
it. Her eyes were red with weeping and her
trembling limbs seemed scarcely able to sup-
port her sinking frame. Her husband, for
such I found he was, who had gone towards
the vehicle, showed little less emotion than
herself, which he, however, strove hard to
suppress. These were parents, whom each
successive wave would bear still further from
their lovely offspring, towards whom tiieir
aching hearts would yearn, long after their
childish tears had ceased to flow. They, poor
little things, knew not the blessings they were
about to lose, but their fond and anxious fa-
ther and mother could not forget, that they
had consigned them to strangers, who might
or who might not be kind to them, and who
had too many under their care, to feel, nr
even show the endc aring tenderness that marks
parental love.

In regimental costume, also, stood one, quite
aloof, and from his history, (which I after-
wards learnt,) I found that liis position on the
beach corresponded with that in which he

AN EMBARKATION 9CENE.

stood in the world — alone; cared for by none,
himself indifferent to all around him ; every
kindlier affection had withered in his breast.
He was careless whither he went or what be-
came of him. Yet was he not always so, for
he had known a parent's and a husband's
love. His now blighted heart had often bea-
ten witli rapture, as the babe, on which he
doted, first lisped a father's name, taught by
a mother, whose smile of affection was, for
years, the sun that gladdened his existence.
But these bright visions of happiness had all
flown ; that being whom he had so fondly loved
had dishonoured him, and neglected his boy,
and on his return, he found Oiie in the grave,
the other living in infamy.

Among the soldiers, I noticed one, on whom
not more than ninete ;n sunimers had shone;
nay, less than that. His light and joy ous heart
seemed bounding with delight, as he witnessed
the busy scene that met his wondering eyes.
An aged woman stood near him, whose
blanched and withered cheek but ill accorded
with the cheerful look of her light-hearted
thoughtless son. She took his hand, and sob-:
bed out, "Oh, George, my poor boy, little

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

!■/

thought I to see the day when I should be
thus forsai.eu; I did hope you would now
have staid with mt,aua been a comfort in my
old days."

f? if ^ ■ -^f pi> ■ :'^^'f[$x';ji ■'; -VI ( H

= -!^^

"Hush, hush! grand-mother, vhe boys are
all lookinr^ at you. Come, now, don't be
hlubberiiig so foolishly, 1 shall soon com^.
l»ack again." ^

"Come back again, boy! afore that day
comes, these poor old bones will be moulder-
ing in the dust. But God's will be done, and
may his blessing be upon you ; I know there
must be soldiers, but oh, 'tis hard, so very
hard, to part with one's only child. Oh, after
the care I have taken to bring you upde«*pi»tly„
to lose you thus; and how i worked, day and
night, to buy you off before, and yet you listed
again, though a month had not passed over
your head. God help me," said she sighing,
"for even this trial could not be without God's
will, for without that, not a sparrow could
&11 to the ground. But stay, do wait a bit
longer," said she, catching him by tfie belt,
as he was matiifesting a restless impatience to
join the busy throng. ^<''^-- %■&'--

''♦?»^ ,' " T

■ ^ i'^*'-;

AN EMBARKATION SCT E.

"You will promise to write to me, Georg«^
you will not forget that?" ,

** Yes, yes, to be sure, mother, Pll write." ;

The sergeant now began to call the muster
roll, and the poor old creature's cheek grew
whiter still as the lad exclaimed : 4'

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

" May God Almighty preserve thee, my
child ; you may one day be a parent yourself,
and will then know what your poor old grand-
mother feels this day." , .,

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

Captain Ormsby, who commanded the de-
tachment, WHS a man of feeling; he had par-
ticularly noticed the poor woman's distress.

*' Be comforted," said he, " I will watch
over the lad, for your sake, and will try and

I i

i (

AN EMBARKATION SCENB.

take him under my immediafe charge, and if
he behaves well, I may be able to serve him.
I will see that he writes to you." r .* t* ^
*» " Heaven bless and reward your honour,"
she exclaimed, " surely yon are a parent
yourself. Oh, yes, I knew it," said she, as
she saw him wipe off the starting tear. " May
God spare you such a trial as has this day
been my lot."

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

She had touched a tender chord, and its
vibration shook his very frame, for he had ia
the last few days, taken leave of four mother-
less girls, pledges of love by a wife whom he
had fondly loved, and of whom he had been
suddenly bereaved. Well might he feel for
this poor wretch, for he had known parting
in all its bitterness.

A soldier and his wife stood side by side,
apparently ready to embark, whose looks told
unutterable things; they both seemed young,
but their faces betokened the extreme of
agony. The name of Patrick Morgan being-
called, the distracted wife clung to her hus-

;,4 '■-'

-SAP

'"»*,?

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

band, uttering the most piercing and heart-
rending cries.

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

Patrick, who, with national keen-sighted-
ness, saw the internal working which his
wife's home appeal had created, now came
forward, and said, " Oh, yer honour, if as how
I dare be so bowld as jist to ax you this
wan'sty to take compassion on us; may be,

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

;»*■■■

next time, we cotild a:o together, and if Norah
was but wid me, what do I care where I
goes. Here's Jem O'Connor wouldn't mind
going in my stead, and he's neither wife, as I
have, nor childer, like your honour to part
from." Jem O'Conner now came forward
and testified his readiness to go all the world
over to serve a comrade. in

Words could hut poorly convey an idea of
the looks of the anxious couple, as they
watched the varying countenance of the
Captain. The situation of the soldier and his
wife touched him to the quick, and the appeal
proved irresistible. Jem O'Connor was per-
mitted to go instead of Pat. Morgan, who tri-
umphantly led off his wife, both of them in-
voking blessings on his head, whose humanity
had tlius spared them the pangs of separation.

I stood, perhaps, twenty minutes musing on
the scenes that had just been passing before
me and was returning, to retrace my sfcps
to the inn breakfast, when I noticed a wretch-
ed looking woman, with a baby in her arms.
She was walking very fast, towards the wa-
ter's edge, where the boats were still waiting
to take the last of the soldiers on board ship.

AN EMBARKATION SCENE.

She had an anxious, nay, a despairing look as
she looked around, as I judged, for the Cap-
tain, who was not to be seen ' / Jm

Hushing her little one, whose piteous cry
would almost have made one think it was
uttered in sympathy with its mother's distress.
Casting one more despairing glance, she was,
apparently, about to retrace her weary steps
with a look that completely baffles dcscrip-
tiouj when her eye fell on a boat returning
from the vessel, which that moment iieared
the water's edge, and she saw Captain Ormsby
jump out. Hastily going up to him, she ex-
claimed, in a tone that seemed almost to forbid
comfort.

" Oh, Sir, I am ashamed to be so trouble-
some, indeed I am, and I fear to ask you if I
have any chance this time ?"

" Why Kitty, my good girl, had you asked
me that question half, nay, a quarter of an
hour ago, 1 could not have given you any
hope, but I can now put you in p'ace of Tim-
othy Brennan's wife, who has just altered her
mind."

" Sergeant Browne,'' cried he, " here is
Hewson's wife, who went out in the * Boyne/

AN EMBARKATION SCENB.

ll^ -f

f ■'■

Do the best you can for her, she can take
Hetty Brennan's place. Joyfully did Kitty
Hewson step into the boat, beciconing to a
lad who was holding a small deal box, which
he placed beside her ; but she seemed as If
she could hardly believe herself aboni to fol-
low her husband, till actually on board.

The worthy Captain was, indeed, to bo en-
vied such a disposition to lessen the aggregate
of human misery, hy entering into their feel-
ings. In how very short a space (three hours)
had he the power of cheering the desponding
hearts of several fellow creatures, without
either detriment to the service, or swerving, in
the least, from his duty.

•g^^,>|-,. ..WU,/ ,>-^.;; -;sj;--i;4

THE

EXECUTION OF MOxNTROSE.

This Narrative is supposed to be addressed by

an aged Highlander to his Grandson shortly
before the battle of Killiecrankie.

Come hither, Evan Cameron, —

Come stand beside my knee ;

I hear the river roaring down

Tovvards the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain side ;

There's war within the blast ;

Old faces look upon me, *

Old forms go riding past.

I hear the pibrock wailing

Amidst the din of fight,

And my dim spirit wakes again

Upon the verge of night.

'TwasT, that led the Highland host
Through wild liochaoer's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.

'> \ i.ri

111 ''"-t

■^iJ

76 THE EXECUTION

I've told thee how the South'rons fell

Beneath h<s broad claymore,

And how he smote the. Campbell clan

By Inverlocky's shore.

I've told thee how we swept Dundee

And tamed the Lindsay's pride ;

But never have I told thee yet

How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes :

Oh, deed of deathless shame!

I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet

With one of Assynt's name.

Be it upon the mountain side,

Or yet within the glen,

Stand he in martial gear alone,

Or backed by armed men ;

Face him as thou wouhist face a man

That wronged thy sire's renown ;

Remember of what blood thou art,

And strike the caitiff down

They brought him to the Watergate

Hard bound, with hempen span.

As though they held a lion there,

And not a 'fenceless man :

They set him high upon a cart,

The hangman rode below,

They drew his hands behind his back

And bared his noble brow.

Then as a hound is slipped from leai^

They cheered the common throng,

OF MONTROSE.

And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart

Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes

Bent down on that array.

There stood the whig west country lord

In Balcony and Bow ;

There sat three gaunt and withered Dames

And daughters in a row,

And every open window

"Whs full, as lull might be,

With Mack robed covenanting carles,

That goodly sport to see.

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

But onward, always onward,
In silence and in gloom.
The dreary pageant labored
Till it reached the house of doom.

THE EXECUTION

Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
An angry cry and hiss arose,
From the lips of the angry crowd.
Then as the Graeme looked upward
He saw the bitter smile
Of him who sold his king for gold.
The master fiend Argyie.

1 1 ''••

;!! ii

! ' "<,

The Marquis gazed a moment

And nothing did he say;

But Argyle's check grew deadly pale,

And he turned his eyes away.

The painted frail one by his side.

She shook through every limb,

For warlike thunder swept the streets,

And hands were clenched at him,

And a Saxon soldier cried aioud.

Back coward, from thy place !

For seven long years thou hast not dared

To look him in the face !

Had I been there witli sword in hand

And fifty Cameron's by,

'1 hat day, through high Dunadin's streets,

Had pealed the Slogan cry

Kot all their troops of trampling horse,

Nor might of mailed men ;

Nor all the rebels of the South

Had borne us backward then.

Once more his foot on highland heath

Had trod, us free as air,

•*^:

O !• MONTROSE.

Or I and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there.

It might not be ! they placed him next,

Within the solemn hall,

"Where once the Scottish kings were throned

Amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet

On that polluted floor

And perjured traitors filled the place,

"Where good men sat bpfore.

"With savage glee came there,

To read the murderous doom

And then up rose the great Montrose

In the middle of the room, —

Now by my faith as belted knight,

And by the name I bear,

And hy the bright St. Andrew's Cross,

That waves above us there ;

Yea, by a greater mightier oath,

And oh ! that such should be —

By that dark stream of royal blood.

That lies 'twixt you and nie,

I have not sought in battle field

A wreath of such renown.

Or dared to hope my dying day

"Would win a martyr's crown

There is a chamber far away,

"W^bere sleeps the good and brave

But a better place ye have named for me

Than by my fathers grave,

For truth and right 'gainst treason's might

1 1

;f!i

iii:(:si

•. HI

',((*■'

!• •mm

j|l:lit

ill '"m

go THE EXECUTION

This hand has always rtriven,

Anil ye raise it up for a witness still

For the eye of earth and heaven.

Then nail my heart on yonder tower,

Give every town a limb

And God who made, shall gath< rthem; —

I go from you to him !

The morning dawned full darkly,

The rain came flashing down

And the forky streak of lightning's bolt.

Lit up the gloomy town.

The thunders' crushed across the heaven,

The fatal hour was come ;

Yet aye broke in with muffled beat

The 'larum of the drum :

There was madness on the earth beiow,

And anger in the sky,

And young and old and rich and poor

Game forth to sec him die.

Oh God ! that ghastly gibbet,

How dismal 't is to see,

The great spectral skeleton —

The ladder and the tree.

Hark ! hark ! the clash of arms

The bells begin to toll, —

He is coming ! He is coming !

God have mercy on his soul !

One last long peal of thunder, —

The clouds are cleared away

AnJ the glorious sun once more look'd dov?o

Upon tile dazzling day.

61^ AoifTM^,

He is coming! he is coining!
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero, from his prifion
To tJ/e scai'blji aid the doom.
Thfjre vrua glory on his forehead,-^
There was lustre in his eye,
And he ae«^er walked to battle
More proudly than to die.
Thei.) was colour in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as he passed themi
That great and goodly man.

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

Then radient and seree he rose,
And CHst his cloak away ;
For ho had taken his latest look
Of earth and sun and day

A beam of light fell o'er him,

Like a glory round the shriven,
6

^^M

III Mm

32 EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

And he climl a the lofty ladder,

As it were a path to heaven.

Then came a flash from out the cloud,

And a stunning thunder's roll,

And no man dared to look aloft,

Fear was on every soul.

There was another heavy sound,

A hush ! — and then — a groan,

And darkness swept across the sky, — .

The work of death was done !

Ill I

A GHOST STORY,

FOR THE YOUNG.

My Dear Chablbs—

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

While we were at breakfast the other morn-
ing, papa showed mamma an advertisement in
the ** Times" newspaper, remarking at the
same time, that it appeared just the thing he
had long wanted ; and that he would go to
the Solicitor's and make enquiries, and if it
seemed still eligible, would go immediately
and see about it. Upon asking what it was ;

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WIST MAIN STRIET

WIBST^'«,N.Y. MS80

(716) «72-4503

'9>

A OHOST STOBT.

iJi.

I was told it was an estate in South Walei to
be disposed of; on Which was a large commo-
dious dwelling house, which at a trifling
expencd, might be converted into a family
mansion. It commanded, the paper said, a
picturesque view, with plenty of shooting and
fishing. — It further stated, that on one part of
the grounds, were the ruins of a castle, and a
great deal more, in its favor, but yon know
the glowing descriptions with which these
^reat London auctioneers always set off any
(property they have to dispose of.

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

We travelled all night and arrived at our

destination about four next day. Papa

(thought I should sleep during the night, but

I found it impossible, for a gentleman, whom

<we met in the cars, knew the place, and said

.so much in favour of it, that I could think ot

Jk OBOST STOBT*

nothing else, but he admitted there was a
dra whacky and that a great prejudice existed
against it, which caused no little difficulty in
the disposal of. it. It was reported to he
haunted, and one or two people, who had<
hought it^ had actually paid money to get off
the bargain. Of course, hearing this, my
mind dwelt much on it, though I said nothingt
least I might be suspected of being afraid,
Now, you know, it is not a little, frightens^^
me at school, but I was greatly puzzled at all
I heard, and determined I would rally my
courage^ After dinner, we strolled out to
take a look at the proposed purchase. Papa
was very much pleased, with all he saw.
House, grounds, and: prospect; were^ he said,
all he could wish^ and not even the report of
a ghost, did he consider, any disadvantage,
but quite the contrary, as he certainly would
never else be able to buy it for double the sum
they now asked for it.

By the time we got back to the inn> Mrs.
Davis, our landlady, had learnt the purport of
our visit, and we, consequently, found her in
great consternation. We had hardly entered,
than she exclaimed. :r--^

A OHOST STORT.

"Why surely, Sir, you are nat going to buy
Castle Hill ? Why it is haunted, as sure as
my name is Peggy Davis !"

"Well, my dear madam,*' said Papa,
"haunted or not, such is my present intention.'*

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

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

" Send a ghost off packing ! really, sir, you
must pardon me, but you are a strange gen-
tleman. Dear! dear! why do you know
that four or five have tried to live there and
couldn't, for the ghost wouldn't let 'em.
You may laugh, but its a real truth, that it
drove every mother's son away as not one
of them could stay."

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

"Well you certainly are a stout-hearted
gentlemen, and you must please remember,
whatever comes of it, I warned you. Why,
there was James Reece, a bold reckless fellow
and a very wicked one into the bargain,\ who

A GHOST STORT.

feared nothing nor nobody, agreed, for fire
pounds to stay the night, and was never
heard of any more, and some go so far as to
say, his ghost has been seen along side the
others once or twice."

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

" Yes, sure sir, two or three ; but 'tis no use
telling you, for I really think you are unbe-
lieving as a Jew," and away trotted the old
dame, talking to herself as fast as she chatted
to papa.

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

He came to the Inn and dined with us.
Poor Mrs. Davis appeared rather in awe of
him ; as she never spoke a word, but as she
came in and out with different things, she
gave papa some very significant looks; but
always behind Mr. Crawford's back. No

A OAQ8T ST<^RT.

sooner' bad that gentleman left 119, than papm
told me> he had made uf> his mind to taker
possession of his new purchase^ by passing the;
night ioi the haunted house.

Charles you are my most intimate friend f;
and therefore^ I may open my heart to you,
and tell you hone j^tly, (but mind,, not a word
to the other boys, when we get back to.
school) that: my heart began to fail me ; I
know^ it ought not, for I had been taught bet^ \
tei^ things, andshould noi ha:ve suffered myself: >
to have been influenced, by an ignorant oldi
'wioman*

There w^asi a bedstead, left iii one of the^
rooms, put up by a gentleman who^ had nearly^
bought the place, aad ^ho, hearing suchj
dreadful stories; determined to try and pasa^
at night there, ere he finally closed: — but peo-
ple said he beard sqch strange noises> and saw
such odd sights, that he ran aiiiray and neven:
returned; the bed and bedding had^ the ooun-
try people: believed, all vani^edat the biddings;
oCthe gho$t; indeed^ some scrupled not. to say^
thai he had him&elf, been spirited away.
Papa said when he heard itj thai most likely
be w:as, ftsbftipi^d <rf his cowar.dij;ft, j^d Um^

A OfiOST STORT.

89^

this prevented his going again to the village.
Papa sent for Mr. Davis, or Gtifty Davis^
as his wife was pleased to call him; but the/
oid body- herself came, and entreated of pap*,
not to try and entice him to accompany us;
for it seems that papa's cool and determined
manner had made a great impression on
Oriffy, who^ perhaps, got more sceptical on
these matters, on account of it. Mrs. Davisi
was so importunate on the subject, that she ob-
tained the desired assurance, viz., that Griffetb
Davisshould not be directly or indirectly temp--
ted to encounter the ghost.or ghosts, as the case
might be. The old man soon came, and yovt
would have laughed to see the old dame's rubi-
cond face, with her large grey eyes, peering
over his shoulder; for, notwithstanding^ the
promise given, she had some doubts that he^
might be induced to try his prowess in the
haunted chamber. Papa asked him if he knew
any strong bodied young man whom a good
sum of money would induce to accompany hinv
and stay the night. Grriffy scratched his head^
and pondered some short time ; till at lengthy,
he said he knew but one at all likely ; they were*
1^ said all. sa plaguey timerousi or timmeiw

pi'iJ;'

III

13,

fUi'i

•i

A OH05T 8T0RT.

some I believe was the word ; but he thought
Davy Evans might go if well paid, if he
were certain papa would remain too ; but
another doubt was started ; Davy had talked
of taking some cattle to a fair some miles off,
and might be gone : however, it turned out, ^
that he was on hand, and agreeable to go,
with the understanding, that he was to have
his money, even if papa was conquered by the
ghost, or had to run for his ghostship. This
was soon obviated ; by papa's depositing the
money in Mrs. Davis' hands ; an arrangement
that seemed to give great satisfaction to Davy.
The next difficulty was the bedding necessary,
this, as Mrs. Davis never expected to see it
again, had to be paid for. Davy Evans, seem-
ed a stout stalwart fellow, who had rather a
good countenance. Papa who had put the
same question before ; again asked, << if he
were sure he was not afraid. ; ^ **fin ^

" Oh no, sir," said Davy, " not a bit, thank
God, I never intentionally harmed man, wo-
man, or child, or wronged them, that I know
of, in any way, and therefore, I may trust in
Providence, go wheiever I will,and I certainly
ain't afraid of the ghosts up there." . .^.v

u ".

1 1

A GHOST STORT.

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

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

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

I must own, Charles, 1 again began to feel a
little queer, and I think papa noticed it, for he
told me to please myself as to going with him
or staying at the inn. I was nervous, though
I felt sure nothing could really harm me, and
then, I recollected, I should always repent, if
my courage failed me, so I said boldly out,

" I shall certainly go with you, papa.'

" Very well, my son, but even now, if you
had rather stay behind, I do promise not to
reflect on you afterwards, therefore, act just
as your feelings prompt you. I am, myself,
so fully persuaded that not anything super-
natural can or will harm us, that I am deter-

ri!

llil

pfK

1 ,'

A QBOST sToar.

mined to find out what can have led to such
extraordinary reports."

*' But, papa, do you not think ghosts are
sometimes to be seen }"

" Frederic," said he, " I will not pretend to^
say what a guilty conscience or over-heated
imagination may have conjured up and fan*
cied, but as I have neither, I do n&t expect to*
see anything supernatural ; but, as I said be-
fore, having heard so much about the myste-
ries of this place, I think, that even had I not
made the purchase, I should like to find them

out."
" But if you see the ghost, papa, will yoit

then believe in such things ?"

" Wait till to-morrow, Fred, these are silly
suppositions for a religious well educated boy
to make, from whom, far better things might
be expected. Now, only refiect a moment,,
and then ask yourself what good can these
appearances do."

I, really now began to be quite ashamed of
myself, and thought. I was not only foolish,,
but wicked, in giving credence to the super-
stitious nonsense I had heard.

Mrs. Davis now coming in with some things^

X GHOST STOKT.

papa had ordered to take with him ; again
ventured to say she hoped he would not re«
pent going to Castle Hill, adding she would
pay every attention to the young gentleman,
meaning myself, in his absence.

<< if I am not mistaken, he would rather
accompany me Mrs. Davis, he has been early
taught to fear nothing but acting wickedly ;
and I feel very sure he will not shrink from
passing the night where I do; however he can
please himself."

Mrs. Davis actually looked aghast ! and
though I again expressed my readiness and
determination to go, I own I was a little, a
very little afraid.

" Well, it must be as you please, I see yott
are a gentleman not very soon turned, when
you make up your mind to do a thing."
■^ " What time may we expect this said ghost
to visit us. When does it usually appear ?"
? "Why, Sir, genonilly they say from twelve
till two ; well you may smile," said she seeing
papa unable to control his features, " but its
not once 1 have warned you, nor twice either."

" You have done so" said papa ** and I feel
certainly ^luch obliged by your kind intentions.

Iff

si:.;

' r,

A GHOST STORT.

I always heard the Welsh were superstitious ;
but could not have believed they carried it to
such an extent as you do in this neighbour-
hood."

" It may be so ; but you are so very un-
believing. May be you don't believe in corpse
candles."

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

" And ain't they always lighted."

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

" Bless your innocent heart ! No. The
corpse candles, are seen burning and moving
of themselves, afore people die ; coming down
the roads from the houses they live in as a
warning." .., ; . w,.- . .

" A warning for what my dear Mrs. Davis ?
what earthly purpose can they answer ? have
we not warning enough in the daily events of
our lives to impress us with the instability of
life, and yet how rarely does death find us
prepared." f'^

" Well, well ; you may be as unbelieving as
you like, and talk as you will : I shall always
believe when I see a corpse candle, there'll

' ;

•H.r-

A GHOST STORT. *

be a death but just wait till you pass one night
in Castle Hill ; may be you'll tell a different
story then !"

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

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

We went in and took up our quarters in the
room, in which was the bedstead and which
was considered to be the most constant rende-
Yous of the ghost. Davy lighted a good fire and

til

JL OHOSf STORt.

found a table and three chairs one of Which
■however proved rickety, so Davy had to seat
himself on the trunk. To our surprise we found
the bedstead not in the same place in which
we saw it in the morning. This rather, at
least so I thought, astonished papa ; however
he made no comment on the circumstance.

Papa had taken care to bring a good supper;
he also brought a large pair of pistols, and
we had a blunderbuss, the latter, the property >
of our friend Davy. These with a sword he
arranged to his own satisfaction under the
pillow, and in about an hour, we sat down to
a good and substantial supper. Davy offered
to replace what was left in the basket but
papa jokingly told him to leave it for the
ghost. We now sat for nearly an hour and a
half, and except some occasional out burst of
merriment, as Davy told us some droll things,
about the ghost, which were current in the
village, we were as still as we well could be.

At last I got very sleepy, as well I might,
for it was nearly twelve o'clock. Papa made
me lie down and said he thought he would do
80 himself; not thinking he said, it was necefi-
isary to shew so much courtesy to the ghost, as

A GHOST ST0R7.

■which

to seat
3 found

which
her, at
jwever
ice.

upper;
Is, and
operty
ord he
er the
)wn to
offered
et but
or the

and a
urst of
things,
n the
lid be.
might,

made
iild do
rjeces-
;>st, as

to wait for it. We did not undress. Davy
fixed himself before the, fire and soon gave
proof, that he was asleep, by snoring most

loudly. -' ■ .:^i "N ,1* .fsw'^v»V*T--'fr; : ■'! •"-" '^^j! :.■( "

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

Till five minutes to twelve all was quiet as
the grave, and then commenced the slamming
of the doors and knockirgs, and thumpings, as
if done with the instrument the paviours use
to beat down the stones they pave with.
This continued some minutes, and then the
door gradually opened, and a female, tall and
thin, entered, dressed in an old fashioned yel-
low brocade, with a sweeping train. Over her
head was thrown an immense gauze veil;
her features were sharp and she was very pale.
She paused as she entered, and advancing half
way from the door to the bed she again made
a full stop, upon which papa rose up and sat
on the bed, when she threw out her arms,
exclaiming:

<< Impious and daring mortal; why presum-
cst thou to intrude here, where none like thee
are permittejd to come ? Of all those who have

i.»

A aHOST STORr. ,

I I

attempted it. None have ever been left to tell
the tale !" t^iH^ *«.',v i

"Indeed!" said my father advancing to-
wards her. " I trust yon will make me an
exception, however." iii ) ' ■ .. h,../

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

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

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

" I remained this night, madam, in the hopes
of meeting you, that I might inform you that
having purchased this property, I purpose re-
siding on it, at least six months of the year^
consequently, I must request you and your
friends, supernatural or human, to quit the
place altogether." ' -

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

" Enough," said my father drawing a pistol
from a belt under his coat, if you are really
of a spiritual nature, my weapon will be harm-
less, if you are not, the consequences be upon
your own head." As he spoke he pointed

A OHOST ST0R7.

to tell

ng to-
me an

ligh to
own/'
n and

igain I

hopes
m that
pse re-
3 year,
i your
lit the

idf but
tmpt it

I pistol

really

harm-

3 upon

ointed

the pistol at her heart. With a courage
worthy a better cause, she darted by him anJ
tried one or two of the wainscot pannels as if
seeking a private spring, which Davy who,
was fully awake by this time perceiving,
sprang up, and caught hold of her, grasping
her tightly ; she wrestled with him with the
strength of a lioness, and but for papa's help,
she must have escaped : he now fired the pistol
at the wainscot, to show her it really contain-
ed a slug, which he thought she might doubt,
and taking the fellow instrument from his
pocket, told her it was loaded like the other '
and that, unless she that moment really and
truly confessed who and what she was, and
by whom employed, her hours were number-
ed."

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

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

« But," faltered she, « if I do shall I be
given up to them and they will surely kill me
if I am." ♦^- ^ '**'■•'*" •■-'*'' ." ^>'" '■••■'' f' i9ur>^ <ii i»,fi(! ^

« Tell the truth," said my father, « and if.

100

A OHOST STORT.

f I

as I judge from your last words ; you are the
tool of others, you shall be protected, and if
deservmgy or even repentant, shall be cared
for : but stay," said he, pouring out a glass of
wine, <<you are greatly agitated, take this and
then sit down. Now, if you will tell the truth,
you may dismiss your fears, and by making the
only reparation in your power, a full disclosure,
you may also make a friend of me." ^ t ,< .v <

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

'< You see before you one, who till the last
few years, knew not the ways of sin. I was
carefully and tenderly brought up some miles
from here ; but forming an acquaintance with a
young man, I married him against the wishes
of my parents. I soon found out he was a
smuggler, for he brought me to these parts,
where I have been compelled to act the
character you saw this evening, to prevent
any body buying the place, it being so near
the sea and having a passage under ground it
just suited for the purpose. The gang consists
of six men who are all but one gone out with
a boat to fetch a cargo $ the moon sets about
half past three, when they will bring it in.

I F

A GHOST STORT.

101

Had you been here last night they were all in

the cave." ■Hn^M::f^>i^',i':tfm''m\ tmU J:i)-^'-

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

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

" Only purpose to do rightly," said my
father, and God will surely open a way for
you. All you have to do, is to pray to and
trust in him." ; . ; v,»^

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

"Is he still living?"

*' lie is Sir, for a letter I wrote begging his
forgiveness, was returned to a neighbouring
post-office, only the other day."

Papa then insisted on her taking some more
refreshment, and looking at his watch perceiv-
ed it was nearly one o'clock : much was to be
done, ere the smugglers returned. The woman
informed him that only one then remained who
ought to have been on the watch, to light a
beacon prepared in case of any danger, but

! ^ii

If:!

V if

I ■

I'll

'I'

ftp

is!

las

A QHOSr STORT.

that there was so little fear of any thing of the
kind, that he had freely indulged in spirits, of
which there were plenty in the cave and was
now fast asleep, in a state of intoxication, con-
sequently, could be secured without any diffi-
culty. She accompanied papa and Davy to
the bed, but on reaching it started back with
horror, and would have fallen, had not the
latter caught her ; for the wretched being that
lay before them, was her husband who had \
returned wounded and from the state of ex-
haustion he was in, it appeared dangerously so.
She was alarmed, and both papa and Davy
were so too, least the man they expected to
find had escaped, and given the alarm ; but it
was not the case ; for at a little distance, they
found him lying on the ground, so completely
jinder the influence of drink, that he was easily
secured. Papa now concluded it better to
light the beacon, particularly when he learnt
that doing so would deter the smugglers from
running their cargo, till another signal was
given. The poor creature entreated that
something might be done for her husband,
and papa much moved by her distress, told hor
a surgeon should be sent for, but that he did

A OHOST STORT.

103

not consider it safe for either Davy Evans or
himself to remain alone. She then pointed to
a door which contained the arms and ammu-
nition of the gang, in case of being discover-
ed. He secured the key of this, and then de-
spatched Davy to the village, who soon rous-
ed Griffy Davis to whom he triumphantly
announced the capture of the ghost, and speed-
ily returned with several of the villagers,
whom he assured should be well rewarded
from the spoils of the smugglers. The latter
soon after seeing the light announcing danger
sent a secret emmisary, who finding all was
discovered, returned to the others, who im-
mediately left the country; and although a
strict search has been made, no tidings have
yet been heard of them, and it is supposed they
have flown to foreign parts.

It was ludicrous to see and hear Mrs.
Davis, she thought papa an extraordinary man
before, but now, she knew not how to express
her admiration of his courage and discernment
even I, fell in for a share oi her praises.
« Who could,*' she *«ai<1 <' have thour,ht it !"
indeed, every one seemed surprised, and won-
dered they never suspected the truth, as papa

104

▲ GHOST 8T0BT.

did, but I must leave all their surmises and
curious remarks till we meet, only telling you,
Jenkins the wounded man lived long enough
to testify sincere repentance and poor Mary
his wife, was restored to her parents through
the intercession of papa who thinks she will
now become a respectable character. The
man who was taken, was doubtless more guilty
than could be proved, however he was found
sufficiently so, to be sent to hard labour for
three months in the neighbouring Penitentiary.
He proved to be the identical Jamie Reece,
who was said to have been spirited away by
the ghost, but who, in fact, joined the gang
which had just lost one of their number.

An immense quantity of contraband goods
were found secreted.

I must now conclude this voluminous epistle

and trust we shall soon meet, when I have a

great deal more to say. And next summer

you will I hope be able to come spend a month

here.

I remain, my dear Charles, j

Yours sincerely,

Fred. Gkatson.

l'>:

LORD BYRON.

A man of rank and of capacious soul,

Who riches had, and fame beyond desire,

An heir to flattery, to titles born.

And reputation and luxurious life ;

Yet not content with his ancestral name,

Or to be known, because his fathers were.

He, on this height hereditary, stood,

And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart

To take another step. Above him, seemed

Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat

Of canonized bards ; and thitherward.

By nature taught, and native melody.

In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye.

No cost was spared — ^what books he wished, he read ;

What sage to hear, he heard ; what scenes to see

He saw. And first in rambling school-boy days

Britannia's mountain walks and heath girt lakes.

And story telling glens, and founts, and brooks.

And maids as dew-drops pure and fair, his soul,

With grandeur filled, and melody, and love.

Then travel came and took him where he wished ;

He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp,

'1-\

1/ !

P •!

I' I

106

LORD BTRON.

And muted alone on ancient mountain brows,

And mused i>n battle fields^ where valor fought

In other days : and mused on men, grey

With years : and drank from old and fabulous wells,

And plucked the vine that first-bom prophets plucked *

And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave

Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste.

The heavens and earth of every country ; saw

Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt,

Aught that could expand, refine the soul,

Thither he went, and meditated there.

He touched his harp and nations heard, entranced,

As some vast river of unfailing source.

Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed

And ope'd new fountains in the human heart

Where fancy halted, weary in her flight.

In other men, his fresh as morning rose.

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,

Beneath their arguments seemed struggling ,while

He from above descending, stopped to touch

The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped as though

It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest

At will, with all her glorious Majesty ;

He laid his hand upon " the ocean's wave,"

And played familiar with his hoary locks ;

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,

And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend,

And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing.

In sportive twist ; — the light'ning's fiery wing.

Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,

I's;:.

■.i

i - 1

'^i't

LOBD BTBON.

107

iced,

, 1

^(^'

home

great,
hile

ough
If

Marching up the storm in vengeance, leemed

Then turned : and with the grasshopper, who sung

His evening song beneath his feet, conversed,

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were,

Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,

His brothers ; younger brothers, whom he scarce

As equals deemed. All passions of all men,

The wild, the same, the gentle, the severe ;

All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane.

All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity :

All that was hated, and all that was dear.

All that was hoped, all that was feared by man.

He tossed about as tempest withered leaves.

Then smiling looked upon the wreck he made.

With terror now he froze the cowering blood.

And now disolved the heart in tenderness,

Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself.

But back into his soul retired, alone.

Dark sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously

On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.

So ocean from the plains, his waves had late

To desolation swept, retired in pride.

Exulting in the glory of his might.

And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.

As some fierce comet of tremendous size.

To which the stars did reverence as it passed.

So he, through learning and through fancy took

His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top

Of fame's dread mountain sat. Not soiled and worn

As if he from the earth had labored up.

But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair

He looked, which down from higher regions came.

108

LORD BTHON.

<5?f

1:1

And perched it there to see what lay beneath.

The nations gazed and wondered much and praised ;

Critics before him fell in humble plight,

Confounded fell and made debasing signs

To catch his eye ; and stretched, and swelled themseWes

To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words

Of admiration vast : and many, too

Many, that aimed to imitate his flight, \

With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made,

And gave abundant sport to after days.

,\s

Great man ! the nations gazed and wondered much, ji

And praised and many called his evil good. ..? 1

Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness ;

And kings to do him honor took delight : ^

Thus full of titles, flattery, honor, fame,

Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full ; U

He died ! — he died of what ? of wretchedness !

Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump

Of fame ; drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts

That millions might have quenched, then died

Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. r't

His goddess, nature, woo'd, embrac'd, enjoy'd ; 'f^vft

Fell from his arms abhorred !

", ' .. 4,.." . "> y.^y|-*.

if.

SELF-RELIANCE.

'^MW

lights

■mpt

.:M

:>i.

JM>^"'

^:.mU:;i

.^. -.

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

<< Not any better, sir, I fear ; she has had a
very bad nigHt, her cough has been so very
troublesome." Saying this, she opened a door
which led to an inner apartment, into which
Mr. Montgomery entered, and approached the
bed, followed by the afflicted daughter, who
now tried to assume a composure of manner,
very foreign to her feelings, as faintly smiling,
she exclaimed, *' Here, dear mamma, is our
kind friend again." The poor sufferer looked

110

SELF-BELIANC£.

anxiously at him. Her attenuated frame and
sharpened features told the sad tale, that con-
sumption had done its work, and the hand of
death was upon her. '" 'v /

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

" Oh, yes," replied the suffering woman, in
a feeble tone, " I know it all ; I know He is
able and willing to take care of my hapless
children. I can and do trust them to Him ;
feeling sure He will more than supply the
place of the only parent left them ; but, oh,
my dear sir, convinced, as I am, of all this, it
is, nevertheless, hard to leave them ; may He
forgive my weakness j but human nature is

V >.

■IM , 1

' \

SELF-RELIANCE.

Ill

such, that " here she paused from exhaus-

good

.»-:?

i'-:f: H.

Ji:-

tion.

"It is, my dear madam, meant that we
should do so ; and trial would lose the object for
which it is sent, did we not feel its bitterness j
but you must try, and rejoice that you are al-
loAved to manifest both faith and hope, under
so severe and trying a dispensation. Let me
entreat you to remember the many instances
recorded in scripture, where answer has been
given from on high to the prayers of those
who can faithfully cling to them." But while
the worthy man strove to lead the sufferer be-
yond this sublunary sphere, his heart bled for
the poor children she was leaving. The first
blow she received, was the sudden news of
her husband's death in the Crimea, which
came to her ears so abruptly, that her nerves
received a shock, from which she did not rally
for months. This was followed by a letter,
informing her that some property which had
been left to her a few months previous to
Captain Willoughby's departure, had been
claimed by a distant branch of the family, as
heir at law, the testamentary document being
found invalid. These circumstances, joined

h I

112

SELF-RELIANCE.

i'^^^

*!;!

Her excellent daughter, whose fragile form
seemed little calculated to breast the storms
of adversity that now threatened her, was un-
wearied in attention to her dying parent. She
saw there were heavy trials before heri and
knew they could not be averted, though she
could not tell how she was to meet them ; but
there was a trusting feeling in her young
heart, that must ever be inseparable from a
trust in God's over-ruling providence ; and as
she sat through the long nights, watching by
her mother's bed, a thousand vague shadows
of the future flitted before her, and many
schemes ofiered themselves to her mind ; she
tried to drive them off, for it seemed to her
sinful. She durst not think, but she could
pray ; and she did so ; and oh ! the eloquence
of that simple trusting prayer, that her God
would protect and bless her and the two
young beings, whose sole dependance she was
soon to be. How widely changed was her
position in a few short months ! The petted,
and almost idolized child of doting parentSi

SELF-RELIANCE.

113

whose every wish had been anticipated, must
now soon exert herself to support her orphan
brother and sister. j^^ • (^ ??> ^ r -i^.;/ i r

Mrs. Willoughby, as is often the case with
those suffering from pulmonary affection, went
off very suddenly ; and now was every threa-
tened evil likely to burst on poor Helen's de-
voted head ; but though weak in the flesh,
she was strong in faith. Relying, as she had
been early led to do, on her God, she seemed
to rise with fresh energy under accumulated
trials. She soothed and kissed the weeping
children by turns, but their grief was so vio-
lent, they refused to be comforted. . ;

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

"Farewell, my child," said he, to Helen,

" fear not for the future, for it is a merciful

and loving God who lays his rod upon you ;

and though the clouds of darkness loom heavily
8

114

SELF-RELIANCE.

I I

around you, with Him nothing is impossible ;
and He could, in one moment, disperse them,
if it were better for you. May you be puri-
fied by the affliction He sends. Good night,
once more, and remember that not a sparrow
falls to the ground unheeded by Him who
made it." ':-'•■- :■. . m.--. ,.^- ,=->•• -^v>, :,>^..-\h

How was it that this feeble child of afflic-
tion, went to bed that night in some degree
composed ? For every earthly hope seemed
blighted. Her parents, one by one werci
re-called ; her little patrimony taken away ;
and she and the little ones left almost friend-
less. Was it to make her the better feel
where she could and must place her sole de-
pendance? Doubtless it was. Oh ! ye happy
sons and daughters of prosperity, do you read
this description, which many an afflicted one is
now realizing, with apathy ? Do ye regard
it as an over-wrought scene of trial ? Believe
me it is no such thing. While you are *'nr-
rounded by every earthly comfort, I will say
by every earthly luxury ; lolling, perhaps, on
your sofas, or in your easy chairs, your cup
filled to overflowing with every blessing,
hundreds of your fellow creatures, young as

V '

11;' '

SELF-RELIANCE.

115

Dssible ;
e them,
)e puri-
i night,
iparrow
m who

>f afflic-
degree
seemed
e werei
away ;
; friend-
ter feel
sole de-
j happy
ou read
d one is
regard
Believe
re "nr-
vill say
aps, on
Dur cup
lessing,
3ung as

you, are suffering privations, you hardly like
to think of, but which they, alas ! have to
bear.

Helen rose early, refreshed by a long sleep,
brought on by many nights of broken rest.
She kissed the tears off her sleeping brother
and sister's cheeks, and having recommended
herself and them to God, proceeded to com-
mence the arduous duties that now devolved
on her. When Mr. Montgomery came, he
found her doing that which he was about to
suggest, viz., preparing for an immediate sale
of the furniture, by taking an inventory, while
the faithful servant was busily employed
cleaning the house, for which a tenant was
luckily found. The two young ones wore
doing their best to aid their sister. Mr. Mont-
gomery wished them sent to the vicarage, but
Helen would not hear of it till the day of, or
after the sale. Well has it been said, that God
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb ; and so
did she find it ; for on applying, through Mr.
Montgomery, to a neighbouring auctioneer,
he, gratuitously, attended, and did all in his
power to dispose of the things to advantage.
Mr. Willoughby had taken the house on com*

i '^

ill

ifii ■

116

SELF-RELIANCE.

ing into possession of the property and fur-
nished it thr'>ughout, so that being in good
order, most of the furniture fetched a fair
price. The day after Mrs. Willoughby died
Mr. Montgomery had written to a sister of his,
who lived twenty miles off, to enquire for a
small house, should there be such in her neigh-
bourhood. She sent word there was a cottage
in the suburbs, which she thought would just
suit, and, therefore, had taken it for one year
certain, it being a very moderate rent. Al-
though greater part of the things sold, had
obtained a fair price, there were several use-
ful articles that would have gone for little,
and but for the good clergyman, have been
completely sacrificed, these he bought in;
among them was a large carpet and the
piano ; he thought they might, if the money
were needed, be privately and more advan-
tageously disposed of. The funeral expenses
were, comparatively, small ; for although
Helen desired to pay every respect to her
mother's memory, Mr. Montgomery convinced
her it was an imperative duty on her, to avoid
unnecessary expenditure, as she knew not
what calls might yet be made on her re-

SELF-RELIANCE.

117

sources. It next became a consideration how
the things reserved from the sale, could be
got, with the least expense, to their new place
of residence ; but Nancy who was present
said there was a distant relative of hers, a
farmer, who volunteered to take them in his
large waggon, which he said, by starting at
midnight, could be accomplished in one day,
and as it was anything but a busy time, he
could do it with little loss ; added to which,
he expressed himself right glad to be able to
serve a young lady, who, with her mother,
had been so uncommonly kind to his only pa-
rent, during a long illness. When did a good
action ever lose its reward ? Helen thank-
fully accepted Mr. Montgomery's kind offer
of taking the young ones to stay with him till
she was settled in their new abode, but Henry
would not hear of it ; he insisted on remain-
ing with his sister and doing all he could to
help her. So that not liking to leave Fanny
alone, it was agreed they both should accom-
pany her. She was not sorry for this, as she
thought the bustle and novelty would divert
their minds from their sorrow ; for herself, so
much was required of her, both to think und

t;*;

118

8ELF-RELIAirCE.

to do, that she had no time to dwell on the
desolation of her position. v ^ 't 'Km

I must not here forget to state, that, though
only eighteen, Helen had experienced other
troubles than those which now bowed her
down J and they were such as the youthful
mind ever feels most keenly. She had, with
the sanction of her parents, been engaged to
Edward Cranston ; he was himself considered
unexceptionable, and the match was thought
a very eligible one ; he was five years Helen's
senior, and had just entered the practice of the
law, with every prospect of being called to the
bar. He was first attracted by her beauty
and after ,/ards won by her amiable and
pleasing manner. Idolized by his own family,
where she first met him, and unremitting in
his attention to herself, she soon felt attached,
and, confidingly, plighted her troth, and all
seemed the couleur de rose. His stay was
some time prolonged, but he had, at length,
to leave ; it was a hard struggle to him to
part from her ; and he did not do so without
many promises of fidelity. To see him leave
her, was the first trial she knew. The pang
was severe ; but his devotion was such, that

'! .]■

SELF-RELIANCE.

119

she doubted not his faith, and most indig-
nantly would she have repudiated the idea
that his love for her could lessen ; but his
disposition was naturally volatile, and once
away from her, and within the blandish-
ments of other beauty, he could not resist its
power. He became enslaved by the fascina-
tions of another, and poor Helen was almost
forgotten. Painfully did the conviction force
itself upon her, as his letters became first, less
frequent, and then less affectionate. Love is
generally quicksighted ; but Helen's own heart
was so pure, and so devoted, that it was hard
to believe she was no longer beloved. Hers
was, indeed, a delicate position. She noticed
the alteration in Edward Cranston's style of
writing, and fancied it proceeded from any
cause but diminution of regard for her ; that,
she thought, could not be possible ; but soon,
alas ! did she learn, the (to her) sad truth,
that her affianced lover was devoted to ano-
ther, a most beautiful girl, residing in the
same town, and it was said, they were en-
gaged, and too true were the reports, which
the following letter confirmed.

K < I 'it

1 1 * r

Kit I 'i

130

SELF-RELIANCE.

i !

■m

'< Mt Dbab Helen, -^.tU^il 'H4 HH^ /iif -^i^'

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

SELF-RELIANCE.

121

you, oh, my excellent Helen; forgive and
pity , ., . "Your still affectionate,

: ... "Edward."

What a blow was this to her warm and
sanguine heart ! What a return to love, so
trustingly bestowed ! She uttered not one re-
proach in her reply, but merely released him
from every promise, and wished him every
happiness. .^' i .^. =:

She had, from the tenor of all his late let-
ters, had a presentiment of coming evil ; but
she could hardly, till that cruel one, just
given to the reader, realize its full extent;
but the young do, and must feel keenly in
these matters, — females in particular, — and, if
right-minded, their all is embarked, and, if
founded on esteem, the affections are not
given by halves ; and I firmly believe the
author, who says, "Man is the creature of
ambition and interest ; his nature leads him
forth into the struggle and bustle of the world.
Love is but the embellishment of his early
life, or a song, piped between the intervals,
But a woman's whole life is a history of her
affections ; the heart is her world ; it is there,
her ambition strives for empire ; it is there,

122

SELF-RELIANCE.

¥ f

her avarice seeks for treasures. She sends
forth her sympathies on adventures, and em-
barks her all in the traffic of affection, and, if
shipwrecked, unless she be strongly supported
by religious principles, it is a complete bank-
ruptcy of her happiness." ^*

But let the young remember, there is often
in these disappointments, so hard to meet, the
most wholesome and salutary chastenings.
How very many happy wives can look back
with thankfulness and gratitude, to the all di-
recting hand of providence, that, by a blasting
of their seemingly fair prospects, they are di-
rected to happier fate, than their own inex-
perience would lead them. How often does
their Heavenly Father manifest his care, by
leading them from the shoals and rocks of
misery, which are oft times hidden, not only
from themselves, but even from the anxious
eye of parental vigilance.

When Helen had paid the funeral expenses
and some trifling debts, she found she had but
a small sum left. It was now her all for the
present support of three individuals; and for the
future? poor girl! did she think of that? it did
indeed cross her mind ; but she suppressed the

t /

us :•::!:

SELF-BELIANCE.

123

murmuring sigh that arose ; and her beloved
mother's precepts were remembered, and her
injunctions, that in every trial, she would cling
to her God for help. And truly, and wonder-
fully was this lone girl supported ; and almost
superhuman were the efforts she was enabled
to make. Fortunately, much manual labour
was saved by the faithful servant, Nancy,
whom no entreaties could force to quit. She
insisted on accompanying the children of her
beloved mistress to their new home. She,
therefore, went with the waggon, and the
next day, Mr. Montgomery drove the three
young ones to their destination. They were
to spend the first night with Mrs. Cameron,
whom Helen found the counterpart of her
worthy brother. Less refined in manner, it is
true, and with few advantages of education,
but she had much common sense, and a most
benevolent disposition, and was able to judge
most sensibly of things passing around her.
Greatly prepossessed by all she had heard of
Helen, she received her with the warmth
of an old friend. Little Henry soon became
an especial favourite ; he was delighted with
the change, and the natural buoyancy of his

SELF-RELIANCE.

)• !

disposition, soon led him to forget past sor-
rows; the farm yard, the garden, the pro-
mised fishing from the neighbouring trout
stream, were all novelties that enchanted him.
Nancy was up early, and with the aid of Mrs.
Cameron's servant, had got nearly everything
into the different rooms, ere that lady and
Helen could get there. The cottage was very
small, but nature had done much for the situ-
ation, which was indeed beautiful. There
was a small bed room off Helen's that was
exactly the thing for Henry, and a back one,
Avhich Nancy took for granted would be hers,
and had, accordingly, put all her things in it.

Everything was soon nicely arranged, and
but little had to be bought. Mrs. Cameron
sent a great many things from her house that,
she said, were superfluous, causing much
extra trouble to keep in order. This, Helen
knew, was only intended to lessen the sense
of obligation. Naturally active in her habits,
she soon made the little place comfortable,
and while she thought how different it was,
to what she had been used to, she also re-
membered how much better it was, far better

Self-reliance.

125

than she could expect under existing circum-
stances, .i « .

Her next consideration was the possibility of
getting something to do for their support be-
fore their Httle money was expended. She
consulted with Mrs. Cameron, as to the proba-
bility of obtaining needle-work, at which she
was very expert ; though she feared the con-
finement might injure her heahh, of which, it
behoved, her to take especial care, for the sake
of little Fanny and Henry. However, if any
could be obtained, at once, she resolved to take
it, till she could fix on something else; and early
the next day Mrs. Cameron called to say, Mrs.
Sherman, the Doctor's wife, would have some
ready, if Miss Willoughby would call at three
in the afternoon. Helen's pride rose, and her
heart beat high ; was she to go for it herself?
She, for the moment, revolted at the idea ; but
principle soon came to her aid, and she accused
herself of want of moral courage.

"What!" said she to Mrs. Cameron, "has
it pleased God to place me in a position, at
which 1 dare to murmur? oh, my dear friend,
what would my beloved mother say, could
she witness my foolish struggle between prin-

" i

I'll

lit

' n

ij ^

126

SELF-BELIANCE.

ciple and pride. Were it not for my good,
should I be called on to do it?*'

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

"You are right, my excellent friend; may
God direct this rebellious heart of mine. Oh,
how unlike am I to that dear departed one,

who, " here she burst into tears. Mrs.

Cameron now rose to go, and Helen promised
to call after she had been to Mrs. Sherman's.

In the afternoon, she dressed herself to go
for the work. Her deep mourning added, if
possible, to her lady-like appearance. When
in health, she was extremely lovely j but it
was a beauty, one can hardly describe, since
it arose not from regularity of feature.
Suffice it to say, she found Mrs, Sherman
alone, who received her, not only kindly, but
with a degree of feeling and respect, that is
rarely accorded those, whom adversity has
depressed. She apologized for not having
sent the work, and said, that indisposition.

SELF-RELIANCE.

127

r good,

ig who
it. Go
lat you
i is only
is any

I J may
Oh,
Bd one,
Mrs.
omised
man's.
If to go
Med, if
When
but it
), since
'eature.
lerman
lly, but
that is
ty has
having
}sition.

alone, induced her to trouble Helen to call for
the directions as to making the shirts, about
which the doctor was very particular. While
pointing out how they were to be done, a
little girl, about eleven, burst into the room,
and threw herself on the sofa. On her mo-
ther desiring her to leave, she cried out in a
wayward tone, " No, I shan't, I want to stay
here, because I like it, and I will, loo ; papa
would let me if he was at home, and if you
turn me out, Pll tell him, so I will."

" Susan, my child, you must, indeed you
must leave me, I want to speak to Miss Wil-
loughby alone."

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

i» " Fie ! my dear, how can you act thus per-
versely," said Mrs. Sherman, as she forcibly
led her to the door, which had no sooner
closed on the petulant child, than she apolo-
gized, with much feeling, and seemed greatly
mortified at this contre temps of her little girl,
" In fact, my dear Miss Willoughby," she said,
"she is, with several others, running almost
wild, for want of a good school in the place."

128

SELF-RELIANCE.

ii-:j : f,

1 1

"Oh, madam!" cried Helen, in almost
breathless haste, "do you say a school is
wanted here ? oh, tell me, would they think
me too young, if I were deemed capable,
which I feel I am ; for my beloved mother
spared no pains in grounding me thoroughly
in the essential points, and, for accomplish-
ments, I have had the best masters." -v .s ,>

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

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

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

"Oh," replied the enthusiastic girl, cheered
by these opening prospects, " there is a room
at the back of our parlour, which, being so
large, I did not care to furnish, it would make
an admirable school room." ■ ■

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

SELF-RELIANCE.

129

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

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

"At any rate," said Helen, " 1 would take
the few who would attend, at the first, in our
little parlour."

Helen, then after thanking Mrs. Sherman for
the suggestion, rose to go; when that lady invi-
ted her back to tea, wishing to get more in-
sight into her plans and capability, before she
ventured to recommend her to others ; and
she wished that her husband the Doctor,
should see and converse with Helen, for whom
she began to feel great interest, as she had
much reliance on his judgment, and penetra-
tion into character. Having gleaned from the
early part of her conversation with Mrs. Sher-
man, her anxiety about the shirts, which were

a new, aqd ditiicult pattern, Helen insisted
8

■s

130

SELF-KELIANCE.

on taking and doing them at her leisure, which
after repeated refusals, she at length agreed to.

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

" See, my dear Miss Willoughby," said she,
"how your conduct was rewarded, as I was
sure it would be, for adhering to the right.
Had you sent Nancy for the work, perhaps, ,
you would never have got it, and your qualifi-
cation as a teacher might never been known.
Was there not my dear Helen a special pro-
vidence here ? yes indeed there was."

Here, 1 must beg to digress a little, to urge
the advantage of a thorough education ; which
can never be too highly appreciated, or too
strongly enforced. Under any reverse of for-
tune, who can calculate on the benefits ? to
say nothing of the gratification it atfords in so
many ways. *• Knowledge is power," and
always secures its possessor, a degree of influ-
ence, that wealth can never command. Oh !
would that all mothers, as well as daughters,
could but be duly impressed, with a sense of
its vital importance. Then we should not

III'

SELF-RELIANCE.

131

, which
reed to.
ably to
was as
visit as

aid she,
s I was
3 right,
erhaps,
qualifi- '
known,
al pro-

[Q urge
, which
or too
ot' for-
its ? to
js in so
," and
>f influ-
. Oh!
ighters,
ense of
aid not

see girls, day after day, permitted on any frivo-
lous excuse, to absent themselves from school :
for if time be so truly valuable, as we know
it really is ; how doubly, nay trebly, is it, in the
period devoted to education. If we could
only rightly reflect, on the true end of educa-
tion, this serious waste could never be. What
is it I ask ? is it merely to acquire a certain
amount of rudimental information, and per-
haps a superficial acquaintance with showy
accomplishments ? assuredly not : it is to leani
how to think rightly, that we may by think-
ing rightly, know how to act so. Rudimen-
tal instruction is necessarily the foundation ;
and as such, must be duly and Jully ap-
preciated; but it is the applicatiofi of know-
ledge that education is meant to teach, and
this must be acquired by '' line upon line and
precept upon precept ; here a little and there
a little," It is not the work of a day ; nor is
it to be gained by alternate periods at school.
Who know but those who teach, half the
time that is required to recover what is lost in
these frequently recurring, temporary ab-
sences. It is not only a large portion of rudi-
mental instruction that is lost ; but those many

132

SELF-RELIANCE.

nr.t r

opportunities, which every conscientious teach-
er eagerly, and anxiously, avails herself of, to
enforce good principles. This can be done at
no stated periods, hut they must be seized as
circumstances call them forth, whether suggest-
ed by the teachings of the sacred writings, or
from the ample pages of history : or even from
the lesson she may convey from the sentiment
that often heads a child's simple copy book.
If these, lost and frittered away periods, be ,
of no account, then there is both time and '
money thrown away by those who are regu-
lar in their scholastic attendance.

Most amply was Mrs. Willoughby's sedul-
ous care in the education of her daughter,
repaid ; what comforts it brought to her orphan
children ; and to how many would it prove
equally serviceable, and save them from eat-
ing the bitter bread of dependence.

It was but little in consonance with the state
of Helen's feelings, to mix with strangers so
soon after her beloved mother's death, and
most gladly would she have declined going
back in the evening, and proposed to send an
apology, and say she would be with Mrs. Sher-
man early the following day; but Mrs»

S|i

SELF-RELIANCE.

133

Cameron, whom sh- consulted, and upon
whose advice she generally acted, strongly
advised her to gOy and take Fanny with her,
as Mrs. Sherman had requested.

" Situate as you are my dear," said she,
"you owe it to yourself, and the dear children,
to make as many friends as you can. The
Shermans are kind-hearted, and I may say in-
fluential people, and may do you a great deal of
good. I have known them many years as wor-
thy and sincere characters. This was enough :
and Helen was punctual to the time named.

The Doctor was in to tea, and his frank good
humoured manner, completely won Helen's
heart. He too, on his part, was much pleased
with her. After conversing for some time, he
appeared, thoughtful, and then put several
questions to her ; among others, asked, if she
had ever applied for the allowance from the
" Compassionate Fund," for herself and the
children ; saying, he knew some who received
it ; and that he would inquire what forms
were necessary for obtainuig it : adding.

" I believe it is not much ; not more than
ten pounds a-year each, but as there are
three of you, thirty pounds is worth trying for."

134

SELF-RELIANCE.

Helen was very grateful for the suggestion,
and the good Doctor promised to make the
requisite inquiries next day. While they
were thus chatting together, the two little
girls were amusing themselves in the drawing
room, which communicated with the parlour
by folding doors, and just as the Doctor was
remarking how quiet thc^y were, the piano
was struck, and a pretty sonata played. Mrs.
Sherman was surprised to find it was Fanny,
and still more so, on hearing that Helen had
been her sole instructress, as she played very
prettily. The Doctor, who was passionately
fond of music, was then very anxious to hear
Helen play, and asked her to do so, but kind
feeling restrained him from urging her, when
she gave her reason, which, I need not tell the
reader, was the recent death of her mother.

The evening passed off very cheerfully, and
Helen found, ere she left Mrs. Sherman's, she
had secured warm friends in her and her ex-
cellent husband. It was agreed that, on the
following day, she should be introduced to
several families, where she would be likely
to obtain pupils ; and so successful were M^s.
Sherman's efforts^ that she had the promise of

SELF-RELIANCE.

135

six to commence with on the following Mon-
day, and ere a month had elapsed, three more
were added to the number.

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

Finding it necessary to forward certificates
of her parents' marriage, as well as those of
her own and the children's baptism., she
wrote to her aunt, for information as to where
she might obtain them. In reply, she inform-
ed her where she could get them, and then
concluded, by offering her and Fanny an
asylum, for such she termed il, if for their
board, Helen would instruct her three cousins.
She took care to insinuate, that as doing this,
would involve additional expense, she must
be cuatent to be received as a mere stranger;
she would be expected even to assist in the
family needle work. Fanny, Mrs. Selwyn
said, would not require, much clothing to be
purchased, as two of her cousins were older
than she. was, and never half wore their

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SELF-RELIANCE.

things ont, adding, as Helen, would in all
probability, obtain the compassionate allow-
ance, it might, with care, clothe her and help
Henry, if he needed anything. She finished
her heartless letter, by saying : of course,
Helen would try and find a place for him, as
he must not, she said, be too particular now.
Helen read, and re-read it, and then bursting
into tears, fell on her knees, and thanked her
Heavenly Father, who had given her the
means, by honest industry, of saving herself
and little ones the bitter pang of eating the
bread of dependence. After this, with what
heartfelt thankfulness, did she sit down with
them, to their frugal meal.

She wrote and respectfully declined her
aunt's offer. The fact of the matter was this:
Mrs. Selwyn had heard of Helen's successful
attempt, and though she held no communica-
tion with her sister, — Willoughby, after that
lady had offended her father by marrying, yet
she had little doubt of Helen's capability : and
thought, after the energy and self reliance she
had manifested, she might, for she was, though
rich, a most parsimonious woman, turn it to
her own account, and for a few years, at least,

SELF-RELIANCE.

137

get her children cheaply educated. It was
Helen's determination, if she obtained the
compassionate allowance, to keep it, as a re-
serve for her brother's education. She men-
tioned her intention to Dr. Sherman, who ex-
pressed his warm approval of her plan.

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

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

" It will be a capital thing, Helen," said

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h I I

Mrs. Cameron, " if Nancy understands how
to manage her." - v* -v

"I should think, ma'am, I did, when I was
brought up in a dairy all my life, till I went
to live with Mrs. Willoughby, and mother's
been sick two months at a time, and 1 made
all the butter and cheese too."

Mrs. Cameron told Helen, she had no doubt
it might be made quite a profitable invest-
ment, as Nancy was such a good manager,
and even offered to lend the money, but
Helen had so well economised her little stock,
this was not required. —^umi^

Weeks and months passed away, but no
satisfactory, or indeed, any answer at all
could be obtained as to the compassionate
allowance. At last. Dr. Sherman wrote again
*o the War Office, and received an answer,
saying, the request could not be complied
with, on the ground that Captain Willough-
by's death was not properly authenticated,
though it was not, in the least, doubted, as a
miniature of Mrs. Willoughby, and his pocket
book, were found in the breast of a dead ma-
jor, a friend of his, and in the same regiment,
it was supposed, that he consigned them to the

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139

major, in his dying moments. The grant,
therefore, could not be allowed while the es-
sential document was wanting. . <*
« Among her pupils, she gave lessons in music
at their own house, to the Misses Falkner.
One morning, being tired of waiting which she
invariably had to do, she sat down to the in-
strument to pass away the time. One of her
favorite songs lay before her on the Piano, and
she almost unconsciously struck the keys and
played the accompaniment, and sang it.
Hardly had she finished, than Miss Falkner
came in; exclaiming, as she did so, <' what,
you here, Mr. Mortimer! how long have you
been waiting ?" not taking the slightest notice
of Helen. - ^f '■

" Some time," said he, "but both my apol-
ogy, and thanks, are due to this lady, for the
high treat, she has aiforded me. I was stand-
ing outside the veranda, when she entered and
seeing it was a stranger, was going off, when
she commenced a favorite air of mine, and I
was spell bound ! but you will introduce me,
will you not ?

" Oh yes, certainly," said Miss Falkner in
a hesitating tone. " It is the young person to

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SELF-RELIANCB.

whom Julia goes to school, and who gives me,
and Eliza lessons in music; Miss Willoughby/'
here she stopped ; she did not even add the
gentleman's name. " I am sorry Miss Wil-
loughby," said she " I cannot take my lesson
to-day, and therefore need not detain yon,"

Helen colored, and bowing left the room,
the stranger rose, opened the door for her, and
accompanied her to the street door, when he
again bowed his head respectfully, (

When he returned to the room, Miss Falk-
ner rallied him on his politeness, to the village
governess, as she contemptuously, styled

Helen. ,iv:-fii,^kf-^:^:..>fm:., i ' ■^■■•:>\-;;- --■■u ''■ i-^n

«■ " Village queen ! I think," said he, " for
she certainly has a most dignified, and lady-
like bearing, and is very good looking too."

" Well, I do declare Mr. Mortimor, yoti
have quite lost your heart."

" By no means my dear Miss Falkner, it is
not quite so vulnerable. A lovely face and
graceful form alone, will never win it: even
with the addition of such a syren's voice as
Miss Willoughby possesses ; she sings, not
only sweetly, but scientifically."
- " Of course," said she, ** if people are to get

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141

their living by their talents, they ought to be
well cultivated.'*

So little accustomed, since the death of her
mother, to kindness from the world in general,
and made to feel, so keenly, her dependant
situation, Helen fully appreciated the respect-
ful deference accorded to her by the stranger.

Her pupils increased so, that in a short time,
she had twelve, besides several for accom-
plishments ; but the Misses Falkner, for rea-
??^Ms best known to themselves, declined her
l)u! i instructions, and just as she was pre-
paring to go to them a day or two after being
so cavalierly dismissed, Mrs. Falkner was an-
noi ced at the cottage. She came, she said,
to pay the bill, and say her daughters would
discontinue their lessons:

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

Helen quietly replied, " that she should
certainly expect the quarter they had com-
menced, to be paid for." She knew they
could afford it, and she felt it due to those
she laboured for, not to throw away one
penny. • ■ :--.t/: ■ , ,^;.

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'if

"Well,** said Mrs. Falkner, "this comes of
'"?,tronizirig nobody knows who, it is just
v/hat one might expect '*

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

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

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

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

" Hold !" said Helen, " let me intreat you,
Mrs. Falkner, to desist these cruel taunts.
God has been pleased to place me in my pre-
sent position ; and it is, with thankfulness,
nay, with pride, 1 exert the talents he has
given me for the support of myself and the
dear children, he has committed to my care.
Poverty, madam, may tri/ us, and that
severely ; but while we act rightly, it can
never degrade us, but in the eyes of those,
unfeeling as yourself."

" Mighty fine and heroic, to be sure ! Is it

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149

Hot a pity Mr. Mortimer isn't hidden some-
where to hear you, as he was when you
sung, and pretended not to know he was lis-
tening. He could see through it, though, as
well as we did ; and let me tell you, artfulj
as you are, that he is not a bird to be caught
with chaff. But there's your money, so give
me a receipt." This, she no sooner received
than off she started.

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

" Never mind^ my dear child, we must all
be tried, some way or other, and even this
cruel heartless woman could not vex you thus
did not God permit her to do so; we have all,
yes, the very best of us, proud, rebtjllious
hearts, that need chastisement ; and it is not
for us to choose, how it is to be done. God
knows best ; meet it, therefore, my dear,
humbly, as from Him^ and not rnan ; all will
yet come right. You are a good girl ; still
Helen dear, you need, as wo all do, the
chastcning'of the Almighty, for we every one

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of us, come short, and * when weighed in His
balance, are found wanting.' "

A few days after this, Henry, who had

.e\i out fishing, came in, with his basket full
of trout."

" Loo If there, Helen," said he, "what do
you think of that? There's trout for you?"

" Why, Henry dear, are you already so ex-
pert at fishing ?" asked his sister.

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

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

" I'll take care of that ; but I forgot to tell
you, I met Mrs. Sherman, as I was coming
home, and she wants you to go to tea
there, and Susan is to come down and stay
with Fanny." ^r,: ■ , w.:^^.-,.,.. y ,:■- y,.,!--^-w.^?si»§^^-

Mrs. Sherman had seen Mrs. Cameron, and

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145

learnt from her the cruel manner in which
Mrs. Falkner had behaved, and kindly de-
sired to have a chat with Helen, in order to
soothe and strengthen her mind, and; if it
were possible, render her less vulnerable to
these shafts of malice. After they had, for
some time, discussed the matter:

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

Helen sat down, and played and sang. At
length, the Doc* ,.*s voice was heard in the
passage ; but Mrs. Sherman insisted on her
going on, and held up her finger, as her hus-
band entered, in token of silence. The Doc-
tor sent Mrs. Sherman to the parlour door,
where stood Mr. Mortimer ; when Helen had
finished, she turned and saw him. He bowed
and went across to her, and expressed his
pleasure in meeting her again, in such a frank
off-hand manner, that our heroine, if such she
may be called, soon lost all feeling of em-
barassment, and went on playing and singing
and the evening passed imperceptibly away.

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146

8ELF-UEI.IARCE.

fif '^

When the Doctor escorted Helen home, Mr.
Mortimer accompanied them to the gate, lead-
ing to the cottage and took his leave.
^ Their meeting at Dr. Sherman's was en-
tirely the result of accident. Mr. Mortimer
had been on friendly terms at the house ever
since he had been in the neighbourhood, but
as both the Doctor av.d his wife concluded he
was engaged to Miss Falkner, they never
thought tQ ask him, when Helen was expected,
and so tenacious was he, not to win her aifec-
tions, till assured he could make her his, that
he carefully assutned an indifference he was
far from feeling. He pitied her position ;
which he saw was a trying one ; and he
greatly admired the way she acquitted her-
self in it. He gained a great insight into her
character, in his conversations with Henry,
who, entirely off his guard, was very com-
municative. The following letter, however,
from Mr. Mortimer to an old friend, will best
elicit his views and opinions :

^ " I promised to let you know where I
brought up, and here I am, domiciled in a
pretty little country village, where Bently ha»

SELF-RELIANCE.

147

property, and I have hired his snug hunting
lodge, and, in the mind I am in, I shall remain
the next six months, that is, if when the term
for renting this said lodge expires, I can find
a platte to which I can bring my sister Emily.
Here there is hardly room enough for myself
and Philips, who is still my factotum, valet,
groom, and I know not what besides ; how-
ever, he is content, and so am I. Heartily
sick of town, and its conventualities,and tired
of being courted and feted, not for myaelf. but
my fortune^ I care not, if I never see it again.
I am weary, too, of "single blessedness,'*
and yet afraid to venture on matrimony; why
is it so few are happy, who do ? There is some
grand evil somewhere ; but where ? *Aye
there's the rub.' I look narrowly into every
family I visit, especially, the newly married
ones, and I see the effect ^ but not the cause.
Now, one cannot be without the other, we
well know. I fear I expect too much from
the other sex, and begin to think there is
more truth than poetry in your observation,
that I " must have a woman made on purpose
for me," for 1 certainly do want to fiiid one
very diiferqnt from most that I have yet seen.

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" Travelling between London and Bath, I
met my father's old friend and college chum,
Falkner, who finding I had no settled plans,
persuaded me to take Bentiy's hunting lodge,
which is in the vicinity of his villa. Falkner
is a worthy good creature, whom I should
give credit for a great deal of common sense,
were he not so completely under the dominion
of his wife, a perfect Xantippc ; by the bye,
I think, however wise he might be in some re-
spects, that Master Socrates was a bit of a
goose, particularly if, as history maintains, he
did, he knew what a virago he was taking.
But, however deficient in her duty as a wife,
Mrs. Falkner goes to the other extreme, and
overacts her part as a mother ; but I am very
ungrateful in thus animadverting on her be-
haviour, for you must know, she has singled
out your humble servant as a most especial
favourite ; and though she does not loish her
girls married, takes right good care to let me
know that she thinks the woman who gets
me, will be lucky ; and that, much as she
would grieve to part from one of her daugh-
ters, yet, were an eligible .chance to offer, she
would throw no obstacles in the way. I do

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SELF-RELIANCE.

14§

verily believe she has discarded a little girl
who taught her daughters music, solely for
fear I should fall in love with her ; and cer-
tainly, she is as far superior to the Misses
Falkner as she well can be, both in attain-
ments and personal attractions. I am so
afraid of coming to a hasty conclusion, but
own myself greatly prepossessed in her
favour. She has been well and carefully
brought up ; I have watched her in church,
and have marked an unaffected devotion,
which I have seen carried to the sick and suf-
fering poor around her. She has lost both
parents, and now by her talents, supports an
orphan brother and sister. The former, an
intelligent interesting boy of thirteen, is a fre-
quent companion of mine, and if I can, with-
out wounding the delicacy of the sister, I trust
to be of some future service to him. I have,
indirectly, and, perhaps, you will say, un-
fairly questioned the boy, and all tells in her
favour; now, here it must be genuine. Miss
Willoughby plays and sings like a Syren;
but then, so does many a pretty trifler.
Beauty and accompliwshments are very well
to pass an evening away ; but in a companion

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SELF-RELIANCB.

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for life, /ar more is required ; much more than
these must / find in h woman, ere I venture
to ask her to be mine. I am heartily tired of
my present life ; it is a lonely stupid way of
living ; living ! I don*t live, I merely vege-
tate ! I have no taste for dissipation ; neither
have I any great predeliction for field sports.
" Miss Wiiloughby is, I think, far superior
to the generality of her sex, but she shall
never have an idea of my partiality, till I am
thoroughly persuaded she can make me
happy ; for although she may not come up to
my standard of female perfection, she is far
too amiable and too forlorn to be trifled
with ; and, therefore, T will not try to win her
affections, till I know I can reciprocate them.
With regard to theFalkners, I will be guarded.
I respect the old man sincerely, and his fa-
mily; further, deponent sayeth not. He is the
beau ideal of a country squire, and 1 think
you will like him. They are all remarkably
civil, and 1 must, for many reasons, keep up
nn intercourse, or give room elsewhere of
having my plans suspected. The whole vil-
lage, I believe have given me to one of the
Falkners. I do not wish even the worthy

SELF-BELIANCE.

151

Dr. Sherman and his excellent wife to sus-
pect that I feel more than a common interest
in their protegee. I wish you would come
down for a month, I think you would like
this part of the country, and I am sure you
and Mr. Falkner would get on togeiher.
Neither have I the slightest doubt, but you
would be pleased with the Shermaiiii ; they
are gems, perfect gems, in their way. And as

to Miss Willoughby, but come and judge

for yourself. You are engaged, or I might
not, perhaps, be so pressing.
, *'Just as I was concluding this, a letter was
brought by the mail, from a distant relative,
who is just returned from India. It was
hastily written, and sent off while the ship
was laying in the Downs, requesting me, if
possible, to meet him at Deal. So I am off
for a short time, and will write to you directly
I return. Till when, farewell.

*' Ever faithfully vjurs,

" George."

Every meeting increased Helen's respect

for Mr. Mortimer ; she oft^iri met him at Dr.

Sherman's, but it seemed always the result of

chance, nor had she the slightest idea that he

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SELF-RELIANCE.

felt for her other, than the esteem of a friend.
The village gave him to one of the Misses
Falkner, and Helen took it for granted it was
8o. She rather regretted it, as she thought
him too good, and feared they could, neither
of them, appreciate his worth. She occasion-
ally met the Falknersat Dr. Sherman's, when
the eldest young lady always took care to
monopolize him, which, for reasons of his
own, he readily fell into. When he took
leave to go to Deal, Helen could not help
fancying there was a tenderness and peculi-
arity in his tone, as he addressed hei% and yet
she thought she must be mistaken, and that
it was only his natural friendly warmth of
manner, for she had none of that silly vanity,
that leads many girls to fancy, because a man
is kind and attentive, he must be in love.

She missed him greatly, for latterly he had
accompanied her in her songs, and supplied
her with music and books; still, all was done
under the mask of friendship, and duplicates
of these little presents were generally procur-
ed for Falkner Villa. Also, Henry, too, was
sadly at a loss for his companion ; all his out
door amusements seemed to have lost their

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153

interest, and he began to look anxiously for
the time proposed for his return. A room
was prepared both for Mr. Mortimer, and his
cousin, at Mr. Falkner's. On his return, how-
ever, he preferred going to his own quarters,
leaving Sir Horace Mortimer, his relative, to
the hospitalities of Falkner Villa.

Sir Horace Mortimer's stay with them,
opened a fresh field for Mrs. Falkner's specu-
lations, and not being either so fastidious or
clear-sighted as his cousin George, Sir Horace,
at one time, bid fair to set the former an
example. :^

"They were all assembled at Dr. Sherman's
a few nights after Mr. Mortimer's return,
when Sir Horace was introduced, to Helen.
He almost started, but said nothing ; however
his eyes were so completely riveted on her,
that he became quite absent — in short, his
fixed gaze became painful. Dr. Sherman was,
during the evening, called to the door, when
he received a parcel from London, carriage
paid, which the man said he had promised to
place in the Doctor's own hand. The worthy
man wondering from whom it could possibly
come, retired to his own room and opened it.

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SELF-aELIANCE,

It contained Mrs. Willoughby's portrait and
the pocket book ; the latter he locked lip care-
fully ; the former he was carrying to Helen:
who being engaged with Mrs. Sherman in the
adjoining room, he showed it to Sir Horoce
Mortimer, with whom he had just been con-
versing about Helen, and her orphan charge.

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

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

*' Then my dear sir, would you trust me
with it till to-morrow morning ? when I will
restore it at an early hour." I would not nsk,
but for very particular reasons, cotmected it
may be, of much moment to that dear girl:
if as I strongly suspect, I have seen that minia-
ture before, there is a secret and very minute
spring, which I could not well ascertain with-
out my glasses. Believe me, my dear Doctor,
I have very cogent reasons for my requoffjt,
and I feel no common ititerest in Miss Wil-

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155

loughby : but we are attracting the notice of
those people I am staying with, who are not
at all friendly disposed towards her; in fact,
they have done all in their power to prejudice
me against her.

The Doctor marvelled much at the request ;
but readily acceeded to it — and then both he
and Sir Horace Mortimer, joined in the general
conversation.

When the little party broke up, Sir Horace
Mortimer undertook to be Helen's escort, and
offered her iiis arm. Miss Falkner having
come with him, quietly took the other. When
they reached Helen's abode, which was in the
way to Falkner Villa, at parting. Sir Horace
requested permission to call and see her at an
hour he named next day, and she promised to
be ready.

" Will you send youi young brother for me ?
1 have heard natch of him ; and must make
his acquaintance."

" Oh," said Miss Falkner, " we are going to
call at the cottage to-morrow, and 1 will be
your guide. We have long been intending to
pay a visit to Miss Willoughby, mamma is
anxious to apologize for some little misunder-

ill

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SELF-RELIANCE.

Standing.'* Helen tried to speak, but her words
could find no utterance, in reply to the im-
pertinent spr '^ch of Miss Falkner, but shaking
Sir Horace warmly by the hand, she bowed
and went irto her home. .. ; - ; : uis^

At breakfast Miss Falkner told her mother,
that as Sir Horace Mortimer, had made an ap-
pointment to visit Miss Willoughby, they could
avail themselves of his escort, and go with
him. This I beg leave to say, though appa-
rently the thought of the moment, was a pre-
concerted proposition : but one which Sir
Horace declared impossible ! as he had par-
ticular business with Miss Willoughby, at
which none but Dr. Sherman, and Mrs. Came-
ron could be present. This was spoken so
decidedly, that no further opposition was made
to his wish to go alone.

But both mother and daughters were sadly
puzzled. Conjecture was rife among them
the whole morning : at last they came to the
conclusion that he had made up his mind to
propose for Helen — it must be so, else why
Dr. Sherman and Mrs. Cameron present ? —
this point, therefore, was settled — at least with
the Falkners, of her acceptance of him, a rich

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157

East Indian, oh there could be no doubt of
that. And the elder Miss Falicncr could
breathe again, since she was free to captivate
Mr. Gnorge Mortimer, with whom she was
desperately in love. Thus do vain and silly
people jump at conclusions and thus is half the
business of a country town, or village, settled
without any concurrence, or even knowledge
of those most concerned.

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

She was completely puzzled, he was a per-
fect stranger whom she had never before seen,
nor he her, what could it mean ? Would not
some have concluded he was in love with her,
but a man old enough to be her father ! Such an
idea uever entered her head : in fact she could
make no probable guess, so she determined to
make a virtue of necesshy, and wait quietly,
till he came. Early the next day, she sent
for Mrs. Cameron, and told her of the appoint-
ment Sir Horace had made, and as she
thought it more than probable, the Falkners

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SELF-RELIANCE.

might accompany liim, as they spoke of doli'g
so over night, she wished her friend to he wiJii
her. But wo have already set:) tLiat Sir
Horace Wad decidedly expressed hi? delcrRii-
nation to go alone. Mrs. Cameron w.'/^ equally
perplexed with Belen, a? to his object. She
thought perhaps he had mistaken Helen's like-
ness, to some one lie was attached to in his
early years, and applying her lavorite wtil-
forrided maxim and belief in an over-ruling
Provideuce^ made up her mind, that however
the Hiibiake might be ; it would end in the
orphans finding a sincere friend in the Baronet
or the rich Nabob, as the people termed him;

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

On his way to Helen's, he met his cousin,
and they walked on together. At length Sir
Horace Mortimer asked, " George, my boy do
younot begin to think of marrying; it is in my

"\(.

SELF-RELIANCE.

159

opinion, high time you should — let me see ;
yon must be eight and twenty, why you are
losing time; sadly, take care 1 don't get spliced
first, as sailors say." t * * "i

« «' Why sir, they do say Maria Falkner has
certainly made a conquest of you." "

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

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

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

'* Miss Willoughby ! sir."

" Yes, Miss Willoughby, George, what ob-
jection ? Should I be the first old man, who
has married a young girl ? and made her
happy too. I intend to make her a proposal
to-day."

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

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

!'.i

160

8KLF-R£LIANCE.

! "I marry Miss Falkner ? Never; I would
sooner be wedded to-r — *' ? ^ ^ '
I: *' Hold ! ray boy ; I know the workings of
that wnyward heart of yours, better than you
think ; and, therefore, let us understand each
other ; at any rate, let me be clearly under-
stood, when I say, that unless you make up
your mind to marry Helen Willoughby, I
shall."

" But, my dear Sir Horace, though I greatly
admire and esteem her far beyond any wo-
man I ever saw. Yet I am, " and he

paused. s^'

" You are what? Shall I tell you ? You
are so very fastidious, that you are refining
away your happiness, like anything but a
sensible man. You don't expect perfection,
do you ? The long and the short of the mat-
ter, is this : in your haste to answer viy letter
from the Don'^ns, you sent me, by mistake, a
confidential epistle, which you had intended
for some intimate friend. Not having any sig-
nature, I went on reading it, nor till you ad-
verted to my arrival off Deal, was I aware
who was the writer. It was a lucky contre
temps, as it gave me a better insight into your

SELF-RELIANCE.

161

views and character, than years of common
intercourse could have done. I admire your
principles, though I think you carry them a
little too far. Now don't blame me, as I
again repeat, you omitted your name at the
end. So no more nonsense, my lad ; * screw
up your courage to the sticking point,' and
go, and propose for the girl at once. You
must do it, I tell you, or I disinherit you,
and give her every pennyj and, as I before
said, myself into the bargain. But I am off
to Sherman's and thence, to Miss Willough-
by, where I shall expect you in an hour, so
you had best be on the alert. You will not
be the first young man who has been out-
witted by an old one, so mind,'' Saying this,
he left his young relative, \v\ o was not, how-
ever, very tardy in foUowin-^ advice so con-
sonant to his own wishes.

It may be thought George Mortimer wa^
too particular, but be it remembered, it was si
most honorable feeling that led to his deliber-
ation; viz., the firm resolve not to win Helen's
affections, and then leave her. No, he nobly
resolved first to learn the state of his own feel-
ings . and well would it be if many others
u

i! ■%

'', •!

i I

16^

SELF-RELIANCi:.

'■'(•

hi I

would act equally generous. But no ! how-
ever men decry beauty, they are all its slaves,
and it ever wins a willing homage from ihem.
They are won by the attractions of a pretty
face, and are in consequence, most particiiiar
in their attentions to its possessor; who is
thus singled out, and in all probability, is sub-
ject to the jokes of her friends till from so
constantly hearing, she is beloved, she be-
lieves it to be so, nor awakes from her dream,
till she sees herself supplanted by a newer or
prettier face. This is a crying evil : a bad
state of things ; and in regretting it, we must
not lay the blame wholly on the opposite sex.
There is doubtless too much credulity in the
ladies, but this credulity would be greatly di-
minished, were they more frequently met
and treated as rational beings, and thuy would
much sooner become so : for they would have
an object in it. How much would the state
of society be improved, could there be a little
reform on the side of each sex. Let the man,
as the superior, commence ; he will find his
young female friends, beings capable of
more than the small talk, with which they are
too generally amused ; and I think they will

SELF-RELIANCE.

163

soon be better prepared for sensible conversa-
tion ; and then let the ladies on their part be
a little more sceptical in believing the flattery
and adulation of the men, and not fancy every
gentleman, who is friendly and attentive
in perhaps merely a general way, in love with
her. As in everything else, there are excep-
tions, here I only speak of generalities, and I
trust not with acerbity. A very little of mu-
tual effort, would bring about a great improve-
ment in these matters. The young have great
influence on the young, particularly in the for-
mation of character, and well for those who
exercise it beneficially. ^

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

" Brereton," she replied.

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

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

" Then, my beloved girl, in me you behold

164

SELF-RELIANCE.

your uncle William. You have heard your
mother speak of me." • i ^ ■ - v^ ; u< :,

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

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

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

" Which two letters I must see, for I sus-
pect she has slighted you. As to you, my
dear Mrs. Cameron, what can I ever say to
you and your worthy brother, or the kind Mrs.
Sherman, I meant to have had the Doctor with
me ; but just as we were leaving his door, he
was called away to somebody taken suddenly
ill. Helen, there is your mother's portrait,
which was taken for me, but I sailed before it
was completed. I gave the order myself and
a pattern ; Sherman received it last night, and
this led to my discovering you. Though I
was much struck when I first saw you, by
your strong likeness, to your mother, I never
expected, to see any of you."

SELF-RELIANCE.

165

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

" That my child is a long story, which time
will not allow me to go into now : you shall
have it some of these days ; as I see George
coming, whom I desired to follow me here, as
I recommended him to consult ^''ou about his
proposing to Miss Falkner."

" Me !" said Helen, " consult me ?" and
she colored deeply. . : -

" Why not, you are second or third cousins ;
and he has a great opinion of your judgment."

" Well sir," said the Baronet to Mr. Morti-
mer, as he entered, " the hour has not yet ex-
pired : however you have given me time to
tell Helen, how nearly she and I are related,
for her mother was my own sister !"
' "Is it possible!" cried the astonished
George.

" Yes, and I told her you were coming to
consult her upon several matters." As he
spoke this, he stole his hat and slipped off giv-
ing a significant look at Mrs. Cameron, who
followed the old gentleman to the garden, and
there learnt what he had gleaned from George
Mortimer's letter, to Mr. Emmerson, viz., that

J^i.

166

SELF-RELIANCE.

he was much attached to Helen — and added
he had no doubt but they should soon have a
job for Mr. Montgomery, to marry them.
" At any rate we must have him here."
The remainder of my tale, is soon told, viz. :
that Helen and Mortimer, were united, and
Mrs. Falkner, insisted on removing to a
place where she would be more likely to settle
her girls. Sir Horace bought the villa which
still retained its name. '

i ■ > \

M\".

IDLEWORDS.

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

That she might be forgiven.

'Twas not in heavenly strains

She raised, to the great Source of Good,

Her daily oilfering of praise.

Her song of gratitude.

But in the gay and thoughtless crowd,

And in the festive Hall,

'Midst scenes of mirth and mockery proud

She named the Lord of All.

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

§-;>;_;*

THE MANIAC OF VICTOIY.

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

i\\'<

THE MANIAC OP VICTORY.

169

Hot are mine eyes ! there's no weak water there !

'Tistime I should have joyed — what mother would not 1

To have shown him that sweet babe o'er which he wept

When last he kissed it — yes he did — he wept ;

My warrior wept ! — as the weak woman's teaic

From off this cheek, where now I none can feel,

He kissed away — he wet it with his own ;

Oh ! yes 'twould — 'twould have been sweet to have shown

him
How his dear lovely boy had grown, since he
Beheld it cradled, and to have bid it call him
By the sweet name that I had taught it utter
In softest tones, while he was thunder hearing,
And thunder hurling round him — for his hand '
Would not be idle amid deeds of glory ;
Yes glory — glory — glory is the word —
See how it glitters all along the street !
And then she laughs, and wildly leaps along
With tresses all untied. Fair wretch— adieu :
In mercy — heaven thy shattered peace repair.

— Fawobtt.

'':■/' mt

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" GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."

■

.' : - ■•■^ ■ ." ■ ■ , . ' ''^ V . ;-,;:- >:■■•

nV«4T

:■■■

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

Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every

hour.
I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower.
So beautiful ! it well might grace the bowers, where angels

dwell,
And waft its fragrance to His throne, " who doeth all things

well."

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

She was like the lovely star, whose light around my pathway
shone.

Amid this darksome vale of tears tWough which I Journey

on;

OOD DOETH ALL WELL.

171

No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne

doth dwell,
And I wandered far away from Him, who " doeth all thingt

well."

That star went down, in beauty, yet,] it shineth, sweetly

now.
In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's

brow,
She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel ;
But we know, for God has told us, that " He doeth all

things well."

I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed,
And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she

was dead.
And, oh ! that cup of bitterness — ^but let not this heart rebel,
God gave ; he took ; he can restore ; « He doeth all things

well."

^■■" .h+f. ?-5: f ri«i-.l, flii.i

ii; .. . tj.!

:l-f. 5 {.J

■ i ' \-y-

HOW OLD AET THOU ? '

H
I

j.:^f^

Count not the days that have iuiy flown, '

The years that were vainly spent ;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush f o own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin, *'

The moments employed for heaven ;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but v/orthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate 1
Will thy sun stand still on his way ?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date.
Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value r;-?;

Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that inan's age
Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage,
But in days that are ti'uli/ wise.

a'! ■

I )

ON TIME.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him

That flesh is grass ! that earthly things, but mist !

What are our joys, but dreams 1 And what our hopes ?

But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ?

There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it

Some rainbow promise. Not a moment flies,

But puts its sickle in the fields of life,

And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.

*Tis but as yesterday, since on those stars,
Which now I view, the Chaldean shepherd gazed,
In his mid watch observant, and disposed
The twinkling hosts, as fancy gave them shape ;
Yet, in the interim, what mighty shocks
Have buffeted mankind ; whole nations razed,
Cities made desolate ; the polished sunk "

To barbarism, and once barbaric states.
Swaying the wand of science and of arts.
Illustrious deeds and memorable names,
Blotted from record, and upon the tongues
Of gray tradition, voluble no more.

Where are the heroes of the ages past, —

Where the brave chieflans ; where the mighty ones

174

ON TIME.

Who flourished in th« infancy of days ?

AH to the grave gone down ! On their fallen fame

Exultant, mocking at the pride of man,

Sits grim Forgetfulnesi* The warrior's arm

Lies ner/clesB on the pillow of its shame.

Hushed is the stormy voice, and quenched the blaze

Of his red eye'ball.

Yesterday, his name
Was mighty on the earth ; to-day,— 'tis what 1
The meteor of the night of distant years,
That flashed unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld,
Musing, at midnight, upon prophecies.
Who at her only lattice, saw the gleam
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and locke.l the secret up,
Safe in the charnel's treasures.

Oh ! how weak
Is mortal man t how trifling ! how confined
His scope of vision I Puffed with confidence
His phrase grows big with immortality ;
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honours to his name,
Of endless glory and perennial bays,
He idly reasons of eternity.
As of the train of ages ; when, alas !
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries
Are in comparison, a little point,
Too trivial for account.

Oh it is strange ;
'Tis very strange to mark men's fallacies.
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile»

,. ..1

•I'" i

ON TIMK.

175

Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies,

And smile, and say, my name shall live with this,

Till time shall be no more ; while at his feet,

Yea, at his very feet, tLe crumbling dust i }. =

Of tlie fallen fabric of the other day,

Preache-j the solemn lesson. — He should know

That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast

That ever filled renown's obstreperoTis trump.

Fades in the lap of ages, and expires.

Who lies, inhumed, in the terrific gloom

Oi the gigantic pyramid 1 Or ho

Rer.red its huge wall 1 Oblivion laughs, and says,

The prey is mme. They sleep, and never more

Their names shall strike upon the ear of man.

Or memory burst its fetters.

Where is Rome 1
She lives but in the tale of other times ;
Her proud pavilions, are the hermita' home.
And her long colonades, her public walks.
Now faintly echo to the pilgrims' feet.
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace
Through the rank moss revealed, hei honoured dust.

2ut not to Rome, alone, has fate c(. \fined

The doom of ruin ; cities numberless.

Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy,

And rich Phoenicia ; they are blotted out

Half razed, — from memory razed ; and their very namo

And being, iiA dispute.

— Whitb.

■■''rfiSi,:

THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYEE.

'•'I'

One stood upon the threshold of his life ;

A life all bright with promise, — and he prayed,

'< Father of Heaven ! this beautious world of thine, ',

Is trod in sorrow by my race." The shade

Of sin and grief darken the sunshine, Thou

Around us with a lavish hand, hast spread.

Man only walks this breathing glowing earth,

With spirit crushed, — ^with bowed and stricken head.

I ask not. Father, why these things be so,

I only ask, that thou will make of me

A m'333i,>riger of joy, to lift the woe

Fktu tentta that mourn, and lead them up to Thee.

THE END.