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 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
I 
 
 
 Vv 
 
^.3 
 
 A BOOK 
 
 e^/2 
 
 FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 
 DEDICATED, BT PBRMISSION| 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. MANNERS SUTTON. 
 
 BY A LADY. 
 
 Lf. 
 
 ^ftA^c^, ;;>"«Mr^'C^ 
 
 &-*x 
 
 SAINT JOHN, N. B. : 
 
 J. & A. McMillan. 
 
 18§6. 
 

 ■"' ./ 
 
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 .^v:fe^,: 
 
 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. 
 
-«>: 
 
 M'^K 
 
 4>5ss;¥-is*; 
 
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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." "' *- 
 
 
 
 ^n. la-;/ 
 
 
 fKvH';- ':o-;; 
 
 
 
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 "Aiii iK:Ku:.:^ 0l!LC |,;£ay»:f ,.vfi|;rt? 
 
 
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 ■I'iVJi'/ 
 
 ■'■>' 
 
 
 
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 
 
 w 
 
 \ 
 
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- 
 
 \^ 
 
 I 
 
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 
 
6 
 
 ;^ 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 
 
8 
 
 AN ADDRESS 
 
 i| 
 
 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 ! 
 
 :...««'''/p 
 
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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 
 
10 
 
 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. 
 
 11 
 
 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; 
 
 •-*» 
 
ir '- \;. I 
 
 COaUETRY. 
 
 I i 
 
 >ri 
 
 •-■■) 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
 13 
 
 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. *■> 
 
I 
 
 til 
 
 14 
 
 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. 
 
 15 
 
 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 
 
I 
 
 
 16 
 
 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. 
 
 17 
 
 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 
 
! 
 
 l\ 
 
 M ' 
 
 r 
 
 ilii 
 iifi'ii 
 
 18 
 
 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. 
 
 19 
 
 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,—" 
 
 ' \ 
 
dO 
 
 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 
 
 m 
 
C0QUETR7. 
 
 21 
 
 the clouds ? I thought you were many miles 
 
 }f 
 
 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 
 
 ^2 
 
 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. 
 
 93 
 
 ^' 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^ 
 
m 
 
 liiiiiii 
 
 in ill 
 
 u 
 
 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. 
 
 25 
 
 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. ,, 
 
 11 
 
 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. 
 
 9> 
 
 I 
 
 ^^ 
 
COQUETRT 
 
 37 
 
 "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' 
 
 2S 
 
 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 
 
 T 
 
 ii! 
 
 ■ t 
 
 ill. 
 
 
COQUETRT. 
 
 29 
 
 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 
 
30 
 
 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. 
 
 31 
 
 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 
 
 n 
 
32 
 
 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. 
 
 33 
 
 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. 
 
34 
 
 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. 
 
 3S 
 
 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 
 
36 
 
 COQUETRY. 
 
 I 
 
 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. 
 
 m\ 
 
 PI 
 
 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. 
 
 39 
 
 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, 
 
40 
 
 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. 
 
 41 
 
 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¥ 
 
 • \ 
 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
 Ml!>|l 
 
 42 
 
 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. 
 
 43 
 
 :':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- 
 
\) 
 
 44 
 
 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. 
 
 Ai 
 
 "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 
 
 I 
 11 
 
 
 ir. It 
 
IS' 
 
 I U-:l 
 
 mi 
 
 
 'tl 
 
 u 
 
 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. 
 
 47 
 
 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 
 
 48 
 
 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: 
 
 ,: . 1 Kj.'} .>-." 'V 
 
 ■•r, '1 
 
 \ 
 
■n s<:?f><yrS 
 
 t --.?• ' 
 
 ''■■(>. 
 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ;;;j^*<t/-'. ■ 5^5;. .K,, :.:;>■ 
 
 A 
 
 V. >;;>'»> \;K'^';^ 
 
 LINES, 
 
 ^^"' r-ir 
 
 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 
 
 m 
 
 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- 
 
 1 
 
 y, bounding over the chasm with a grey* 
 
52 
 
 THE BOr OF EGKEMONT. 
 
 m 
 
 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 > 
 
 f 
 
 .t;:-' 
 
 .7 
 
 ■■■\\ 
 
THE BOY OF EGREMONT. 
 
 59 
 
 \v 
 
 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 
 
54 
 
 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; ...; 
 
 ,7 
 
THB BOT OF EOSKMONT. 
 
 55 
 
 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. ' 
 
n 
 
 
 \ 
 
 t ^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 II 
 
 56 
 
 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. 
 
 57 
 
 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. 
 
 
 ■^.^.-.■■:l 
 
 'Vr 'IV 
 
 y 
 
 \'..,.:il .\ 
 
 r*-,a 
 
 ■S'if-'-i' 
 
 '}'» 
 
 
 ' '-^ ■ "r ■ ; •'*",: • 
 
 ,-->. ;,-, 
 
 ■■ ^^ 
 
 *■ 
 
 ■.;. > • ■ 
 
 :. 
 
 --;- ^ . 
 
 ■ ^?^4 
 
 ■ ^- '-, 
 
 
 ,^,■fi,.*^l«f^^t■.^■• 
 
 -'-■■; 
 
 ^i yM. ' ' 
 
 ' .'""■,---! 
 
 ■■. v ' 
 
 
 ■U^i.* iT^ '' ■' ' ' 
 
 % 
 
 ■■- ■:■■ -n-^ 
 
 
 
 ,'■,'■■' * 
 
 
 j>-o ,!^,.i-, - J,;v.^- •,'^«^^ 
 
 \ - 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 
 
 m 
 
 if^ii ''s 
 
 •V ■'! 
 
 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. 
 
 59 
 
 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 
 
'1 ■ \ 
 
 ii 
 
 '-'ii 
 
 Prt' 
 
 .-;>■ ■■:■,-: ■'-■' ;>-«■ ;,/.>r-^..; f- ;;t 
 
 ►»; f..u ■v;!' 
 
 AN EMBARKATION SCENE. 
 
 ii 
 
 ;i;i ./ :■, ' 
 
 j^*ii 
 
 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. 
 
 61 
 
 I 
 
 'I 
 
 mormng 
 
 •ost- 
 
 lich 
 
 by 
 
 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 
 
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m 
 
 iri'lll 
 
 ! I ■ 
 
 
 M 
 
 is;!' 
 
 n ■ 
 
 'M 
 
 6d 
 
 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. 
 
 63 
 
 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. 
 
64 
 
 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 
 
 I 
 
 ing 
 
AN EMBARKATION SCENE. 
 
 65 
 
 .^ 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 ■■ ' ' '^ ' 
 
 
 Ml 
 
 > 
 
 
 66 
 
 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 
 
'J 
 
 AN EMBARKATION 9CENE. 
 
 67 
 
 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 
 
68 
 
 AN EMBARKATION SCENE. 
 
 U 
 
 !■/ 
 
 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. 
 
 69 
 
 "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 ( 
 
 70 
 
 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. 
 
 71 
 
 f> 
 
 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, 
 
 
 i 
 
72 
 
 AN EMBARKATION SCENE. 
 
 Ml 
 
 ;»*■■■ 
 
 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. 
 
 73 
 
 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/ 
 
74 
 
 AN EMBARKATION SCENB. 
 
 Mi 
 
 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. 
 
I 
 
 
 •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. 
 
H 
 
 
 '> \ 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. 
 
 77 
 
78 
 
 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 
 
 ik 
 
 ! ' "<, 
 
 im 
 
 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 
 
 79 
 
 1 1 
 
;f!i 
 
 i- 
 
 iii:(:si 
 
 •. HI 
 
 ',((*■' 
 
 n 
 
 !• •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^, 
 
 81 
 
 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 ; 
 
IMAGE EVALUATION 
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 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WIST MAIN STRIET 
 
 WIBST^'«,N.Y. MS80 
 
 (716) «72-4503 
 
 
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84 
 
 A OHOST STOBT. 
 
 i 
 
 13 
 
 
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 \ 
 
 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* 
 
 8* 
 
 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--^ 
 
86 
 
 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. 
 
 87 
 
 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 
 
m 
 
 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 
 
I 
 
 pi'iJ;' 
 
 III 
 
 Ji 
 
 13, 
 
 fUi'i 
 
 
 I 
 
 •i 
 
 'A 
 
 90 
 
 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. 
 
 91 
 
 "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- 
 
 I' 
 
 i 
 
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. 
 
 93 
 
 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. 
 
f. 
 
 I 
 
 V: 
 
 r' 
 
 Iff 
 
 si:.; 
 
 i' 
 
 m 
 
 ' r, 
 
 If 
 
 94 
 
 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. * 
 
 95 
 
 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 
 
M 
 
 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. 
 
 97 
 
 ■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 
 
 % 
 
98 
 
 i.» 
 
 A aHOST STORr. , 
 
 m 
 
 I 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. 
 
 99 
 
 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. 
 
 1 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
 ! ^ii 
 
l! 
 
 If:! 
 
 V if 
 
 I ■ 
 
 I'll 
 
 'I' 
 
 i 
 
 ftp 
 
 if 
 
 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. 
 
 P 
 
 II 
 
 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'>: 
 
 if 
 
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-\ 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 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;:. 
 
 It 
 
 ■.i 
 
 i - 1 
 
 '^i't 
 
 vv 
 
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|-*. 
 
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 if. 
 
 H^ 
 
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SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 
 IS 
 
 
 '^MW 
 
 lights 
 
 m- 
 
 ■mpt 
 
 
 mi 
 
 
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 :>i. 
 
 JM>^"' 
 
 4' 
 
 
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 ^:.mU:;i 
 
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 1 
 
 .^. -. 
 
 " 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'^^^ 
 
 *!;! 
 
 to delicate health, following each other so 
 quickly, proved too much for feebl© naturei 
 and she sunk under ihem. 
 
 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 
 
 cj 
 
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* 
 
 m 
 
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 
 
 4 
 
'V 
 
 
 tl 
 
 m 
 
 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, 
 
 i 
 
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 
 
 (I 
 
 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 
 
lU 
 
 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 
 
 .H 
 
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 
 
 it 
 
 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 
 
 V 
 
 Hi 
 
 n 
 
 It 
 
 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 
 
i 
 
 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 
 
 t: 
 
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 
 
4 
 
 1W 
 
 a 
 
 i. > 
 
 M 
 
 
 
 .1 
 
 sr 
 
 !, i 
 
 ' •*. 
 
 li ^\'^ 
 
 136 
 
 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 
 
i , 
 
 138 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 h I I 
 
 u 
 
 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 
 
 1 1 
 
 ill. ?! 
 
_" "V 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
 mn 
 
 ■Li 'ill 
 
 W 
 
 m 
 i 
 
 I'll 
 
140 
 
 SELF-RELIANCB. 
 
 |i 
 
 m 
 
 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 
 
 /J 
 
 i \ 
 
 \ I ' ' 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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/: ■ , ,^;. 
 
 M 
 
!„) 
 
 \i 
 
 Ui 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 \. 
 
 '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 
 
 \ ' 
 
 i ' -: 
 
 111 ' 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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 
 
144 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 hi ■ i 
 
 is 
 
 m 
 
 w4 
 
 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 
 
 // 
 
 t ' 
 
SELF-RBLIANCS. 
 
 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. 
 
 10 
 
 iiiii! 
 

 146 
 
 8ELF-UEI.IARCE. 
 
 H 
 
 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. 
 
 v\<\v 
 
 iiiir 
 
 * m 
 
148 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 1 1. 
 
 " 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 
 
 I * 
 
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 
 
 ^ 
 
150 
 
 SELF-RELIANCB. 
 
 
 Ji: 
 
 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 
 
 .i 
 
SELF-BELIANCE. 
 
 151 
 
 r' 
 
 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 
 
H 
 
 I;' 
 
 ill 
 
 153 
 
 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 
 
 ,' I 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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. 
 
:.:..,: 
 
 'I 
 
 1 
 
 154 
 
 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- 
 
 1 1 
 1 1 
 
V 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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 
 
 till 
 
156 
 
 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 
 
y. 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 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 
 
 I!: 
 
 I 
 
 i'li 
 
 dbiiUI 
 
158 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 i! 
 
 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 
 
 i 
 
"\(. 
 
 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 
 
 m 
 
 
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 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 i! ■% 
 
 '', •! 
 
 I 
 
 i I 
 
16^ 
 
 SELF-RELIANCi:. 
 
 '■'(• 
 
 hi I 
 
 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. 
 
 h 
 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
 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\". 
 
 Wl 
 
 ^' 
 
 ii 
 
 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 
 
 th 
 
 i\\'< 
 
7 
 
 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 
 
 
 
 
 ] '■■.''-■--■'i ';'-^ 'VV y;^ ■':-:• ' ',"» '.;-'il^ •■'■■■■ ■•■'**;^-f r;'^. -'■* ^' y-^- 
 
 - 
 
 1 
 
 .. . 
 
 " GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL." 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 .' : - ■•■^ ■ ." ■ ■ , . ' ''^ V . ;-,;:- >:■■• 
 
 nV«4T 
 
 :■■■ 
 
 ; ■+■.■'■ 
 
 !'■ :' ■ . . 
 
 ^ 
 
 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 ? ' 
 
 In 
 
 M 
 
 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. 
 
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