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

I must own, Charles, I 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 supernatural can or will harm us, that I am determined 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 fancied, but as I have neither, I do not expect to see anything supernatural; but, as I said before, having heard so much about the mysteries 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 you 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 reflect 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 superstitious nonsense I had heard.

Mrs. Davis now coming in with some things papa had ordered to take with him; again ventured to say she hoped he would not repent 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 be 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 you 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, generally they say from twelve till two; well you may smile," said she seeing papa unable to control his features, "but its not once I have warned you, nor twice either."

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

"It may be so; but you are so very unbelieving. 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 candies, are seen burning and moving of themselves, afore people die; coming down the roads from the houses they live in as a warning."

"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."

"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 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 unable 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.

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 rendezvous of the ghost. Davy lighted a good fire and 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 so himself; not thinking he said, it was necessary to shew so much courtesy to the ghost, as 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.

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 knockings, 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 yellow 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 presumest thou to intrude here, where none like thee are permitted to come? Of all those who have attempted it. None have ever been left to tell the tale!"

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

"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 residing 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 harmless, if you are not, the consequences be upon your own head." As he spoke he pointed the pistol at her heart. With a courage worthy a better cause, she darted by him and tried one or two of the wainscot panels 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 contained 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 numbered.

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."

"Tell the truth," said my father, "and if, as I judge from your last words; you are the tool of others, you shall be protected, and if deserving, 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."

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

"You see before you one, who till the last few years, knew not 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. Had you been here last night they were all in the cave."

"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."

"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?"

"He 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 perceived 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 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, consequently, could be secured without any difficulty. 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 exhaustion 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 under 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 her a surgeon should be sent for, but that he did not consider it safe for either Davy Evans or himself to remain alone. She then pointed to a door which contained the arms and ammunition of the gang, in case of being discovered. He secured the key of this, and then despatched Davy to the village, who soon roused Griffy Davis to whom he triumphantly announced the capture of the ghost, and speedily 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 emissary, who finding all was discovered, returned to the others, who immediately 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 of her praises. "Who could," she said "have thought it!" indeed, every one seemed surprised, and wondered they never suspected the truth, as papa 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,

Yours sincerely,

FRED. GRAYSON.



LORD BYRON.

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

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



SELF-RELIANCE.

"Well, my dear Miss Willoughby, how is your mother this morning," 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 anxiously at him. Her attenuated frame and sharpened features told the sad tale, that consumption had done its work, and the hand of death was upon her.

"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; but human nature is such, that—" here she paused from exhaustion.

"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; but you must try, and rejoice that you are allowed 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 beyond 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 to delicate health, following each other so quickly, proved too much for feeble nature, and she sunk under them.

Her excellent daughter, whose fragile form seemed little calculated to breast the storms of adversity that now threatened her, was unwearied in attention to her dying parent. She saw there were heavy trials before her, 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 offered 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 parents, whose every wish had been anticipated, must now soon exert herself to support her orphan brother and sister.

Mrs. Willoughby, as is often the case with those suffering from pulmonary affection, went off very suddenly; and now was every threatened evil likely to burst on poor Helen's devoted 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 violent, 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 around you, with Him nothing is impossible; and He could, in one moment, disperse them, if it were better for you. May you be purified 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."

How was it that this feeble child of affliction, went to bed that night in some degree composed? For every earthly hope seemed blighted. Her parents, one by one were re-called; her little patrimony taken away; and she and the little ones left almost friendless. Was it to make her the better feel where she could and must place her sole dependance? 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 surrounded 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 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 commence 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 were doing their best to aid their sister. Mr. Montgomery 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 coming into possession of the property and furnished it throughout, 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 neighbourhood. 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. Although greater part of the things sold, had obtained a fair price, there were several useful 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 advantageously 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 resources. 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 parent, during a long illness. When did a good action ever lose its reward? Helen thankfully 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 remaining 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 accompany 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 and to do, that she had no time to dwell on the desolation of her position.

I must not here forget to state, that, though only eighteen, Helen had experienced other troubles than those which now bowed her down; 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 afterwards 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 she doubted not his faith, and most indignantly 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 blandishments of other beauty, he could not resist its power. He became enslaved by the fascinations 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 another, a most beautiful girl, residing in the same town, and it was said, they were engaged, and too true were the reports, which the following letter confirmed.

"MY DEAR HELEN,

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

"Your still affectionate,

"EDWARD."

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

She had, from the tenor of all his late letters, 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, her avarice seeks for treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventures, and embarks her all in the traffic of affection, and, if shipwrecked, unless she be strongly supported by religious principles, it is a complete bankruptcy of her happiness."

But let the young remember, there is often in these disappointments, so hard to meet, the most wholesome and salutary chastenings. How very many happy wives can look back with thankfulness and gratitude, to the all directing hand of providence, that, by a blasting of their seemingly fair prospects, they are directed to happier fate, than their own inexperience 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 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 wonderfully 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 disposition, soon led him to forget past sorrows; the farm yard, the garden, the promised 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 situation, which was indeed beautiful. There was a small bed room off Helen's that was exactly the thing for Henry, and a back one, which Nancy took for granted would be hers, and had, accordingly, put all her things in it.

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

Her next consideration was the possibility of getting something to do for their support before their little money was expended. She consulted with Mrs. Cameron, as to the probability of obtaining needlework, at which she was very expert; though she feared the confinement might injure her health, 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 I dare to murmur? oh, my dear friend, what would my beloved mother say, could she witness my foolish struggle between principle 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; 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, 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 mother 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, too; papa would let me if he was at home, and if you turn me out, I'll tell him, so I will."

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

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

"Fie! my dear, how can you act thus perversely," said Mrs. Sherman, as she forcibly led her to the door, which had no sooner closed on the petulant child, than she apologized, 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."

"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 accomplishments, I have had the best masters."

"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?"

"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."

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

"That you shall, and have my little Susan to begin with; and the sooner you do so, the better; but let me beg of you not to be 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, "I 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 invited her back to tea, wishing to get more insight 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 penetration into character. Having gleaned from the early part of her conversation with Mrs. Sherman, her anxiety about the shirts, which were a new, and difficult pattern, Helen insisted 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 qualification as a teacher might never been known. Was there not my dear Helen, a special providence here? yes indeed there was."

Here, I 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 fortune, who can calculate on the benefits? to say nothing of the gratification it affords in so many ways. "Knowledge is power," and always secures its possessor, a degree of influence, 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 see girls, day after day, permitted on any frivolous 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 education, this serious waste could never be. What is it I ask? is it merely to acquire a certain amount of rudimental information, and perhaps a superficial acquaintance with showy accomplishments? assuredly not: it is to learn how to think rightly, that we may by thinking rightly, know how to act so. Rudimental instruction is necessarily the foundation; and as such, must be duly and fully appreciated; but it is the application of knowledge that education is meant to teach, and this must be acquired by "line upon line and precept upon precept; here a little and there a little," it is not the work of a day; nor 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 absences. It is not only a large portion of rudimental instruction that is lost; but those many opportunities, which every conscientious teacher eagerly, and anxiously, avails herself of, to enforce good principles. This can be done at no stated periods, but they must be seized as circumstances call them forth, whether suggested 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 regular in their scholastic attendance.

Most amply was Mrs. Willoughby's sedulous 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 eating 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. Sherman early the following day; but Mrs. Cameron, whom she consulted, and upon whose advice she generally acted, strongly advised her to go, 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 influential people, and may do you a great deal of good. I have known them many years as worthy 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 obtaining 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."

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 they 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 excellent husband. It was agreed that, on the following day, she should her introduced to several families, where she would be likely to obtain pupils; and so successful were Mrs. Sherman's efforts, that she had the promise of six to commence with on the following Monday, 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, informing her of the sad event, from whom she received 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 informed her where she could get them, and then concluded, by offering her and Fanny an asylum, for such she termed it, 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 content 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 things out, adding, as Helen, would in all probability, obtain the compassionate allowance, 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 communication 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, get her children cheaply educated. It was Helen's determination, if she obtained the compassionate allowance, to keep it, as a reserve for her brother's education. She mentioned her intention to Dr. Sherman, who expressed 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's 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 Mrs. Cameron, "if Nancy understands how to manage her."

"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 I made all the butter and cheese too."

Mrs. Cameron told Helen, she had no doubt it might be made quite a profitable investment, 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.

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 to the War Office, and received an answer, saying, the request could not be complied with, on the ground that Captain Willoughby'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 major, a friend of his, and in the same regiment, it was supposed, that he consigned them to the major, in his dying moments. The grant, therefore, could not be allowed while the essential 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 instrument 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.

"Some time," said he, "but both my apology, and thanks, are due to this lady, for the high treat, she has afforded me. I was standing 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 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 Willoughby," said she "I cannot take my lesson to-day, and therefore need not detain you."

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 Falkner rallied him on his politeness, to the village governess, as she contemptuously, styled Helen.

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

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

"By no means my dear Miss Falkner, it is not quite so vulnerable. 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 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 respectful deference accorded to her by the stranger.

Her pupils increased so, that in a short time, she had twelve, besides several for accomplishments but the Misses Falkner, for reasons best known to themselves, declined her future instructions, and just as she was preparing to go to them a day or two after being, so cavalierly dismissed, Mrs. Falkner was announced 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 commenced, to be paid for." She knew they could afford it, and she felt it due to those she laboured for, not to throw away one penny.

"Well," said Mrs. Falkner, "this comes of patronizing nobody knows who, it is just what 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 the unfeeling woman, "as Julia's quarter is up, I shall 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 present position; and it is, with thankfulness, nay, with pride, I 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 try 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 not a pity Mr. Mortimer isn't hidden somewhere to hear you, as he was when you sung, and pretended not to know he was listening. He could see through it, though, as well as we did; and let, me tell you, artful as you are, that he is not a bird to be caught with chaff. But there's your money, so give me a receipt." This, she no sooner received than off 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 all that had passed, said:

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

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

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

"Why, Henry dear, are you already so expert 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! He 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."

Mrs. Sherman had seen Mrs. Cameron, and learnt from her the cruel manner in which Mrs. Falkner had behaved, and kindly desired 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 Doctor's voice was heard in the passage; but Mrs. Sherman insisted on her going on, and held up her finger, as her husband entered, in token of silence. The Doctor 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 embarrassment, and went on playing and singing and the evening passed imperceptibly away. When the Doctor escorted Helen home, Mr. Mortimer accompanied them to the gate, leading to the cottage and took his leave.

Their meeting at Dr. Sherman's was entirely the result of accident. Mr. Mortimer had been on friendly terms at the house ever since he had been in the neighbourhood, but as both the Doctor and his wife concluded he was engaged to Miss Falkner, they never thought to ask him, when Helen was expected, and so tenacious was he, not to win her affections, till assured he could make her his, that he carefully assumed 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 herself in it. He gained a great insight into her character, in his conversations with Henry, who, entirely off his guard, was very communicative. The following letter, however, from Mr. Mortimer to an old friend, will best elicit his views and opinions:

"MY DEAR EMMERSON,

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

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

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

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

"Ever faithfully yours,

"GEORGE."

Every meeting increased Helen's respect for Mr. Mortimer; she often met him at Dr. Sherman's, but it seemed always the result of chance, nor had she the slightest idea that he felt for her other, than the esteem of a friend. The village gave him to one of the Misses Falkner, and Helen took it for granted it was so. She rather regretted it, as she thought him too good, and feared they could, neither of them, appreciate his worth. She occasionally met the Falkners at Dr. Sherman's, when the eldest young lady always took care to 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 peculiarity in his tone, as he addressed her, 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 procured for Falkner Villa. Also, Henry, too, was sadly at a loss for his companion; all his out door amusements seemed to have lost their 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, however, 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 speculations, 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. It contained Mrs. Willoughby's portrait and the pocket book; the latter he locked up carefully; the former he was carrying to Helen: who being engaged with Mrs. Sherman in the adjoining room, he showed it to Sir Horace Mortimer, with whom he had just been conversing 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 ask, but for very particular reasons, connected it may be, of much moment to that dear girl: if as I strongly suspect, I have seen that miniature before, there is a secret and very minute spring, which I could not well ascertain without my glasses. Believe me, my dear Doctor, I have very cogent reasons for my request, and I feel no common interest in Miss Willoughby: 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 his 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 your young brother for me? I have heard much of him; and must make his acquaintance."

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

At breakfast Miss Falkner told her mother, that as Sir Horace Mortimer, had made an appointment to visit Miss Willoughby; they could avail themselves of his escort, and go with him. This I beg leave to say, though apparently the thought of the moment, was a preconcerted proposition: but one which Sir Horace declared impossible! as he had particular business with Miss Willoughby, at which none but Dr. Sherman, and Mrs. Cameron 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 East Indian, oh there could be no doubt of that. And the elder Miss Falkner could breathe again, since she was free to captivate Mr. George 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 perfect 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 never entered her head: in fact she could make no probable guess, so she determined to make a virtue of necessity, and wait quietly, till he came. Early the next day, she sent for Mrs. Cameron, and told her of the appointment Sir Horace had made, and as she thought it more than probable, the Falkners might accompany him, as they spoke of doing so over night, she wished her friend to be with her. But we have already seen that Sir Horace had decidedly expressed his determination to go alone. Mrs. Cameron was equally perplexed with Helen, as to his object. She thought perhaps he had mistaken Helen's likeness, to some one he was attached to in his early years, and applying her favorite well-founded maxim and belief in an over-ruling Providence, made up her mind, that however the mistake 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 miniature 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 you not begin to think of marrying; it is in my opinion, high time you should—let me see; you must be eight and twenty, why you are losing time sadly, take care I don't get spliced first, as sailors say."

"Why sir, they do say Maria Falkner has certainly made a conquest 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 objection? 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 can't marry her and Miss Falkner too."

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

"Hold! my boy; I know the workings of that wayward heart of yours, better than you think; and, therefore, let us understand each other; at any rate, let me be clearly understood, when I say, that unless 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 woman I ever saw. Yet I am,——" and he paused.

"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 matter, is this: in your haste to answer my letter from the Downs, you sent me, by mistake, a confidential epistle, which you had intended for some intimate friend. Not having any signature, I went on reading it, nor till you adverted to my arrival off Deal, was I aware who was the writer. It was a lucky contre temps, it gave me a better insight into your 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 penny; and, as I before said, myself into the bargain. But I am off to Sherman's and thence, to Miss Willoughby, 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 outwitted by an old one, so mind." Saying this, he left his young relative, who was not, however, very tardy in following advice so consonant to his own wishes.

It may be thought George Mortimer was too particular, but be it remembered, it was a most honorable feeling that led to his deliberation; 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 feelings; and well would it be if many others would act equally generous. But no! however men decry beauty, they are all its slaves, and it ever wins a willing homage from them. They are won by the attractions of a pretty face, and are in consequence, most particular in their attentions to its possessor; who is thus singled out, and in all probability, is subject to the jokes of her friends till from so constantly hearing, she is beloved, she believes 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 diminished, were they more frequently met and treated as rational beings, and they 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 soon be better prepared for sensible conversation; 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 exceptions, here I only speak of generalities, and I trust not with acerbity. A very little of mutual effort, would bring about a great improvement in these matters. The young have great influence on the young, particularly in the formation 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 afterwards found he had no claim to."

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

"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 suspect 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."

"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 you about his proposing to Miss Falkner."

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

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

"Well sir," said the Baronet to Mr. Mortimer, as he entered, "the hour has not yet expired: 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 giving 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 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.



IDLE WORDS.

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

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

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



THE MANIAC OF VICTORY.

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

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

—FAWCETT.



"GOD DOETH ALL THINGS WELL."

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

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

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

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

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

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



HOW OLD ART THOU?

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

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

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

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



ON TIME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—WHITE



THE YOUNG MAN'S PRAYER.

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

THE END.