the last, how closely "our joys on our miseries tread," and that though we may for awhile bask in the sunshine of the scene, the cloud will o'ertake us, and the lot of human kind be ours. One evening-alas! how vividly is the remembrance of that evening impressed on my mind-I accompanied my aunt to the theatre to witness the farewell performance of a highly talented and favourite actor. My uncle, having accompanied us thither and seen us quietly and comfortably seated in the places which had been previously secured for us, was obliged to absent himself for a time on business of importance that admitted not of delay-I mention this fact to account for the improbable circumstance of two females being alone at the theatre. Immediately after the termination of the tragedy-whether from the excited state of my feelings at the impassioned and affecting representation I had witnessed, from the overpowering heat of the theatre, or from these causes combined, I know not-but I was seized with a sickness and fainting, and became totally insensible to every thing around me. How long I remained in that situation I am unable to say, but on recovering I found that I had been conveyed from the box into the lobby of the theatre, and was surrounded by numerous persons all apparently anxious for my restoration. Soon as I could bear removal I was taken to the carriage and conducted home. A gentleman who I afterwards learned had been in the same box with us, having politely lent his assistance and offered his escort to my aunt, who, under the circumstances, gladly availed herself of such attention. I soon recovered from the effects of this transient indisposition, but the event was fatal to my peace, and became, alas! the cause of all the subsequent misery that has befallen me. Captain Henry Stanhope (for such was the name of the gentleman who had thus gained an introduction) called frequently to make his enquiries after my health, and to pay his respects to my relations, with whom he had become a favoured acquaintance. On these occasions he lost not the opportunity of ingratiating himself with me. He succeeded but too well in my affections: I loved him with all the ardour and devotion of woman's first affection, and I believed that he returned my ardent passion in all the warmth and devotedness which his language expressed—and to have doubted the truth of which would to my unsuspecting heart, have been to have impugned the purity of heaven. My cup of happiness was full-joy lent wings to time, and the hours flew rapidly and unheededly by. At length the day fixed for my return home arrived, and I was reluctantly compelled to part from him who had gained possession of my heart, and whom I now loved beyond all earthly consideration. Notwithstanding his repeated assurances that the separation would be but of short duration, and that he would not fail to follow me and make early honourable overtures for our union, a strange presentiment of evil intruded on my brain, and I could not resist the tears that forced their way from the source of the heart's sorrow. At length, however, after the interchange of every vow that all the romance and enthusiasm of love could suggest, we parted, and I was borne far from London and its gaieties.

My journey, as may be imagined, was one of melancholy mooding. I was alike unobservant of my fellow-travellers, of the beauty of the country through which we passed, and of every incident which usually attracts the attention of the traveller, and breaks the monotony of a day's journey in a stage-coach; and for many days after my return I could not shake off the gloom that depressed me. I returned to my ordinary domestic pursuits, but with so little interest and so ill a grace that could not escape the notice of my ever vigilant and anxious parent, who, after much kind and affectionate remonstrance on the impropriety and ingratitude of filial disobedience and deceit, extracted from me the secret of my passion. She listened to my relation with a kind of apathetic astonishment, but recovering herself, she rebuked me not, but in terms of most severe reproach, condemned her own impru dence and want of foresight in having permitted me to visit the seductive scenes of the metropolis under other than a mother's guidance. She represented to me in all their enormity the base designs and schemes of villainy that were daily practised to work the ruin of the artless and unsuspecting-the specious and false appearances that were assumed by the profligate to impose on the innocent and credulous. She described the misery and heartfelt remorse of the unhappy victims of these seductive arts, and implored me in the most affectionate terms to endeavour to conquer a feeling that, thus prematurely begotten, could lead to no happy result. I promised obedience to her suggestions, but vain, alas, were all my efforts-the one image was too deeply engraven on my heart to be so readily effaced-absence served only to strengthen the passion-and although, in the presence of my mother, and the limited circle of our friends I assumed a gaiety of demeanour foreign to my heart, in the solitude of my chamber I gave the full tide of tears to hopes disappointed and happiness blighted.

One delightful summer evening, as I sat at the window of my chamber, enjoying the cool and refreshing atmosphere around me-contemplating the beauty and stillness of the scene-my thoughts ever reverting to the one dear object that too often and too fatally for my peace engrossed them-my attention was arrested by an unusual rustling of the shrubs immediately beneath me, and I heard my name pronounced in a low and indistinct whisper. I looked from my casement, but perceiving no one, I blamed myself for thus yielding to the force of what I deemed a weak and diseased imagination. I determined to free myself from so pernicious a controul, and was about to descend to join my mother in the parlour, when, in the act of closing the window, I again heard my name uttered in a louder and more distinct tone. Again I looked from the casement-all doubt was now at an end-the being who had been the subject of my meditations stood before me. Surprized and confused at his sudden and unexpected appearance, it was some time ere I could recollect myself to speak to him on the imprudence of so clandestine a visit. He addressed me in his usual strain of ardent and eloquent affection-assuring me that his absence had been occasioned by unavoidable causes which he would at a future

day explain, but which no sooner removed, than he had flown on the wings of impatience to claim my hand. I warned him of the risk he ran of discovery-and of the death blow which such discovery must give to any hope we might have of my mother's assent to our unionnay more, I told him that all intercourse had been forbidden, and must therefore cease, and advised him to leave me and forget me. This only increased the ardour of his protestations-before the influence of which all my prudent resolves vanished, and I consented, on his entreaty, to meet him on the following night at the entrance of the shrubbery when the family should have retired to rest-in order, as he expressed it, that we might confer more freely and uninterruptedly ere we parted for ever. During the whole of the day I was silent and reserved, which I excused under the plea of slight indisposition. My mother appeared not to doubt the cause assigned, but as we were about to separate for the night, and she imprinted on my cheek the usual affectionate kiss that accompanied her maternal ejaculation that God would bless me, a strange presentiment of evil appeared to take possession of her mind. She lingered as it were in fond and affectionate gaze on me; as if she were taking the last mournful sight of all that was dear to her on earth-twice did she move towards the door, and each time return to invoke the blessing of heaven on me. As length she retired, and I prepared for the interview with my lover, under all the reformed virtuous resolves that my dear mother's affectionate conduct had occasioned.

Henry Stanhope was already waiting my arrival. On seeing me he hastened towards me, and in the most endearing terms addressed me on the hopelessness of his love. I soon discovered that, which prudence would have suggested, viz. that he intended not we should part; for he took advantage of the opportunity given, and by the most persuasive arguments entreated me to fly with him to some distant spot, there to be united to him for ever. He deprecated my mother's interference as cruel and unnatural-he vowed unabated love, and unalterable fidelity-failing not artfully to impress on my mind, that my mother's resentment towards one whom she so fondly and so devotedly loved could not be lasting, and that we should return and receive her forgiveness-when all would be well, and past recollections sweeten present joys. His words prevailed; a silent, but too powerful auxilliary pleaded for him in my bosom. I yielded to his entreaties, and suffered myself to be led to the carriage which he had provided for our flight. We were borne with all the speed of which four horses were capable towards London, and on the following morning I again found myself in the gay metropolis-and in a handsome suite of apartments, which, as I afterwards found, had been especially provided for my use.

My poor mother-how can I find language to relate her doom-the blow which deprived her of existence was struck by me, whom in infancy she had watched over with all a mother's care, with all a mother's love-whom she saw expand into the bloom of life with all a parent's pride, and in whom all her hopes, her wishes and affections on

earth were centered; whose welfare was her constant solicitude, and for whose happiness she daily offered her prayers to the throne of mercy, in all the grateful feeling of her heart.-From the moment she heard of my flight she became another being; the shock was so sudden and afflicting that reason fled-the pleasing smile with which she was wont to receive her friends had dispersed for ever, and was succeeded by the maniac's senseless and agonizing laugh. Slowly, but surely, she sank to the silent tomb, and, as in the awful hour of dissolution, occasionally returning reason for a moment lit up the chambers of the brain with an expiring ray, she would breathe the name of the guilty one whose wrongs had shortened her earthly career, and hurried her in sorrow to the grave-but for whose crimes she nevertheless pronounced and prayed forgiveness. The wretched object of her grief was not near to receive her dying pardon-other hands than mine closed the eye which settled in the cold unmeaning stare of death. On the care of strangers devolved the last sad offices which it should have been mine to fulfil.

(To be continued).

G. T. F.

DE MORVILLE;

OR THE

MANOR HOUSE OF WOODSLEIGH.

A Tale of the Last Century.

BY PILLETT SMITH.

"COME hither, Lisette," said the beautiful Marian De Morville, as she drew her slender fingers through her raven ringlets, which she had unbound-" do now come here, and arrange these truant tresses; I declare they perplex me more than enough: for this last hour I have done nothing but twist them and twist them again, until nothing short of your famed skill can ever make them fit to behold. There now, positively that's better," as her maid had relieved her of her self-set task. "I do believe you deal in magic, for you have soon converted that which I had made rough as an untamed colt, into a head of hair." "That few can surpass, or even rival," said Lisette. "Oh, you little flatterer; that one speech might have made the fortune of an aspiring youth in this land of coldness and reserve; for I can assure you, my Lisette, that compliments are not half so plentiful here as in sweet Italy. No I don't think I have had one pretty saying bestowed upon me since we have arrived." "And, yet," said Lisette, "could pretty

sayings make men's fortunes, I know one in this house who would not look so melancholy." "Indeed-and pray who is that?" « Nay, nay, my lady, 'tis not fair to tell love tales; but they do say, Master Walter, your father's young secretary sighs and sobs and betrays all the feelings of a suffering suitor." "Poor fellow," said Marian, evincing more interest than she would have wished to have been noticed. "I have observed his sadness, but did not think it proceeded from his love. But who then is the cruel fair; some one, I hope, who is well worthy of him." Oh, my lady, I know not, but 'tis said he places his affections too high; and they think he would increase his happiness did he look amongst his own rank for a fitting mate, and not think so much of one so far above him. There, my lady, do raise your eyes from off the ground, and bestow one glance on the reflection of your lovely self, for my duty is now done, and I declare, for the last ten minutes you have done nothing but count the flowers on your footstool." "That will do, Lisette, that will do, you may retire, now," said Marian, without even noticing her dress, "should you meet my father, tell him I am ready to receive him. Give me my book, there; I will ring when I require your attendance;" and leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes, and for a moment gave herself up to thought. "It must be then as I have seen; 'twas no idle fancy-he has observed me with interest, and that interest has ripened into love. Love, did I say? yes, and it must be strong, indeed, that could not conceal itself from the observation of the menials. And little, very little, know they of this heart, if they think such tenderness and attention can pass it without notice. Oh, how much do some pine for power and nobility; and yet, what would not I give to be but the poor simple country maid, that has nought, save her virtues, for her portion, and is at liberty to bestow her hand where she has previously given her heart-but I must not dwell upon it, but must banish the sweet thought for ever from my mind. My father; oh, no, no, 'twould madden him. Once have I seen him enraged; and I would not for worlds he should even guess. He is here; let me dry these tell-tale eyes;" then hastily wiping the tears which had been coursing down her lovely cheeks, she sprung to the door to admit the person whose knocking had interrupted her. It was not her father as she had expected, but it was Walter, the secretary, the same whom we introduced to our readers at the Crows, who entered the apartment. There was a shade of sadness on his noble brow, and it could be plainly seen that he was moved by something of a stern resolve. "Lady," he commenced, solemnly, after he had stood some time gazing on her beauteous form, "pardon for my intrusion is my first prayer. I feel, that to you I am but as a withered leaf which chance has blown across your path. I am less than nothing, and yet could not I take my departure hence till I had seen you." "Your departure," muttered Marian. "Even so, You have been kind to

me, very kind; and how have I repayed your kindness?" "You have ever to me, Walter," she answered, "behaved becoming. Of what then do you accuse yourself. Have you suffered wrong? name