A letter! How varied are the emotions which may be awaked within the breast by a few short lines traced by the magic pen of a dear though absent friend. For the moment they maintain a sort of control over us, and we participate in all the feelings of the writer-whether those feelings be sad even to despondency, or light and cheerful as the merry warblings of the lark when it pours forth its first tribute of welcome to the new-born day-how pleasing are the associations we are apt to connect with a letter, and yet how often has it been made the unconscious messenger of the most sorrowful intelligence; how often has it admonished us of the wreck of hopes, of the death of near and highly valued friends, of sorrows and of secrets which the lips would have shrunk from uttering. It may have told us these, but still it is dear; for where there really exists a true friendship, it is a faithful record of the soul's undisguised feelings-in absence the sweet connecting link by which heart is kept bound to heart, and though even old ocean should roll between us and our friends, by granting the means for a sweet interchange of sentiments it renders the distance com less burthensome. On the afternoon that Augustus D'Alton comparatively short, and teaches separation to appear posed his Forget Thee," his thoughts in every probability turned upon the same axle as those of But that letter awakes no sympathetic emotions. Edward Mitford, though their effect was different. It purported to be from Marcella, but full well the In the little town of far westward in the young man knew that it was not; yet it wrought Wayne County and State of New York, with one strangely upon him. Marcella, he thought, must thousand leagues of earth and water extended be- have been speaking of him to some person; then tween them, Edward Mitford was still the victim she had not forgotten; but there ended the gratifiof an unjust jealousy. We love not to dwell upon cation it afforded, for he feared lest she might have the dark actions of human nature, and if Edward incautiously said too much. The purport of that Mitford was not what we would picture to our-letter, and the fictitious or unknown personage to selves as the beau ideal of a virtuous character, we must only lament that it was so, while we call not his actions into light except when they immediately relate to the subject of this tale. "Then, my love, you will write it," he replied, insinuatingly, to the young girl who had been listening to his many protestations of love mingled with some request which she ultimately though unwillingly acceded to. "Still, Mr. Mitford, you should remember that she is your wife;" she replied with hesitation. whom he was immediately to direct his answer, confirmed those fears, and he dreaded lest she should be unwarily brought into some mischance. He dreamed not of answering it. A few months passed-perhaps six-but that time had wrought no change in the young poet's mind. Probably it would have been well if he even then possessed the resolution to exclaimAway, away, my early dream Remembrance never must awake!" "Nay, dear Gertrude, cannot you call me Ed-Or better if he possessed a mind sufficiently enerward, or dear Edward? But you love me not." getic to enable him to put such a resolution into "It is a fearful thing to be the cause of separa-effect; or again, perhaps things are still better as tion between man and wife," she answered thoughtfully. "It is, Gertrude, but you will not be the cause. That letter will either confirm my suspicions, or entirely free my mind from doubt. If it confirm them-well; if not -" but, checking the words, "See, Gertrude," he said, and his voice descended into a whisper; "I love her not." they now are. Six months had passed, and Marcella had returned. It would be needless to enter into a detail of the causes; suffice it, that the capricious nature of Edward Mitford, for some purpose, ordained it so, and Marcella dared not dissent. By some perversity of sentiment, no place would now answer Mitford to reside in except the town in which D'Alton lived. In vain Marcella wished him to relinquish that purpose; in vain she pleaded the many objections against it, but he was inexoA few days after I visited Augustus D'Alton, herable. "I never ceased to love you, Marcella," returned home; and four weeks after his return, he received a letter bearing the American postmark. From whom could it be? He paused for a moment ere he opened it to think. There was no one except Marcella Mitford, and he dared not to hope it was from her. CHAP. V. he replied, "and when I speak of D'Alton or Willis, I do not mean it." Marcella's heart could not respond to those hollow assurances; words are of little weight when they are at warfare with our actions. She complied in silence; but fearing that a separation would soon be necessary, she deemed it to be her | felt that he was her husband, and she mourned the duty to inform Mrs. Belton of the manner in which she lived. From Mrs. Belton Augustus heard it with surprise and indignation. He no longer visited the friend of his youth, but endeavoured by constantly avoiding Marcella to remove from Mr. Mitford's mind the unjust impression he entertained of him. It required resolution to do so, for he still loved; but he felt that Marcella suffered all on his account; he severely reprobated himself for having confessed to her his love. While at Windermere he had become acquainted with Sir Henry Parnell, and that gentleman, on a vacancy appearing in the Government Office at Chelsea, kindly requested the young poet to accept of that situation: Ile went, and for four years never visited his home. During that time many changes had taken place. It was evening when he approached his home; he felt comparatively happy as he was borne swiftly past scenes and faces which he could hail as old familiar friends. The coach stopped at his father's door, and as he alighted from it he started, for he had seen a lady garbed in mourning weeds enter Mr. Belton's house. "Can it be possible?" he exclaimed aloud, and his cheek became crimson red. What a whirl of emotions passed through bis mind in that one short moment! Since leaving home, D'Alton in a slight measure had become changed. No longer was he a poet, if that designation be only bestowed upon those who, possessing "the power and the faculty divine," also employed it either as an occupation or a source of pleasure. By mingling constantly in society the usual diffidence of his manner had been subdued; he was now more of a conversing, and less of a silent, man than formerly. Still he had not forgotten Marcella Mitford; he endeavoured, and he believed he had, erased her from his mind except as a friend; but on the moment of his leaving the coach that delusion was dispelled. Poor Marcella! sad indeed was thy fate! With a mind awake to every noble sentiment, at an early age united to a man in every manner thy reverse, whose weak unprincipled mind knew not how to appreciate thy worth, and whose treatment of thee was a disgrace even to his sex, while endeavouring to remain with him thy portion truly must have been a bitter one. None knew the tears you wept in secret, the fearful scenes you had to encounter, ere you resolved upon separation as a last resource! D'Alton's ill-timed avowal of love increased your sorrows, and doubly bitter indeed must have been your feelings after separating, on receiving that cruel letter from Edward Mitford, informing you that he who should have loved, cherished, and protected you, was again returning to America to bestow that love upon another which he said had never been possessed by you. He went, that unfeeling man! and the next time Marcella heard of him it was as of one who had passed away from time. One would think she had little cause for grief, yet bitterly she wept over his untimely fate. Though he had taught her to "feel the pangs of severed love," she still death of one whom living she wished no more to see. Though while absent Augustus had repeatedly heard from home, he heard not that Marcella's husband was no more. At any time he would have shrunk from making her the subject of a correspondence, but then he felt doubly unwilling; and his relatives, finding that he never even in the most distant manner alluded to her, felt equally unwilling to be the first to inform him of it. It were needless to say with what pleasure, what joy he heard it, or to dwell upon the renewal of his acquaintance with Marcella. Suffice it, that he who loved when to love was hopeless, was not now backward in urging his suit. He pleaded as one certain of success, and fortune frowned not upon him; for though Marcella refused to be his until one twelve months of mourning had expired, still he was not debarred from her society; and the sweet anticipation that she who had been the bright constellation of his waking and his slumbering visions would soon be his, rendered him even more happy than he was in the bright season of youth, when he played and Marcella sung pretty songs, unconscious of the coming evils which for a time wrecked the happiness of both. A POET'S TRIBUTE. BY MRS. C. BARON-WILSON. I've gazed on many a fair and classic face Of youthful beauty, and of matron age; Have dwelt on looks of loveliness and grace, From Girlhood's blush to Woman's winter, sage; But ne'er have I beheld or cheek, or brow, That woke within my heart the rev'rence it feels now. Those braided locks, white as the driven snow With Age's winter; those sweet, placid eyes; That cheek, whereon no mantling tint doth glow, Yet lighted by the warmth the heart supplies, Dear, venerable Matron! on thy brow (As the sweet rose, its bloom and freshness past, Her heart no wintry chill or change has ever known! Must seek such loss, Religion to assuage; THE POET'S SONG. "The triumphs of a lonely heart do not produce happiness." MISS E. YOUATT. Oh, envy me not the guerdon of fame, Ye know not the price I have paid for them; Why should I tell ye of wasting care But which 'tis the poet's lot to bear- 'Tis to pine in vain for one heart to beat With mine in unison 'Tis to feel, 'mid the crowded festival, Then envy me not the wreath of fame, And its dark leaves hide from the gazing throng, M. L. THE PEASANT GIRL TO HER PATRI- There was no expectation in my love, My lowly station, and I gave to thee The worship of a river for a star My heart was not the light thing it would seem; So my thoughts followed thee, in that wild dream- And as its leaves retain the noontide's rays, The treasures it bad hoarded from the light; Sweet memories of thee, preserved in vain. THE SONG OF THE LARK. Merrily, merrily I fly, Sadly, sadly do I weep, When the night o'er earth doth creep; Sweetly, sweetly breathes the morn The Marigold. It is said that this flower, with several others of the Aster tribe, "on hot cloudless days absorb such a quantity of light, that they emit it again in the evening in slight phosphoric flashes." -SMITH'S Walks in the Garden. earth, Where mortals live in social mirth; I would see that world which holds their love From the lasting joys of the realms above." Swiftly she reached the verdant ground, Then wond'ring paused, and gazed around: She stood within a gay parterre— Bright summer flowers were scattered there; She gathered some, whose glowing bloom Was equalled by their sweet perfume. Alas! before the close of day She saw them wither and decay: The sun, whose gorgeous flood of light Had made the earth so glad and bright, Behind the western cloud was shaded, And the gay face of Nature faded. She fled from glen and bower, to scan The favoured dwelling-place of man; She stood in a gay banquet hall, Where pleasure seemed the guest of all; She looked in many a lovely face, Expecting nought but joy to trace. But vain her hope; for each fair brow, Though tranquil to appearance now, Seemed fraught with deep corroding care, With useless grief, and vain despair. The Seraph listened, as her ear Distinctly caught the accents near; She heard of friendship early blighted, Of trusting hearts disdained and slighted, Of gladsome spirits crushed and broken, Of vows forgot as soon as spoken. She found there was no earthly joy Free from some fatal, dark alloy; No path so smooth, no lot so fair, But some misfortune hovered there. "Ob, man!" she cried, " and is it this That forms thy sum of human bliss ? And is it thus thy nature clings To these frail, brief, and fading things? Oh, better far thy soul should be, Like mine, unfettered, pure, and free; And happier, when it wings its flight Unto the realms of endless light, Than dwell on earth, where every smile Is met with scorn, deceit, and guile! I quit thee, world of vain career, For my own bright, inmortal sphere!" There is no bliss so true and pure As that which faith and prayers ensure ; When earthly cares and griefs are past, And Heaven's repose is gained at last! -- BY MRS. E. S. CRAVEN GREEN. ་་ how well that gallant brow will look when the long-lost coronal of our race shines above it, and the bonnie earl shall come with a monarch's favour once more to his father's hall," said the fair-haired Phemie, as she kissed her father's reverend brow. Her race had long been devoted, with many of the proudest of the land, to the fortunes of the "Exile," and her brave brother was now out in the first of his fields to support the cause of "bonnie Prince Charlie." Her father, confined by severe ill-health, could only be there in heart; and was deeply anxious to learn the issue of that last decisive battle on the fatal field of Culloden. The rapid approach of a steed, its sudden stop, and the quick parley of its rider with the nearest domestic (who, anxious as his master, was ever on the watch for the coming of the tidings), made the My mother's dwelling, in the mercantile town of --, is situated in one of its busiest streets, and having been deprived of many symbols of ancient architecture (particularly the Cross of the Templar Knights, shewing how wide once had been the rule and large the property of those heroes of Jerusalem, by this type of their valorous devotion marking every dwelling which contributed to their rents or rights), by the profane hands of some abettor of the Improvement Act," and perfectly modernized into a plain brick building, by the tasteful endeavours of its au-jour d'hui landlord, has nothing remarkable in its out-of-door appear-old laird start to his feet, as the enthusiastic ance, but within the spoiler has not been, and its favourite apartments still present an air of gothic splendour, from the many relics of the old style of furniture which adorn them. I love this dwelling not merely because my mother has, for many years, shed the sweet quiet of her gentle heart over it, till it almost appears to my imagination, when far away and clouded with the world's troubles, like that sanctuary on the waters to which the lonely dove returned, when she had "sought rest and found it not." In that house one was born and died, a fair blossom, too beautiful for earth, on whose life I had founded my happiness; but the destroyer came, and my heart's brightest feelings perished in the early grave of the loved and lost for ever. One evening, when the silver kettle and antique china were removed, I had nothing to divert me but the wild rush of the wind without, and the contemplation of the mementos of antiquity within. My mother's attentions being deeply engrossed by a superb piece of embroidered damask, on which the witchcraft of the needle had wrought, in coloured silk and silver, the white rose and the heath flower; this she was forming into a cushion for a curiously carved and high-backed oak arm-chair, the possession of which was most irreligiously coveted by an antiquarian friend of ours, and as strenuously defended by my mother. "Pray," said I, "what can you see so very interesting in that evidently decaying piece of furniture, to adorn it with such splendid hues?" "Child," answered my mother, looking up from her employment, "has your heart not yet learned to look beyond the surface? There is a tale of woe and daring attached to this old oak chair-a legend of those times when men shed their blood like water, fighting for what each thought the good cause. 66 Phemie rushed to the outer portal, trusting to meet thine! how many hearths, like this, made deso- As the stranger spoke thus, he sunk upon an oaken chair near him, and drew the veiling tartan over breast and brow; but it could not hinder bis low sobs of agony from reaching the ears of his auditors. Phemie, who had risen from her deaththe silence. trance, and clung weeping to her father, first broke "Oh, father, think that our own Malcolm may have thus to plead, and cast not the fugitive from our gates." "Stranger, here you are safe; none will pursue into this rocky wilderness. Rest, then, thou whose laird kindly sought to press the hand of his guest: heart seems broken as my own;" and the old it was yielded to him, and its cold damp touch showed how worn the frame must be from neces It is needless to say that, inspired alike by curiosity and the hope of passing away the long and weary winter night free from the tedium of ennui, I persuaded my kind mother to repeat tosity and want. me ber chronicle of the times of my ancestress, the original possessor of the carved oak chair. * "Father, the times are wild; we are far from that field which is to decide the fate of many-do not despair. Our Malcolm will return, and think Phemie's eyes met her father's glance, and she hastily left the room, returning quickly with abundant provision, which the ancient domestics helped her to arrange, and heaping up fresh fuel retired. During this time, the stranger appeared to have partly recovered himself; but still enfolded in his plaid, he traced, unconsciously, with his sheathless and broken dirk some characters on the arm of the chair in which he reposed. Suddenly starting, as his kind host addressed him, he, with a silent obeisance, availed himself of the plentiful repast, though still assiduously, with plumed cap and tartan, shielding himself from the gaze of his entertainers. Much as the laird wished to learn if the stranger knew aught of the fate of his son, yet hospitality demanded he should not embitter the much wanted meal by a recurrence to circumstances that agonized his guest so deeply. None spoke, for Phemie could but weep, and the father mused on the fall of his own proud hopes and the fate of his only son; suddenly in the stillness, the tramp of horses was faintly heard, and the stranger sprang wildly into the centre of the apartment. "Hark! my pursuers! they come! they come! then I am lost!" 66 Nay, not so, stranger; the father of Malcolm Mackenzie will give his life for one who has fought beside him; here thou shalt be safe, wert thou Charles Stuart himself." "I am Charles Stuart!" said the wanderer, casting aside his cap and tartan, his long fair curls falling brightly round his face, whose noble features had, amidst their mortal paleness, a sweet and touching dignity. "I am that outcast, and what can I expect from the father of Malcolm Mackenzie but his eternal malediction? Curse me, old man, thy son's blood is yet upon my garments; he died to aid my escape. Nay, siuk not thus to earth; speak, and let me, in thy words, hear the curses of all whose hearts I have broken in lost, unhappy Scotland." At these words Euphemia rose up, her bright eyes without tears, and her sweet girlish face beaming with the proud expression of her devoted heart; she rapidly crossed the room, and sliding back a part of the carved wainscoting, exclaimed"Fly, fly, my prince! the sister of Malcolm will, like him, protect thee to the last!" Then suddenly forced Charles (whose arm she had seized) into the aperture, and closing the spring, he found himself in utter darkness; then, with the quickness of devoted and determined courage, she wrapped herself in the tartan he had thrown aside, and placing the plumed cap above her own fair curls, she turned to her astonished and agonized father, exclaiming "To the death, father! to the death for Charles Stuart !" At the moment when the crash of the yielding gates, the quick tread of many feet, and the hoarse voices and the clatter of steel, announced the entrance of the dreaded pursuers, the door of the apartment was burst open, and the room half-filled with soldiers. "Ha!" said the leader, "behold our prize! Yield, sir; you are my prisoner!" and seizing the arm of the form enveloped in the well-known tartan of Charles, there was a cry of "To horse! to horse!" a rush of departing steeds, and the devoted Phemie was borne away a prisoner ere her father (whose broken exclamations were disregarded) could comprehend his heroic daughter's purpose. The sudden disclosure of his son's death, and the added agony for his daughter's fate, literally broke his aged heart, and Charles forced his way through the shattered panuel into the room only to hear his death groan. With this fatal proof of the horrors of civil war weighing upon his soul, the Stuart fled far away into the darkness of the night, with the vain thought of yielding himself up, and saving the fair and fearless Phemie. But time rolled away; the wanderer found a home in a foreign land; and Phemie, the early discovery of whose sex called forth the admiration of her gallant captors for such a proof of courageous devotion, was speedily returned in safety to her now disconsolate home. Time, it is said, does wonders-and the proverb must be true-for when Phemie Mackenzie cast aside her long worn mourning weeds, it was to don the bridal garment to meet at the altar the young warrior to whom, as "bonnie Prince Charlie," she had yielded herself prisoner. Her descendants have been many, but it has ever been their pride to preserve the oaken chair on which Charles Stuart traced with his dirk the initials of his name and the cross, alike the symbol of his faith and the type of his fate. "For ever crost and crost." around; And the colourless flowers of the vines that had faded, Were twined with the fillet thy white brow that bound. Dost thou think of that cottage, so peaceful and sweet, Where our youth's radiant garland of friendship and love Was reared in the sunshine of hopes, fair as fleet, And cheered by the music that rang through the Oh! yes, there's a spirit that breathes to my bosom grove? Thy faithful remembrance of all that was dear; nd memory restores to me-rich in its blossomATby love, our sad parting, each sigh and each tear! D |