strikingly handsome man, apparently deeply absorbed in the perusal and examination of a large collection of parchments and other papers, which were placed on a table before him. His dress, which was of the deepest mourning, contrasted well with the crisp, golden curls, which clustered round a brow of almost feminine beauty, as well from its transparent fairness as from the expression of genuine goodness which rested upon it, and which might possibly have given a degree of irresolution to the rest of his countenance, had it not been for the almost stern character of his deep-set and lustrous eyes. Notwithstanding the extent of the chamber, it was lighted only by a solitary lamp, which stood on the table beside the young man, and shed its pale gleams chiefly on the small space he occupied, leaving the rest of the apartment in partial obscurity; which could not, however, conceal the richness of its furniture and appointments. The crimson hangings were of the richest silk, elaborately embroidered, and their glossy splendour would alone have told of wealth and luxury. Here and there lay scattered ornaments and china-relics of a distant age and clime, | while round the walls hung many a painting, whose rare beauty would have rivetted the gaze of any but their already absorbed owner. It was evident, however, that weightier matters than these now pressed upon his attention, for his glance did not wander from the objects over which he bent, and his features wore a sad and anxious look which it was easy to perceive was far from being their usual expression. One by one the different papers beside him were examined, and laid carefully aside, until at length a packet of old and faded letters met his view, these, like the rest, he proceeded to examine. The paper was discoloured, and the writing nearly illegible; but this did not deter the young man from their perusal, and on opening the first which presented itself, he read as follows: "I again appeal to you for succour. If, as you say, I have disgraced our father's name, and thereby lost your pity and regard, it is plain that pride has more influence in your heart than either mercy or brotherly affection. Be it so. It is on this ground that I now claim your aid; for unless you send me instantly the sum I have already asked--a sum which with your wealth can never be even missed by you want and desperation will urge me to commit that which will degrade our name still further." finger of God has directed the circumstances which have thrown light upon this hitherto dark subject, and it is for me to penetrate its obscurity." It was indeed no other than the wretched, the degraded "drunkard" who had penned the letters which now lay (silent, yet powerful witnesses of his fallen state), before the son of that brother who had years before discarded him for ever. But to explain these events it will be necessary to say a few words concerning his past life, and the circumstances which had led to his present poverty and disgrace. Howard's father had, besides himself, another son, named Philip; who, from being the younger, and a more steady character than his brother, was the acknowledged favourite. As the young men advanced in life this preference had increased; for while Howard manifested an inordinate love of expenditure, and unconcealed aversion to his father's occupation (which was that of a merchant), Philip, on the contrary, became each day more fitted to the duties required of him, well knowing that his future independence could only be secured by continued obedience to his parent's wishes. In accordance with these views he married, from prudential motives, a person whose wealth would, he imagined, confer upon his family both influence and importance; and this act completely cemented the affection of the old merchant. Things stood thus when the father died, leaving to his youngest son the bulk of his possessions, with the express command that he should continue the business by which they had been acquired; and to his son Howard a sufficient sum to enter any trade or profession which he might prefer. Reckless as to the future, the latter thought not of applying the capital thus left him to the purpose designed, but soon squandered it in selfish indulgence; and found himself in a few years with a wife and two children entirely dependant upon his brother's charity. Disappointment and unavailing regret took possession of his heart, and to escape from them he yielded to the temptation which proves fatal to so many wretched beings; in a word, he became adrunkard. Philip, on the contrary, had fulfilled to the letter his father's injunctions. Aided by the allpowerful influence of character, joined to unfailing industry and energy, he soon doubled the This epistle bore neither date not signature, fortune which had been left to him. But with and the reader again turned towards the re- increased wealth had come a certain hardness of maining ones, in the hope of discovering more feeling, which prosperity rarely fails to impart concerning the mysterious events to which they to little minds. Disgusted by his unfortunate alluded. Though they were all in the same brother's degradation, and by the want of style, and appeared to have been written under prudence which had led to it, he refused to the influence of bitter and even violent feeling, render him any assistance, and finally broke off none but the last afforded the least clue to the all connection with Howard and his family. name of their author; but this bore, in almost This last circumstance was the climax of the illegible characters, the signature of "Howard." elder brother's misfortunes. For a short time he "Can it be possible," thought the young man, struggled to maintain his wife and children by as this word met his eye," that this is the same exercising his talents as a painter; but the man of whom my father never spoke without desultory habits in which he had so long inrepugnance-the brother who he said had cast adulged had become as it were part of his nature, stain upon our family! Surely, if it be so, the and they could not now be overcome. Despair | at his want of success drove him afresh to his former vice, and, ruined both in health and fortune, he retired with the hapless victims of his selfishness to the obscure little town which we have already described to the reader. Some time previous to his elder brother's marriage the merchant had become a father; and on the same day which gave to him a son, his wife expired. It was this son who now sat in the apartment of his deceased parent; for Philip Howard had been just laid in the grave, and his possessions had consequently devolved upon the young heir, who was now executing the painful duty of examining the old man's private papers. As no mention had been made of the wretched Howard, either in the will, or by Philip in his last moments, it is probable the young man would never have remembered his uncle's existence had it not been for the letters which so strangely arrested his attention. It was a bright clear evening in spring when the young merchant entered the little town, and about the hour when the sun throws his parting glance with deeper radiance ere he sinks to rest, making even the most desolate and gloomy spots look for an instant cheerful beneath his smile. At this instant the streets of D▬▬ were no exception to this rule, and appeared comparatively light and sunny, as filled by its poorer inhabitants, who tasted at that hour only the pleasure of relaxation from their daily toil. Ralph Howard's first thought was given to the object of his journey, and he determined, as it was then too late to introduce himself to his uncle's family, to visit, as he had intended, the gentleman from whom he hoped to glean some intelligence concerning them, and who in reality was no less a person than Mr. Percival. Leaving therefore his carriage at the inn, the young man set out in quest of the latter's house, where he doubted not his reception would be of the warmest nature, for he well knew that gentleman's predilection for all who were possessed of wealth or influence. Nor was he mistaken: Mr. Percival deigned to be both charmed and surprised at his arrival, and after presenting him with much ceremony to his wife and daughter, who happened to be that day at home, entreated in his blandest tones that his visitor would honour them by remaining to dinner, which the latter willingly consented to do. Neither Cassie nor her mother had ever beheld Ralph Howard before this evening; and though the former had often heard his name mentioned by her father in terms of the highest eulogium, in consequence as was supposed of his reputed affluence, she was far from suspecting his near relationship to her friend and school-fellow, Ralph Howard, unlike his cold and worldly father, was possessed of a warm and generous heart, which revolted at the mere semblance of cruelty or injustice; and a feeling of deep pity mingled with anger rose within him, as he learnt the sad tale of suffering and despair which was thus suddenly disclosed to him. But with these generous feelings the young man was by no means exempt from pride, though perhaps it was of a kind less empty than that which generally prevails. An honest and unstained name, and a position in the world, for which he was indebted to his late father's and his own exertions alone, these were the objects which inspired that confidence in his soul which rendered him proud. But so much real and unaffected goodness dwelt within him, that no trace rested on his countenance of what was in reality the most deeply-Josephine. rooted feeling in his nature. Nevertheless, though his uncle's letters spoke plainly of disgrace (to which, like all sensitive men, Ralph was more keenly alive than to almost anything else), in this instance his mind dwelt sorely upon those passages which detailed the misery which his helpless cousins had suffered, and he determined in his heart to repair (as he doubted not he might easily do) the injuries which his father had committed towards them. Full of these projects, he turned his thoughts towards the means of discovering more concerning the present state of their affairs, and the idea struck him that a former friend and agent of his father, who was then residing in the town which he knew from the date of the last letter to be the place of their retreat, might possibly be able to inform him of their circumstances and conduct. But on reflection he determined to hazard no inquiries which might perhaps be answered in a manner at once unsatisfactory and revolting to his pride, but rather to go himself to D- and judge with his own eyes of the state of the case. With a man of Ralph Howard's character, to decide was to act; and accordingly, within a few days after the discovery he had made, he had arranged the affairs which pressed most on his attention, and departed on his mission of peace. Mrs. Percival was for once even amiable and polite, for the presence of so distinguished a guest was an event of unprecedented occurrence since her residence in D--; and she declared accordingly, in languishing tones, that it was perfectly refreshing to see any one who belonged to that world from which she had been for so many years an exile. By the "world" it is supposed she meant the metropolis; where, in fact, her youth had been spent, and which she had never ceased regretting since her husband's obstinacy had torn her from its enchantments. "And to what fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Howard?" asked the great man of D——, with more obsequious politeness than the worthy inhabitants of that town would have conceived him capable of assuming. "I presume you had some particular motive in leaving town so soon after your great bereavement." "You are perfectly correct, sir," replied the young man; "I had indeed a powerful motive for coming so far from home at this time, and nothing but a sense of imperative duty would have caused me to leave the affairs which claim my attention owing to my father's sudden decease; but the honour of his memory is implicated in my present journey, and I had therefore no choice but to act as I have done." Mr. Percival listened attentively to this explanation; and when Ralph paused he inquired, in a tone of surprise and curiosity, whether the late Mr. Howard had ever entered into any money-transactions in D--, for his mind was incapable of entertaining any idea unconnected with this, to him, all-absorbing subject. The old merchant's son could hardly restrain a smile at the question; but it vanished as he replied, in a somewhat embarrassed manner, that his expedition was totally unconnected with commercial interests, and solely on affairs of family importance. "In fact, my dear sir," continued he, colouring from mingled feelings of eagerness and dread which he could hardly explain to himself, "to be candid with you, my visit to this place is entirely for the purpose of making inquiries concerning a person who I grieve to say has been deeply injured by my late father, and who, I have every reason to believe, is now living in this town under circumstances which do no honour to our name. This man is no other than my unfortunate uncle Howard; and, feeling myself bound to keep my father's memory clear of reproach, I have come to offer him my friendship and services in token of peace.' Mr. Percival's usually inanimate countenance became perfectly lighted up by astonishment as he heard these words, and he shook his head doubtingly as he answered-"You are come on a wild-goose chase I fear, for to my knowledge there is no person in this place of your name; and even, my dear sir, should your uncle be indeed here as you suppose, is it altogether prudent to volunteer your assistance to one of whom you know so little, and who stood so ill in your late respected father's estimation?" "I have not come to this resolve without mature consideration," replied Ralph Howard, decisively; "but, having done so, I cannot now abandon it, and I am convinced that had my father lived, he would, sooner or later, have changed his opinion on this subject. As he has, however, been unhappily called away, I consider myself, as I have before said, bound to make his peace with those he has so deeply injured; and my only fear is lest I should be unable to trace them. I had confidently hoped that you, my dear sir, would have been able to give me some information concerning their residence at least." As the young man uttered these words in a tone of despondency, he raised his eyes, and they fell upon the flushed and agitated face of Cassie Percival, who, almost unobserved by him, had been listening earnestly to the above conversation. The young girl was evidently struggling with some sudden and deep feeling; but whether painful or otherwise it would have been difficult to decide. Twice her lips moved, as though she would have spoken, but no words came, and her colour varied each instant from crimson to deadly white-she had divined the connection between Ralph Howard and the drunkard's family. Strange to say, however, none but himself observed this circumstance, and to him it was inexplicable; he saw only that his words had aroused some unwonted emotion in her heart, but he guessed not that it had reference to the subject which filled his thoughts, and, unable to solve the enigma, he turned again to address Mr. Percival, when the announcement of dinner put an end to the conversation. The evening passed rather heavily, for Ralph had no feeling in common with his host, and he at once perceived that that gentleman either would not, or could not, further his designs; and this opinion was confirmed by Mr. Percival's saying, as his guest was departing, "I trust, my dear sir, you will think better of this affair, which, if pursued further, would, I am persuaded, only implicate you in both trouble and annoyance.' "Mr. Percival," returned young Howard, in a tone whose decision amounted almost to sternness, "you can have but a poor idea of my character, to suppose that, after coming so far, I should now turn back without fulfilling the intention which led me hither. Pardon me therefore if I again repeat, that I am unshaken in the resolution I have expressed, and shall feel under an obligation to you, if either yourself or your family can procure me the information I so much desire." As he pronounced these words, he looked stedfastly in the countenance of the person to whom they were addressed, for he was in hopes that Mr. Percival would no longer refuse to assist him when he knew that his determination was fixed; but he read in his countenance only perplexity and a slight degree of alarm, and, turning hastily away, he was about to make his parting salutation, when Cassie rose from her seat, and timidly approaching him, said, in a voice which trembled from fear of her parent's displeasure, "I cannot see you in this perplexity, Mr. Howard, without attempting to remove it, though perhaps I am presumptuous in speaking at all on the subject; however, if you will forgive the liberty I am taking, I would advise you to call to-morrow on Mrs. Adams, whose house any person in the town will readily show you; I am convinced she will inform you of all you are desirous of learning concerning the family of your uncle." "I am most grateful for your kind advice, and shall gladly take advantage of it, Miss Percival," replied the guest; and the sudden brightening of his eyes proved the truth of his assertion. Mr. Percival's brow darkened, but he attempted to conceal his vexation by expressing the warmest desire that his guest's projects might meet with success; and disgusted at his dissimulation and want of good feeling, Ralph Howard withdrew. It was a cold, dark night, and not a sound broke the stillness of the frosty air, save the quick decided steps of the young man as he walked rapidly on, elated with the near fulfilment of those intentions which his heart told him were generous and upright. "By this hour to-morrow night," thought he, "what tears may I not have dried for if those sad despairing! letters speak truth, great indeed has been the suffering my father's avarice has caused." Thus reflecting, he reached the little town, whose streets, save where a dim light burned within some miserable shop, were dark and gloomy as the lonely road which he had just left. All was silent too, and no human form appeared in sight, which, with the excessive stillness which prevailed, seemed strange to the merchant, considering that the time was not within an hour of midnight; but on turning suddenly round a corner which led to the centre of the town, the cause of its desertion was revealed to him. Against the dark sky arose, at intervals, the crimson glow of strong and angry flames, which threw a lurid glare around, lighting up by their fierce radiance, the surrounding objects; and on the night air came the murmuring noise of voices in the distance, from among which might be distinguished the terrible cry of "Fire!" For an instant Ralph Howard stood rooted to the spot at this strange scene, and then, spurred onward by that reckless impetuosity which urges us in youth to seck the paths of danger and excitement, he flew with redoubled speed along the dark and silent streets towards the place of conflagration. (To be continued.) THE LAMENT OF THE UNFORTUNATE. BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO. A sweet voice, a glad voice O Hope, it was thine ownBreathed in my car, "Rejoice! The clouds of care are flown; Night's shadows flee before The steps of coming day; Gloom shrouds the heart no more When grief hath pass'd away !" Strange were thy words; and wild, O Hope, their cheering sound! Fortune's discarded child Her frowns had girt me round, Year after year, until So natural appear'd Every dark form of ill, It now was scarcely fear'd. Strange was that voice, and wild And joyous thoughts which broke Sorrow's dark chilling spell, And rose in their own power, Bidding bright fancies tell Dared then my heart to breathe Dared then my thoughts to wreathe Dared I to yield at last Hope to thy magic sway, Thinking that night was past Dreaming of coming day? Sweet was the melody Of Hope; thy syren tone Thought for thine own; Wild was that voice-too wild! Fears and misfortune then With serpent-like fold! Yet not as of old they came- That sorrow was still the san, And change but in me? Hope! was such work thine own? With thy soft 'witching tone To visions too sweet, Darker the tempest seems For which Hope's fleeting bexios Riven apart. Breathe not thy spell again, Hope! 'tis no more The hour of their might; in vain Then bid them cease. PITY AND THE ROSE. A lovely Rose was dying, Soft Pity o'er the flower Let fall some balmy tears, When, as by magic power, The Rose reviv'd appears! Those precious tears by "Pity" shed, CLARA PAYNE. A FEW REMARKS ON MANY THINGS. BY MRS. VALENTINE BARTHOLOMEW. No. V.-SOCIETY. The most agreeable and often the most useful acquaintances are formed by accident; few can resist the advances of those whose address is at once frank and courteous. The English lose many advantages from general conversation, by shutting themselves up in their nutshells of pride and reserve. We are so very cautious, that we are afraid to exchange the commonest civilities with a stranger abroad or at home, merely because his name and rank are not presented to us on his card; like lawyers, we seem bound to think every man dishonest until we have proved him otherwise. People are not the less sincere for possessing a pleasing manner; it is not necessary to swear eternal friendship with every one with whom we come in contact; but we may so conduct ourselves, that we may garner up a large store of knowledge from an unrestrained intercourse with our fellow-beings. The example foreigners set us in acts of courtesy and good feeling, are worthy of imitation. A short time ago, we visited Normandy on a sketching tour; and on arriving at the pretty village of Bonsecour, situated on the declivity of Mont St. Katherine, in the environs of Rouen, we were much struck with the picturesque appearance of an old villa; and as we were preparing our materials to make a study of it, the lady and daughter of the house, who had been watching our movements, made their appearance at the door, and begged us to walk in and see their garden, an invitation we most gladly accepted; from thence, our eyes were feasted with a most superb view: on the bosom of the Seine, rested the magnificent old city of Rouen, with its cathedral and churches scarcely defineable in the blue mist which ascended the surrounding hills. Not a cloud broke the clear blue of the sky; every bird and bee seemed hushed into repose by the oppressive heat of a July sun; truly refreshing was the shadow of the luxuriant trees in that beautiful garden; and pleasant to the soul was the unexpected hospitality there strangely lavished upon us. Chairs were brought to the spot which commanded the finest subject for the pencil; and a table was spread with cooling fruits and fragrant coffee, of which we were entreated to partake with as little reserve as if we had been known to one another for years: the remembrance of that first meeting will ever live in our heart of hearts; and many a happy hour we afterwards passed together during our sojourn in that neighbourhood; and it was no small gratification to be able to leave behind me a miniature portrait of the gentle and simple Lenecardie Jean de Lise, which I painted for her mother as a token of my gratitude and esteem. Another time, as we were sketching in an obscure village, we were surprised by a thunderstorm; and the incessant rain, and the impossibility of getting any conveyance to an hotel, obliged us to seek shelter in a cottage, where we staid for some hours, partaking of the homely fare which the peasants placed before us, with a grace worthy of a countess; the payment for which was refused with the dignity of a queen. "We do not sell our hospitality, madame, we give it," were the last words at parting with our rustic hostess; words which cost us a second journey, in conveying presents to the children, which were gratefully accepted, when money was proudly refused. Another time, when we were toiling up a steep road at noon-day, we were overtaken by a market-cart, driven by a cauchoise, who immediately accosted us, and offered seats in her vehicle; she was sure monsieur and madame were unused to walking up the hills, and she preferred it; so if we would permit, she would get out, and lead the horse, and give us a lift as far as we were going. Hers was a most prepossessing face; her eyes were like sunbeams, imparting light and gladness to all things around her. She was dressed in full costume, for it was a jour de fête; and her rich lace cap with its lappets, concealed, but did not altogether hide, the fine contour of her throat, round which was clasped a gold chain and cross of exquisite workmanship; the yellow handkerchief, blue bodice, and scarlet petticoat, produced such harmony of colour, that we could not withhold expressing our admiration of her beauty; and when we told her we were artists, she redoubled her civilities, begging us to accompany her to her husband's farm, where she would regale us with new-laid eggs and milk from the cow, and would gather her choicest garden-flowers for monsieur to paint. All these fascinations we were obliged to withstand, being limited to time, but not the less grateful for her courtesy. The person who expects to possess more than one or two real friends is a vain simpleton, and deserves to be disappointed; acquaintances are the buds and blossoms which spring up amongst thorns and thistles of the rugged road of life; the friends are the evergreens, which remain fresh and unchanged through all seasons; but there is no necessity to despise the plant which blooms only in the summer. We owe much enjoyment to society; society |