"The gaiety of London, then, has not lessened your love for the country?" "Oh! no, indeed!" said she, vehemently. "I love it better than ever, though I know not how long it may be mine to enjoy it." And the tears fell from her tender blue eyes. "I thought Mr.-Sir Ralph, I mean, had bought the Lodge for a residence." Yes-but "But what!" said, or rather shouted Henry; be married! What shall I do?" you are not-oh! do not say you are going to "Pray, Mr. Hall!" Here he looked so wretched that her kind heart was forced to take pity on him. "Pray, Henry, sit down for a moment. I was going to say, we may soon be obliged to go to Liverpool, for my father intends giving up commerce in favour of his partner.” indeed love you-that I cannot help-but may I 'Oh, my sweet Ann!" said Henry, " knew how wretched I have been all this long say so, and still preserve your favour? If you time-never mind now, though." Dear little Ann! her tears fell faster than ever; while the beautiful radiance of a delicate blush shone may I I trust you will excuse the liberty I take in writing to ask if you will have the kindness to engage a good housemaid for me. My father has bought the Lodge of Mr. Mountfincher, and we shall be down next week. I ought indeed to have written to you before, but I fear events have proved my self-denial was wisest. I have, however, never for a moment forgotten your kindness to me at Forest End; but I sighed after the country enough, without sharpening my regrets by a correspondence with you. I am half wild with joy; I have been teasing papa ever since we left you, to buy the house, and at last have my way. That spiteful old proverb acknowledges, I think, the power of the weapon employed; don't you?-"La langue est l'épée des femmes, et elles ne la laissent pas rouiller." Happy, thrice happy day, that brings me back to peace and to you. Indeed, my dear Miss Hall, these are not common-through her tears, and delighted her lover. place expressions; I always loved you, and love you still. I might write on in this strain for an hour, but I must go and congratulate papa, who has just received a patent of baronetcy-Sir Ralph Villiers. I am, sincerely yours, ANN VILLIERS. A letter-but what a letter!- she did not even seem to know I had a brother! She could not forget. It must be as I thought-she loved him. A few days, a very few days must show. Henry had not seemed to have thought for a moment of their coming again to Forest End, unless Miss Villiers had returned to us as the Honourable Mrs. Edgar Mountfincher. His strivings to keep down hope, (which, however, would rise,) were painful to see. About six o'clock on a bright July evening, the carriage arrived which contained Mr. Villiers and his daughter. I caught a glimpse of her, and thought her as charming as ever; she had acquired an air of style and fashion that contrasted curiously, not unpleasantly, with the sweet simplicity of her face. About half-past seven a note from her requested me to walk in and see her for a few moments, if I could. I went, and was very affectionately received. I did not mention Henry's name, nor did she! This seemed very uncivil, unless she loved him, and was shy. The next morning Henry suddenly leaped into his former practice of early rising, and walked into his fields. There he met Miss Villiers; she held out her hand, which he could scarcely take for joy. "Forest End is as beautiful as ever," said she, falling naturally into the old habit of walking by his side. "Is it beautiful?" said Henry. To which question the lady only replied by a deep blush, They returned to the lodge, and procured Sir Ralph's consent before breakfast. "All he wanted was his daughter's happiness," he said"fortune the very least consideration; but Henry must take the arms and name of Villiers." Had the name been Smith or Green, Henry would have been happy to do so. In a few weeks they were married; Sir Ralph bought a fine estate in the neighbourhood, which he presented to my brother, only requesting the privilege of living with them; a privilege I of course was to share. Sir Ralph has been lately so very courteously affectionate to me, that Henry and Ann have tormented me finely; but I think his chief reason for liking me is, that I was the happy person who put into his arms about two months ago his grandson and heir. Henry has long ago regained his good looks, and is getting handsomer every day; so his wife says, and politeness obliges me to take her statement as correct; beside, as they are always together, she must know all about it. My poor flutist at Forest End has recovered from his pensive sadness, and is married to a lady whom report makes out to be a perfect virago. He consoles himself by saying, "Socrates had a Xantippe." Lest my readers should regret that I lost my lover, I must say that is really the only particular (excepting ugli ness, but that in a man is nothing) in which he resembles Socrates. The Honourable Edgar Mountfincher has rushed to literature as a source of relief, and brought out the other day the stupidest pamphlet on the currency that ever was written-which is saying a good deal. LINES. Wilt thou forget me? No! though forms as fair As all thou e'er hast gazed on, gaze on thee; Mock not thine heart, for I shall still be thereIn other climes thou wilt remember me. The lips that careless turn thy lips to press, The smile that languid breaks, to answer thine, Shalt 'mind thee of one passionate caress, And thou again shalt be mine-only mine. Thou'lt not forget me! Earth retains no spot As desert desolate, as Eden fair, Where I, in some sad hour can find thee not, And thou shalt own my presence even there. Vain is thy will-thou never canst erase One memory and one name: my soul will still Her way wing through illimitable space, And at her voice thine own shalt wildly thrill. I will speak to thee in low murmur'd tones, No spell the vanish'd dream can now restore, Our hands have sever'd-yet my spirit nigh Asks (and hate's wildest curse can ask no more), That thou shalt love me-love me tenderly! GONE AND COME. BY CALDER CAMPBELL. They love, but they must part: it is no dream! Fell on their path; hearts do not always break, Supprest by each one for the other's sake: Ten years are past, and was the maiden right Seemeth to have in scattering above her "Hope on! despair not! Thou shalt surely share VOICES FROM NATURE. BY G. J. O. ALLMAN. No. 8.-THE BEAUTIFUL. Go to the cloud-wrapt mountain, when the light Go in the blushing Dawn, when white-wing'd clouds, Big with the quickening shower, float lazily; Or else, in maiden guise, disport in crowds, No. 9.-FLOWERS. Oh! lovely Flowers, whose thickly clustered heads A brighter tint of joy and Summer blending, Are like young, untried Spirits yet ascending The g'ade of Life-that when the hand of Death, Who dims all Loveliness-the Bright, the GayReaches the loved Companions of your Way, Then--then alone, ye bow beneath his breath, THE LARK ABOVE THE CITY. [LONDON.] (Suggested by Fact.) Morning's light is just awaking, Is thy mission one of pity, Downward a shower of song? Wilt thou gain a single hearer? Of life's all-destined part? Maybe there are those that list thee If thou cam'st not, they'd have missed thee, Come each morn, thy song repeating! FREDERICK Егоси. THE FALCON AND THE DOVE. BY W. B. BATEMAN. (A Tale, founded on Fact.) "Sharp is the kiss of the Falcon's beak." In one of the most picturesque of our midland counties lay the little village of Nestled beside the gliding Trent, and shut out as it were from the world by a surrounding chain of hills, it was far more famous than its size would have given reason to expect. Owing to a chemical quality of the river water, such ale was brewed there as no other neighbourhood could produce; and this had rendered it a place of note, and a habitation of wealthy families, for nearly two hundred years. The inhabitants, however, at the time of which I write, were of a very peculiar class they were the descendants of a race now happily extinct, whose vices perished with them, or subsequently assumed the shape of more refined debauchery. If the village forefathers, who existed thirty years ago, could be recalled from their family vaults and ivied tombs, to enact again the revels they pursued of old, an orgy would be presented of which modern minds have no conception. It was the time, when at dinner parties a certain quantity of wine was placed for every guest, and doors were locked to prevent egress until each had finished, or fallen among the chairs insensible; a time of hard drinking, hard riding, prize fighting, and card playing; when it was a feat for young noblemen to drive the Brighton coach; when farmers and their sheep were about on a par in mental calibre-an interregnum between two intellectual epochs. In the manor house and the hut tastes were in reality exactly similar: from the peasant who swilled ale, to the county magnate who drenched himself in brandy; from the congregation who slumbered through the service, to the parson whose hunter waited outside the church door on Wednesday mornings, until its master should doff the surplice for the scarlet coat, and gallop after the hounds, there was no distinction either in mind or morality. By degrees, however, that generation waned into decrepitude. It was matter of surprise that such men should ever reach old age, but reading and late hours were not the fashion then, and nature was reimbursed for the fretting wear of nocturnal riot by the healthy stimulus of violent exercise during the day. So the hoary debauchees lingered on, and their sons grew up to be witnesses of their example. The effect on the new generation was of a peculiar and destructive kind. While their progenitors had lived in a state of stupefaction, the schoolmaster had been abroad; an ability to drink six bottles of wine no longer constituted a hero; society began to demand talent of some description in the favourites whom she smiled upon. The reign of intellect dawned again. This change of course acted variously on various minds. Some of the rising youth drank as deeply of knowledge as their fathers had done of the tavern alcohol, and various contributions to literature marked their abandonment of the old school, and their healthy application to the new. Others-and it is with one of these we have to do-plunged with equal fervour into the vices of the past, and the literary researches of their own time: they excelled in both, Mental superiority and carnal depravity were leagued in fascinating union, and the studies of the day were succeeded by nightly orgies which outstripped all experience of moral delinquency. Among the chief leaders of this latter class was Edward Craven: deriving a large income from a source which required trifling attention, he had sufficient leisure and wealth to gratify any caprice that suggested itself. When nothing is too lofty and nothing too grovelling for a man's tastes, he is sure to become a universal favourite. At the betting-stand and the cardtable where he lavished his money, and at the festive board where he poured forth his wit, Edward Craven was equally acceptable: his servants adored a master who winked so kindly at their peccadilloes; his tenantry were devotedly attached to a landlord who not only left arrears without inquiry, but got up summer sports and winter feastings for their behoof, in which he mingled unceremoniously, and made himself the life and soul of their revelry. Young Craven had the very qualities which cast a halo over moral turpitude. None are all evil!" Talent, wit, and generosity, blinded people to the truth that he had no heart. It is to a merry Christmas Eve, on the occasion of one of these annual festivals, that we are now about to revert. Craven being unmarried, had evaded the old custom of a family party. Instead of noisy children, turbaned dowagers, and rheumatic aunts, he gathered together from hob-nailed shoes, and grey worsted stockings; there were the farming landholders of the better class the men who were "well to do," and who wore broadcloth; here and there stood Craven's bachelor friends, showing in their exteriors the fashionable polish which no riot can obliterate, and mingled with them all, danced the village girls in a tumultuous state of excitement; their ribbons fluttering, their feet and tongues going with equal speed. "Hands across!" then the arm was introduced to the lady's waist, and his wide acquaintance all the choicest spirits he could remember. If pleasure were a warrant of success, it was certainly not wanting here. There is never much restraint in bachelor association, but the license that now commenced struck astonishment even into the domestics of Edward Craven. Morning, noon, and night, brought each its several pleasures. Mid-day found them hunting or racing, if the weather were fine; and, if otherwise, there was a billiard table; and Jackson, the boxer, had been asked down; so there was no lack of exercise to pre-" down the middle" went the merry couple. serve their animus. At midnight they reeled with uproarious mirth from a late dinner to the card table, where gold rose and sunk in piles of heavy amount. A kind of delirium seemed to support and whirl them on. Night after night the excitement continued, until, as we have said, it was Christmas Eve. In accordance with his annual custom, Craven had thrown open his house to his dependants and tenantry. The hall, which (as in many old fashioned mansions) extended through the whole basement of the building, was turned into a spacious saloon. Massive branches of evergreen and holly were ranged along the walls, mistletoe depended profusely from the ceiling, and every twig supported coloured lamps, which cast a splendid illumination around, and lighted up the polished oaken wainscoting till it flashed like a mirror; countless lights too shone upon the board, where the roast beef and plum-pudding of Old England were prodigally spread, and partaken of by rich and poor alike. There was no precedence or ceremony. Craven sat at the head of the table, dispensing his viands and jokes with equal gusto; and only paused occasionally to whisper a sly compliment in the ear of the pretty girl at his right hand, who was considered the village belle. His bachelor friends were scattered among the rest, wherever they chanced to find seats; to them the whole affair seemed a magnificent joke; they drank ale with the men, they helped the girls to pudding, and then made them laugh so that they were unable to eat it; they toasted everything and everybody, from "The King, God bless him," to the tenant who had detected a poacher or bred a prize pig. By the time therefore that the dinner-tables were cleared away to make room for a dance, all distinction of persons was at an end, and the old hall echoed its accustomed sounds of reckless joviality. Some musicians, who had been hired from the nearest county town, then came in, and were stowed away with a bottle of brandy in one corner. A short space elapsed, during which they tuned their instruments, and the liveried servants of the household returned to join the ranks, and then the dance began. It was a country dance of course; nothing like it to mingle mortals in promiscuous gaiety, to raise human blood to lava heat when dissipation or labour have made it stagnate in the veins. The lines extended the whole length of the hall, forming a scene at once comic and picturesque. There were the peasants, with their velvet coats, Led by Craven's example, they paused half way beneath the spreading mistletoe, and at its altar the women offered the sacrifice of a kiss. With kisses, blushes, and laughter, the dance concluded, and the musicians betook themselves to their bottle of brandy. Amid all the gaiety, however, there was one uneasy spirit that gave no echo to the surrounding fun; it was Richard Hawthorn, the young farmer, the lover of Ada Gray, our village belle. While couple after couple whirled past him, he had only vision for her; wherever her eye wandered or footstep fell, wherever her light form appeared among the rest, his glance followed, and sought no other object. Sometimes, when Craven whispered in her ear, he bit his lip angrily; and then again he caught her eye, and the smile of recognition re-assured him. Still a feeling of dissatisfaction rankled in his heart; she knew that he had come to see her, and her alone! Why did she not join him? Merrily tripped the dancers; the oaken wainscot shone its warmest welcome to Pleasure; the holly waved, and the lamps shed forth their vari-coloured lustre in fitful leaps, as if they partook of the general animation. Down through the serried ranks went Craven and Ada for the last time; a loud shout proclaimed the embrace under the mistletoe, and a burning flush passed over Hawthorn's forehead as he heard it. The music ceased, the dance broke up, and Craven swept past him with Ada on his arm, and a smile of triumph on his lip. The lover rose and followed them. sur A murmur of applause greeted the host and his beautiful partner while they sauntered through the blazing saloon. Both were eminently handsome. Craven's tall elastic figure was mounted by a countenance that beamed with intellect and manly vigour. With the exception perhaps of an undue coarseness in the lips, the action of his mental pursuits had entirely obliterated any expression indicating less exalted passions. And Ada Gray, the village flower, had never looked so lovely: unlike most rural belles, her beauty partook more of the lily than the rose; thick chesnut hair fell in luxuriant curls over a cheek devoid of colour, but yet not pale, so clearly shone the blood through its transparent whiteness; her hazel eyes, lighted up by excitement, seemed to shower brilliancy on all they gazed upon. The crowd made way as she advanced, the half-whispered praises of admiration caught her ear at every step; she scarcely knew whether she trod on earth or air; every thing appeared an intoxication-a dream, save the gaze of Craven's eager eye on hers, and the sound of his subtle voice in its softest accents. Those were all she felt or heeded. Poor butterfly, beware! Can the moth touch the flame without perishing? Can the fascinated bird escape the serpent unstung? With her trembling hand still on his arm, the "hospitable" host led her from the busy throng. A large screen had been placed before the roaring fire to shelter the dancers, and its ample folds formed a cool nook beside the window seat. Casting himself into it with careless elegance, he beckoned her to sit beside him. They were un-loving Spring revelled over creation with a observed by all except Richard Hawthorn, who leant beside the thin partition that veiled their forms, but did not smother their words. "We could not talk," said Craven, “in the midst of the crowd; but now, tell me, sweet Ada, have we have I had the happiness to amuse you?" "O yes!" she replied with naïve simplicity. "And our desolate old hall," he continued, glancing proudly round the superb saloon he affected to speak of so lightly-" is our dreary bachelor solitude, as worthy the dance as your village green ?" "You are jesting," she said with a faint laugh; "nothing can be more beautiful than this." "It was never so until it reflected your loveliness," whispered Craven. A cold thrill shot through Hawthorn as he listened. Some indefinable instinct told him that the speaker had taken her hand. "They are going to dance again," she said, after a pause. "You must be my partner," he replied; "I can dance with none but the queen of beauty; unless," he added softly, "you have a lover, whose adoration you prefer to mine!" "I have-nothing-none-" she answered in faltering tones, that seemed at variance with the words. Weeks passed away. The presence of hoary Christmas had faded away before a bright new year. The earth was no longer wrapt in a winding-sheet of snow, the sky was no longer grey and austere like an aged brow, but laughterthousand joyous smiles. It was the time of primroses and honeysuckle, when eglantine garlanded the cottage doors, when light winds chased the transitory clouds, when the fish leapt sportively from their transparent home, now rising, anon sinking, then gliding down the tide like man along the stream of life. Fresh foliage made the trees look young and green; and birds, that had been driven by dreary winter to sunny climes beyond the sea, now returned again to find their well-known nests among the sheltering leaves. The husbandman was abroad, watching his corn and flocks with renewed spirit; the village girls bounded more lightly to their tasks, and sang as they went. At eve the chimney-corner was deserted for the meadow, on whose velvet sward fairies were said to draw charmed circles when the moon was full; and there rough peasant voices whispered tales that sounded more sweetly in listening ears than aught they had heard before, while old men and matrons beheld them smilingly. Among the maiden group, however, there seemed some gap-some link snapt by time! Where was the Flower of all their beauty and youth? In a cottage bordering the outskirts of the hamlet sat an old man at his evening meal, and a fair girl tended him. There was a peculiar fondness in the manner of his bright ministrant as she anticipated every want. Yet the love she evinced appeared mechanical, for a rest "None worthy of you," exclaimed Craven, without questioning her avowal; "I could not imagine such beauty linked to a vulgar des-lessness in her air, and a look of expectancy in tiny." She sighed, and was silent. "Let us join the dance again," he continued, "in the hall you have made so happy for one night. Ah! would you were its mistress, and-" He bent over her, and his face was swept by her clustering ringlets, when some heavy fall shook the screen that formed their hidingplace. It was Richard Hawthorn, who had sunk down insensible. The servants, attributing his fit to the strength of the ale, carried him off without comment; and Craven and Ada, unconscious of the circumstance, once more joined the dancers. Blithely to the fantastic measures of the music went that merry crew. "No pause till dawn when youth and pleasure meet." The room rang with laughter, the lamps shed festive lustre around, the evergreens and holly shone brightly. But brighter than all were the hazel eyes of Ada Gray, as Craven's arm bare her through the dance. her eye, betokened an absent mind. This was not remarked, however, by the aged man, and he finished his humble repast with the wonted thanksgiving, and sank back drowsily in the chair. His attendant smoothed the pillow for his veteran head, and sat down beside him, watching until he slumbered. Then-when the long breathings grew measured and calm, the features fixed, and the eyelids sealed-she kissed his forehead, and, folding her cloak around her, hastened from the cottage. Through the little garden and the wicket fence, through the glen and the glade, and down the winding valley, went the maiden stealthily, often pausing to look back with guilty terror, often starting as she hurried forward, like a frightened deer. On the bridge she stopped trembling; but the struggle was brief; she passed across the rugged planks-on the opposite bank of moss and violets paused the wavering daughter of Eve. But the loud neigh of a steed came floating on the wind, and her irresolution ceased. She bent her steps through the |