inaudible prayer to heaven; then wept in an ago- | mourning, wore a white hat, encircled with a broad ny. band of black crape, and Hessian boots, with rather large tassels in front.

The country people gazed upon each other with looks of wondering enquiry. The coachman, who was a reserved personage, and seldom spoke except to his horses, shook his head solemnly, and to prevent any exurberance of feeling from rising in his throat, commenced drinking from a quart tankard with prodigious energy.

The Squire had lately suffered a heavy affliction, in the loss of a beloved wife, who had died about six months previous to this time, leaving behind her an infant daughter, three years old, over whom he watched with the tender solicitude of paternal love.

The Squire was a tender-hearted man, universally beloved. Yet he had his little peculiarities. As a country Squire, how could he be exempt from them? The most striking of these, was a method of " hailing" whelming them with a repetition of rapid questions, that left them no room at all to answer. Such was the person who now burst upon the landlord of the tavern, with the above recorded notes of interrogation.

"Oh gosh! oh gosh!" roared the guard, running about the room, and talking with vehemence all the time. "Sally! Mary! Missus! where's the brandy? Get some tea, some coffee, some-anything, every-people in a very loud Squire-like manner, and overthing. An' I never spoke to her all the vay down, like a hog as I vas; an' the poor little fellow, so hungry, an' so like my George. Ah Lord! ah my! vell, vot air you looking at, you clod-hoppin, baconchops, did you never see a man's feelins get the whip-hand of him afore? Never mind, marm!-cheer up-all will come right-take some nice warm tea. Ah dear-poor cretur!" Then having given directions to the landlady to bestow every attention upon the sick lady, and requested that she might not be charged anything, he was obliged once more to mount the coach, which quickly disappeared, noiselessly in the

From the bed she occupied that night she never rose, and in three days afterwards, the innocent child was an orphan;-a friendless, isolated being on the swarming earth.

It is needless to enter into any minute details respecting the past history of her, who was thus released from her sufferings. Suffice it to say, that brought up in a high class of society, she had seen her family reduced to poverty. She had made a love-match with a young physician, who after strenuous but ineffectual struggles to gain a livelihood by his profession in London, had sunk under his exertions. There had she supported two years of widowhood and sorrow, in unceasing endeavours to supply herself and son with the common necessaries of life, by her needle and her pencil. The lurking fiend of consumption had struck and gloated over his helpless victim; who, finding herself any longer unable to continue her employments, and feeling the cold embrace of death coiling round her life, had flown from the hollow-hearted Babylon, to gratify a strange longing that possessed her, to die in her native village, which, alas! knew her not then.

"What's this I hear, Jenkins? What's this! eh! eh!"

These were the questions asked by a gentleman on horseback, on the morning of the poor lady's decease. The gentleman was 'Squire Moseley, who was that awful personage-awful so far as his authority extended "The 'Squire of the village." He was a man of about forty years of age; possessing a ruddy good-humoured countenance, and a blue eye, whose expression gave a better definition of benevolence than all the dictionaries. He was dressed in deep

What is it, Jenkins? bad affair! bad affair! Why didn't you send word to the Hall? who was she? when was it? eh! eh?"

Very bad job, yer honour,” replied the landlord, touching his hat, "poor lady! seen better days I'm sure! a poor widow, and a little boy."

"Ah?" said the Squire. A little boy? who is he? where is he? fetch him here-what's his name? poor boy! poor boy!" then he added, in a low voice, if my poor little Emily-What's your name, boy? who are you? how old are you? come here, my little darling! What's your name?" he said, as the landlord appeared with the little fellow.

"Henry Oswald, sir, and I want mamma,” replied the child.

God help us! God help us!" cried the Squire. John," he continued to his servant," fetch down the carriage, and bring him up to the Hall; God help him. I want mamma! Good morning, Jenkins! morning, morning!" said he, as he left the room hurriedly, with the tears in his eyes," come up with him, Jenkins-give you instructions-funeral," and the next moment the Squire was on his stout hack, proceeding homewards at a hard gallop.

Will the kind reader suffer twelve years to elapse in his imagination, and then join me, as I again take up the thread of this narrative, in the year 1814.

Mr. Moseley, when he took Henry into his protection, twelve years ago, had determined; as the phrase goes, " to do something for him." By which, at that time, he intended, no doubt, to get him educated in some charity school-apprentice him to a trade, and then, if deserving, start him in the world in a manner that would enable him to gain a decent living. But upon his arriving at the Hall, such an instant attachment was struck up between the orphan and his infant daughter, and the boy proved such an excellent playmate for little Emily, that the first step towards his education was delayed from time to time, and when, at length, a governess was procured to induct Miss into the mysteries of A, B, C, and it was discovered that she would "break her heart," if parted from her companion, the Squire resolved that they should be fellow pupils of the lady.

As years rolled on, the boy looked upon the Squire as a father, and his amiable qualities, and unobtrusive love, so won upon him, that, despite the somewhat

equivocal circumstances of his parentage, the gene- | band, and find you carriages and every thing that is rous Squire regarded him as an adopted son, and re- fine and grand. I, you know, cannot, have these solved "to make a gentleman of him, at any rate." things, and it will not be right for you to say you love Until the boy was ten years old, he was never sepa- me then." rated from his schoolfellow, and when he had reached that age, a favourite tutor was engaged for him. Thus had the children grown up together beneath the same roof, had enjoyed the same sports, imbibed the same tastes, and loved each other with mutual affection.

"Dear Emily," he cried, "do I see you then once "We will, Emily, or," said he hesitating, and look-more; God bless you!" and he kissed her pale brow, ing in her face," or as Hero and Leander!"

"Yes!" she replied, "they loved each other, and were not real brother and sister, more than we are." "No, Emily!" said he, "but they were lovers!" A very quick slight blush rose to her cheek, and What happiness to see you at last!" she said; she exclaimed," Ah!" She had been leaning upon" Papa's in London; how lonely and miserable İ his shoulder, but unconsciously raised herself, and was have felt! How did time pass with you?" absorbed in reverie. I have been alone amidst a crowd," he replied, "Yes!" he resumed, "so when you have a lover," my heart was here all the time; but your looks are who is rich and handsome, he will become your hus- much changed, Emily; you have been ill ?"

Ah, how unhappy you must have been," he exclaimed, "your colour has forsaken you, and--"

tain the passions, the same desires, the same strong necessity of loving, that animates more favoured mortals? And she too, she loves me; yes! my soul knows it, and rejoices at the unacknowledged truth. But alas! alas! poor girl! thy love will be but a thorn in thy side, and the affection that elevates others to bliss shall condemn us to torment." He threw himself upon a couch, and a flood of tears somewhat soothed the agony of his soul.

The next morning, Henry was among the passen

Ah, yes!" she said, interrupting him, "but you must be in need of refreshment, after your journey." Henry spent the time of his vacation at the Hall. On the Squire's return from "town," he received his hearty welcomes, mixed with advice, for the regulation of his future conduct, and injunctions to "want for nothing," but to apply freely to him on every emergen-gers of the coach, which passed through the village cy. Christmas passed merrily away, with its beef and turkeys, misletoe boughs, and holly bushes; and happiness reigned throughout the demesne, as it ought to do, at "Christmas time."

Henry and Emily were never apart. 'Tis true their manner and conversation were more restrained towards each other, than had been their wont, yet they were always together. Strange how their eyes were withdrawn, when their glances met; strange! that at such times they were suffused with blushes; and stranger still! why, when they were separated for a short time, each sought to be alone, and continually detected themselves sighing.

As the time of Henry's departure drew near, despondency fell upon each of them, and the night before he set out, they sought, as if by mutual impulse, a retired spot in which to make their adieus, and both wept when they separated.

In the ensuing June, as Henry was seated alone n his chamber, a letter was brought in by the college postman. The address was in Emily's writing, and his heart beat quick, as he tore it open and read as follows:

46

My dear Henry,

and stopped at the same inn, in which he was first introduced to the reader. It was night-fall when he arrived. He received the welcomes of the landlord, and the country people who knew him, and snatching a hurried meal, he set out for the hall.

It was a lovely night! Not a cloud nor a vapour lingered in the atmosphere! The stars were throned in beauty in the sky; and the full moon rising large and luminous behind a distant wood, glided in chastened grandeur through the silent sea of Heaven; flooding the earth with varied glory, and, watching Nature as she slept dreaming of Eden and muttering in her slumbers with the voices of her brooks-the whispers of her forests, and the subdued respirings of her zephyrs.

As Henry walked on, the charm of the hour crept over him, a sweet melancholy soothed his soul-a softened sadness calmed his heart, like a cooling dew; and with tearful eyes, and clasped hands, he raised his voice in passionate implorings to Heaven. Ah," he cried, "give me strength for the trials for which I am reserved. On me, on me alone, let sorrow fall! and despair alight! But merciful Father spare this tender one from the heart-blight of fruit"less love-the lingering death of hopeless passion!"

"

in contemplation.

He had reached the Hall, but it was not his intention to enter it. He entered a flower garden in which he had often sat with Emily, and from which he could "I am most unhappy! and to whom can I com- see the window of her room, determined to pass the plain but to you? My father has intimated to me night there. Scarce had he done so, when he perhis desire that I should receive with favour the ad-ceived Emily seated on a low rustic chair, absorbed dresses of Mr. Gresely, the eldest son of Sir Roger Gresely, a gentleman whom I met last winter at a county ball, and who has been here three or four times since. My father has set his mind upon the match, which is gratifying to his ambition; and, alas! what am I to do? I do not feel the slightest regard for the individual; and you know the Squire's peremptory obstinacy. I cannot consent, and it is equally impossible for me to grieve the heart of a parent who doats on me.

She was looking to Heaven, and her face was bathed with moonlight; its expression showed that sadness and calm sorrow brooded over her soul. The drooping ringlets of her hair, gemmed with dew-drops, wantoned in the playful breezes; and an inaudible prayer frequently escaped her lips, as her snowy bosom swelled with soft convulsions. She sat like the ruling spirit of the hour, with whom Night, and all its bright attendants were enamoured.

At

Henry looked on in silence, afraid to disturb the perfect serenity that hovered around her, and worshipped in sorrowing love at a distance. At this moment two nightingales, as if by previous concert, dissolved the still charm that bound the hour, and wakened the echos with their wondrous voices. Slowly and solemnly they began their strain. first a few half-articulate music-gasps died through the air; then in sweet whisperings, they murmured to the moon. Louder, and stronger they grewsoaring to the summits of melody, and swooning down in floating cadences. Then the spirit of the night fell on them-and they wrestled, and laboured, with the rapturous agony; and their inspiration reached to the listening voices of the night; that hid invisible in the shadows; which answered with multitudinou

echoes, till the vast emptiness of Heaven was deluged with sad melody.

The song ceased, and Nature, breathless, listened for a moment to the dying strains, as they floated through space. The soul of Emily was absorbed with the ineffable spell of the hour-and as she sighed unwittingly-Henry stood before her. She started as if a spectre had crossed her path, then fell into his arms and wept unrestrainedly.

"Be comforted, my dearest Emily!" he exclaimed, " and tell me all your sorrows.' "Dost thou not know them, my Henry ?" she an

swered.

"So the mystery of her conduct towards Gresely is explained!"

"And you dare to step between me and my schemes?"

"Yet listen to me, sir!" exclaimed Henry, imploringly.

Begone!" cried the Squire, in accent all tremulous; "begone, viper! What! did I take you from a dunghill, and warm you on my hearth, and cheer you into lire? To poison my happiness! to turn my home into a house of misery! to rob me of my best loved! my only treasure, and cloud the evening of my days with sorrow? Away, for ever from my sight! Lest in my just wrath, I forget the laws of God and man and take a dire vengeance."

Henry saw that expostulation was useless, and with a heavy heart he disappeared among the shadows.

“I can well guess them," said he, "I came here to urge you to accept the hand of this aristocratic lover; but my heart is traitor to my resolution. Oh, Heaven what shall I do? Oh duty! Oh prudence! what are ye all, when the irresistible power of Love is roused in the breast? Emily I will not tell you that I love you, such words are needless, and would The next morning, Henry dejected and heart-sick, be a mockery. That you love me my heart assures me. Yet, before the transport of passion overwhelms was on the way to London. He had resolved upon my senses; let me be rational. Ours, my dearest, is not returning to college, nor of remaining the recipient of favours from Mr. Moseley, in any shape. a melancholy fate! and before love grows omnipotent, He had no plans for the future, and his mind was too we should arrest it. Emily! I am a beggar, depend- much confused with sorrow to suffer him to think of ent on the kindness of strangers. A union with me the present state of his affairs. He had no means of can be productive of nought, but unhappiness and poverty. Can I drag you from your beloved home? living, beyond the trifling sum of money he happened From those elegancies and refinements, which have to possess; and he had never been in London. So become essential to your life? Ah no! strive to for-that if his excited feelings had allowed him to reflect, get me. Let me alone struggle with despair and he would have discovered that his lot was harder misery; and in mercy to yourself and your beloved father, endeavor to quell this passion. His prejudices I know are unsurmountable. He has set his heart upon this match, which will secure to you wealth, enjoyment, honour-and when this hour is forgotten happiness. I will retire to other lands, until kind death shall seek me out. Then, in another and brighter world, where love is no crime, and entails no misery, our souls shall be united in eternal commun

ion."

"Ah! and can you give me such counsel ?" she gasped, "Oh Henry, wring not my heart which is already deeply wounded! we will be unhappy to gether, my Henry! Whom should I love if not you? Could you wish me to cease loving you?"

" I

"Oh never!" he cried, folding her in his arms. feel that all is vain; Love is a mighty and a jealous power, and will reign despotic and alone. Yes, my Emily! my own, my beloved! Heaven formed our souls in unison; and will look with pity on the pure flame that inspires us. Yes, thou shalt be mine! though fate frowns and fortune forsakes. Here, in the face of God, with all his unsullied creatures of night looking on us, will we seal our bond, and exchange our vows to live for each other. Be cheered, my Emily, for my heart tells me that Providence will not forsake those, who, like us,"- Why why why, what's this? What's this? Hallo! what's what, Henry!-Emily!" 、

It was the Squire who spoke, and now stood before them shaking with rage. They started asunder, and Emily, whose feelings were already overwrought with excitement, fell, fainting, to the ground. Henry darted to her assistance, but the Squire stepped between them, and forgetting his usual mode of speech, said, in a voice loud and hoarse with anger,

than he at first deemed it.

and passed a week in morose melancholy. He then He took cheap and obscure lodgings on his arrival, found out that il faut vivre. Week after week did he consume in the vain effort to gain employment, All was useless! he was unknown, and wanted intutor-travelling companion-clerk-anything.

as

terest.

the face. The harsh reality of the world had ground So months rolled on, and beggary stared him in his spirit to humbleness, starvation was impending

nor was the consciousness of honour and rectitude able to support his soul in its native pride, in the face tinctured with the dark hues of the present, he wonof squalid want. Then, the bright past, becoming dered at his rashness, in daring to love so elevated a being as Emily; and although his love continued, in truth, pure and ardent as ever-yet it appeared only as a wondrous dream. "How," he would ask himself "how, could she have ever loved such as I am? A miserable wretch, unable to gain his daily bread."

The morning after the interruption of the lovers in the garden by Mr. Mosely, Emily was confined to her bed, by a raging fever. Day and night did the old Squire watch over her couch-tend her in the hours of delirium, and tire Heaven with supplications for her recovery. When the peril of the decease was over at last, he hung round her with a keener love, as one restored from the grave, through his own intercessions.

Slowly she regained her strength,-silently would she sit for hours in thoughtful reverie, while at times the unbidden tear bedimmed her eye, and the repressless sigh convulsed her breast, and the grey