ing to you, my dear Sir, and I will hasten to finish my little tale. My father listened to the history of our love with scorn and anger-the idea of his daughter marrying a curate of only respectable family, was what his pride would not listen to, and Spencer Vernon was rejected at once by him "But not so with me, my love was not thus te end, and I yielded to Vernon's earnest wish that I should marry him privately, and accompany him to his curacy in Devonshire. When there, I wrote immediately to my parents, intreating their forgiveness, but I received no answer; and all my letters since have met with the same fate though I have written constantly. And now for the most dreadful part of my life. My beloved Spencer had always been delicate, and week after week he grew more so. Medical advice was all in vain, he was fast hastening to that bourne from whence no traveller returns. Yes, after three years of almost perfect happiness, he was taken from me, followed by the tears of his little flock, to whom he was justly dear. My feelings I will not speak of-for a time they were too bitter for description, but I trust they are now what they ought to be. I have taught myself to believe we are but parted for a season, and that we shall meet again in unclouded joy-I look on him now as one For whom it is well, to be fled and gone.' "I could no longer however bear to live in the place where he died, and hearing much of the beauty and cheapness (which was a consideration to a curate's widow) of Woodbridge, I determined to come here, and devote the rest of my life to my darling child, and to the good of my poorer fellow creatures. "But I am called sooner than I expected to leave this world, and now, my dear Sir, I am going to make a request which I trust you will not refuse. My parents still do not acknowledge me as their daughter, for my letters still bring me no reply, therefore to them I cannot trust my Millicent. Will you take charge of her? To no one could I so willingly leave her; bring her up as your own, and I shall die quite happy. Speak to her sometimes of her mother, but teach her to look on yourself and your excellent wife as second parents. Will you promise me this? and may He, who sees all that passes on this earth, reward you both here and hereafter!" So concluded poor Mrs. Vernon, and I directly eased her mind by assuring her that I would with pleasure accept the charge she wished me to take, whenever she was no more, which I trusted would not be for very many years. But I was mistaken, and she was right; in a few weeks she breathed her last, and though we all felt sorrow at the death of one so young and amiable, we were indeed happy that her end was peace. She was buried in the little churchyard, and I caused a plain marble stone to be raised near her grave, with simply her name and age upon it, for such was her wish. It was a melancholy sight enough to see one so fair and good laid in the cold earth without any but comparative strangers, to lament her loss. But there needed none-she died happy, and is now I trust in the "better land." CHAP. II. Were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve; had force, and knowMore than was ever man's, I would not prize them, ledge, Without her love; for her, employ them all. SHAKSPEARE. Little Millicent was now removed to the Parsonage, nothing loth, for with the short-lived grief of childhood, she soon forgot her mother, and seemed to look on us as second parents, and on our little girl as her sister. And we loved them equally, for who could see Milly Vernon without loving her? Certainly no one in Woodbridge, for she was generally known by the name of "The Flower of our Village." Mrs. Vernon had left me all the money she possessed for her child's education, and I therefore sceured the services of a lady as governess for her, as I could not bear the idea of parting with her to go to school. And so her childhood passed, as most childhoods do, in learning and in play-oh! why do they pass so soon? for surely they are the happiest times of our lives. And here I would fain moralize for the benefit of my young friends, but that my paper warns me I am already trespassing too much on the pages of "La Belle." Pass we on then to the most interesting age of a young lady-eighteen. My readers must fancy my little merry blue-eyed Millicent grown up into a passing lovely girl, with a tall and elegant figure, (strikingly like her poor mother's,) the same dark ringlets falling over the polished forehead; sweet face as when a child, and the same long but the eyes surely are altered—they used not to be thus cast down before an earnest gaze, but now they strive to hide themselves methinks beneath their jetty fringe; and they no longer beam with sunshine and laughter, they have now a calmer expression, calmer, deeper, and somewhat melancholy withal; and those fair cheeks are flushed ever and anon with a crimson hue, and again they turn pale as the driven snow. What means this Reader!change, and what has caused it? "thereby hangs a tale," and we must unfold it to you. Woodbridge Hall, a fine estate about a mile from the village belonged to a Mr. Montague, a gentleman of large fortune and consequence. His family mixing much in the fashionable world, seldom visited their seat in the North, but generally spent their time between London and the gayest watering-places. The Hall therefore had been long deserted, and the tenantry began to think their landlord was never coming again, when suddenly an order arrived to have every thing prepared, as Mr. and Mrs. Montague, accompanied by a large party of friends, were going to honour Woodbridge with their society for the shooting season. They came, and I, as a matter of course, called to pay my respects, not expecting when that was done, to see much more of such gay people. A few days after, however, Miss Montague came to the Parsonage, (here I should mention that she was the only child and heiress,) and very kindly invited Millicent and my daughter Kate to spend a few days at the Hall, saying, she thought they must be dreadfully dull seeing so few people as they did. This, however, they were not, being not disapprove. He only asked to see her once Time passed, the Montagues returned to London, and I was informed in a letter from Sir Henry that his mother was endeavouring to persuade him to marry Miss Montague, though of course to no purpose. A year had gone by, and it was not without a sigh that I gazed on Millicent's fair face, now grown so pale, when one evening I was informed an old gentleman desired to see me. He was shown into the study, and to my surprise and delight, introduced himself as Mr. Vavasour, the grandfather of my Milly! He seemed in much grief, and his tale was as follows. His hope, the heir of his house, had been killed by a fall from his horse--his wife soon after died, and he was left alone in the world, though surrounded with riches. He then thought of his long neglected daughter, and determined to seek her. He traced her to Woodbridge, but here she had been dead so always accustomed to live quietly, they had no wish for more society; but I accepted the invitation for them, as I thought it was no bad opportunity for them to see a little of the world, and satisfied that they would return more than ever in love with retirement. Accordingly they went, but I own I was a slight degree disappointed when I was begged to lengthen the few days into a few more; at Kate I did not so much wonder, for she was so merry and light-hearted, I had no doubt she entered into all that was going on with her usual spirits, and noted not how quickly time passed, but in Millicent I had more confidence, for she had grown up more steady, and always expressed a wish to live in an equal and retired manner. But when they did come, I had no reason to complain, for they retained their old habits and feelings as much as ever, though Millicent was altered; a new, and till now unknown feeling was added to the rest. Surely I need not say what it was, my young readers at least, can guess its name! I was not long in discovering this, but I determined to know more of the matter, and I questioned Kate as the most likely person to know, and from her ascertained that a young man named Sir Henry Delaware had certainly been very at-long that she was forgotten, but he was informed tentive to Millicent, much to the seeming displeasure of his mother and the Montagues. Now I well knew that Sir Henry Delaware was a young baronet of very high family, and immense fortune, and I did not think for an instant, that even if he contemplated such a thing as marrying my Millicent, that his friends would allow it, and therefore it grieved me much to see her heart engaged in this affair. Soon after my children's return, Sir Henry called, as the bearer of some little message from Miss Montague, and when I saw him I quite excused Milly for loving him, for certainly he was one of the handsomest and most agreeable young men I had ever seen. He possessed those frank and open manners that take the heart by storm, and before he had been very often at the Parsonage I nearly loved him myself. He generally found something to come for every day, and I found so much pleasure in his society that I could hardly bring myself to discourage his visits. But at last I determined to speak to him openly, as his candid disposition deserved. I did so, and he avowed his love for Millicent and his intention to marry her with, or without, his mother's consent. I represented to him that I did not know what, or who, her relations were, that I had reason to believe, from her poor mother's story, that they were a family of consequence, but that I had no means of finding out, and I was convinced his mother would not approve of his marrying a girl without known relations, the penniless orphan of a curate; but "Convince a man against his will, He's of the same opinion still," and Sir Henry had many arguments to oppose to mine, but at length I triumphed, I showed him it was his duty to obey the wishes of his only remaining parent, or at least not to disobey them, and he was not one to shrink from his duty. He consented to leave Woodbridge, and live in hopes that Millicent's relations would yet claim her, and turn out to be of a family that his mother could that a Miss Vernon resided with me. To me he came, but on his way through the churchyard discovered the grave of his Millicent. His punishment was severe, but his repentance sincere, and he was fully repaid for all he had suffered when he beheld my Milly. Mr. Vavasour's gratitude to me for my care of her was so great that he declared I should not be separated from her, and accordingly he purchased Woodbridge Hall from Mr. Montague. Sir Henry Delaware soon arrived, (strange to say his father and Mr. Vavasour had been particular friends), and stayed for a very long time at the Hall, for he had no objection to the heiress that now resided there, and when he went he took away my Milly with him as Lady DelaBut she returns to spend every summer amongst us, and when I gaze upon that face no longer pale, and upon those deep blue eyes once more beaming with sunshine and happiness, and press my lips (with the privilege of an old man) upon her ivory forehead, I cannot bring myself to believe she is not still-my own little Millicent! ware. THE DEATH OF ANGEL' DUCA.* (A FRAGMENT.) BY LEIGH CLIFFE, ESQ. On a lone convent's lofty wall, For vengeance on his guilty head ;-- * Angel' Duca was a celebrated Neapolitan Brigand, and the terror of the Italian noblesse, with whom he waged a continual warfare. The cause of that inveterate antipathy he bore the aristocracy will be seen in the text, and there seemed to be such a character of Angelo, that the devotion of the peacompound of romance and chivalric feeling in the santry to him and his cause appears to be the involuntary tribute of the poor and oppressed to their protector and defender. His death actually hap pened in the manner I have related. Guilty, if aught of guilt could be Than seraph, and than life more dear, And pouring forth her prayers to Heaven; And never prayers more fervent had Been breath'd, that he might be forgiven By HIM whose mercy checks his ire, While man condemns to sword and fire! The evening sun's reflected light, O'er Angel' Duca's deep-flush'd browWhom wrongs had urged to swerve from rightPlay'd in swift eddying circles now, And thus in scornful tone he cried, "Need hundreds seek an unarm'd man? Say, ye who stand in martial pride, And breathe your tyrant monarch's ban! Once ye did tremble at my name, For Angel' Duca was your dread; The peasant in his humble shed? The judge be just.-Go, ask the poor- They will all tell thee this, and more Of Angel' Duca, though he stands A proscribed, hunted, Brigand chief, Supported but by those fair hands, And one kind heart which soothes his grief. And from that hour I cursed the great- And conquered e'en your stalwart men- I loved them like my life, but when Be doomed, ye tyrants, and by you! the Convent smokes and flames, If so ye will, no Churchman near, PUBLIC GARDENS OF PARIS.* (FROM A MS. WORK ON PARIS, BY MRS. SAMUEL BUTLER.) I have been frequently astonished at the numerous provisions made by a wise Legislature to augment the enjoyments of that portion of the community who generally in England pass their leisure hours in the rooms of publicans. Every vintner or coffee-house-keeper in or about Paris appears to have large gardens for promenades or dancing, where the mechanic, after the toil of the day, (which is rendered less painful to him by the anticipatory pleasures of the evening) passes some innocent joyous hours. He retires from labour at six o'clock, puts on respectable apparel, and joins his friends, or some pretty lass, whom he gallantly escorts to the ball, breathing the pure air of trees, and shrubs, and flowers. Several excellent musicians are always ready, and play quadrilles till 10 or 11 o'clock. Four or five sous each dance covers the expense, the lady is free-the "cavalier" only paying. Une boutille de Bordeaux ordinaire à dix on quinze sous, or a glass of Eau sucré, completes the expenditure; thus they go home to their early beds with health invigorated, spirits enlivened, and medical aid is little needed, where content and cheerfulness thus preside. No unhappy wife awaits the French artizan. If he be a married man, she shares with him his evening's joyousness. I have not seen in France what too frequently presents itself in England-it is a rare thing to witness there domestic love and mutual happiness, in the circle to which I allude. The mechanic in London generally passes his time after work in the public-house, in the same filthy dress which he wore to toil for the few shillings, which soon disappear in clouds of tobacco smoke, or in rivers of porter; the poor wife who sought in him a guide, a loving friend, a kind Father to her babes-she is left groaning from her heart's fulness, that her young life's bloom should thus be withered, that her dream of love should thus be broken. How low and toiling is the lot of the mechanic's wife in England! She never dresses, nor ceases from her slavery, washing, scrubbing, and scouring. No mirror is before her to adorn her person, to whisper sweet flattery. Her ear catches not the tiding of his near approach, to cheat her of her cares, or tell her she's remembered. She is sick of hope deferred, and cannot wear sunshine on her face when misery is at her heart. She never dresses; why should she? She has no husband coming home with smiling look and loving voice, telling her to prepare herself and children for the We think our fair Correspondent has considerably over-coloured the picture she has drawn, both of the miseries of the ENGLISH, and the happiness of the FRENCH Wife; we agree with Mrs. Butler in the main point at which she aims-that of affording rational amusement, which the mechanic may enjoy with his family! but we should be sorry to see the English matron put off her stuff gown, and homely attire, to array herself, before the glass, in the gauze ribbons and silken frippery of a country, never celebrated for its domestic comforts, in any station of life! ball, or promenade near their dwelling. She knows too well where he is, and he will return to the broken-hearted woman, not to cheer, but to Thus is the edge of husbandry and thrift dulled, and its spring of action broken. curse. OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST. (FROM THE FRENCH.) Why did I not keep it, my old morning gown? It was made for me, I was made for it. It accommodated its folds to every position of my body, I would pledge my life, that a change much for without inconvenience; the new one, stiff and inthe better might be produced, in the mode of life flexible, hampers me. There was no purpose for of our lower and middling classes, if the legisla- which the old one would not complacently offer ture would sanction, nay authorize, cheerful recre- itself-indigence is mostly officious. If a book ations, as in France, the good effects would soon was covered with dust, the skirt would wipe it be visible. The labourer knowing that he could away; if the ink refused to flow freely from my pass a few hours innocently and pleasantly in the open air, or walk appropriated for music and long black stripes attested the frequent services it pen, a lappel offered to remove the obstruction; dancing, at less expense than being stifled in a had rendered me. These stripes announced the small room with a number of dirty associates, literary character, the writer, the man who laboured would naturally run to his home with gladness, in his vocation; now I have the air of a rich slugto make his appearance comely. The dear partner gard; nobody knows who I am. Under its shelof his life seeing this, would try to aid, not depresster, I feared neither my own awkwardness, nor him-and she would attire herself as on her wed ding morn-blessing him, for the blessing of being his. I could weep o'er the picture I have drawn. I see so much happiness within the very grasp of man, yet do they repel it; they refuse the sunny gift, they reject every opportunity to illume the darkness of their dwelling, and they sink in ruin. Alas! not alone, she, the tender, the confidingshe who found desolation where she sought refuge ---she falls broken-hearted, giving up her life, which had been beggared of every hope before. This can only apply to the sottish husband and the neglectful. "The heart is all a woman's riches: keeping this, she has a wealth which kingdoms cannot purchase;" but when once it is given, "She has staked her all upon the cast, and must stand the hazard of the die." Let man reflect how much he could accomplish, possessed of woman's love. As the sapling is bent by infant hands, so can a fond woman be made the spring and source whence all his sublunary joys would emanate. But she must be cheered and encouraged. The lover must not be thrown aside for the brute; as too many prove after marriage. She can smile no more, and weeps when she thinks of her childhood's home. Can the tree live, when the root is torn from its native bed, and thrown, like a worthless weed, away? Oh no, no, it must wither and die; but if cherished and fostered by seasonable aid, it will spread in luxuriant beauty, the birds of Heaven will sing amidst its branches, and the weary traveller repose in safety beneath its shadow. that of any other person; a spark from the fire O Diogenes! couldst thou see thy disciple in wouldst thou laugh! O Aristippus! this mantle the vain glorious mantle of Aristippus, how was dearly paid for, could thy life compare with that of the talented Cynic! And I have quitted the tub in which I reigned, to serve under venience is not the only evil consequence attending a tyrant. But this is not all; my personal inconthe change in my garment. My old morning gown was in keeping with every thing that surrounded me. A straw chair, a wooden table, plain walls, to which were nailed, by the corners, a few smoky prints without frames; a deal shelf for my books, and three or four plaster figures, formed, with my old morning gown, an appearance of the most harmonious indigence. But the introduction of my new envelope put all into disorder; its brilliancy threw a deteriorating gloom over the rest of my old servants. No more unity, no more beauty of accordance. The young wife before mentioned could not have caused more trouble in a house, than has this scarlet intruder occasioned in mine. I have seen the walls covered with a damask paper; the prints (which were not without merit) shamefully driven away by an "Old Man," from Rubens, and "A Tempest" by Vernet. The straw chair is banished by a How many persons have rather wanted friend- fanteuil covered with morocco. Homer, Virgil, ship than friends. The wreck of a lovely woman is as the dismantling of the stately oak: her affection is the foliage, flowing, graceful, exuberant; her truth, her faith, as the trunk-firm, undying; till torn, wrenched, and broken, 'tis left with little life, to wither and droop beneath that sun which once shed a halo of light around it. LOVE. Love is only a dream, but unlike the dreams of sleep, it brings no repose with it. Horace, Cicero, have relieved the shelf which bent beneath their weight, and have shut themselves up in an inlaid cabinet, an asylum more worthy of them than me. The plaster figures have given place to a crouching Venus; modern clay destroyed by antique bronze. The wooden table disputed possession for some time, sheltered by multitude of pamphlets and papers, which, heaped upon each other pell mell, seemed to bid defiance to the threatened catastrophe. But one day it met its fate, and in spite of my idleness, the pamphlets and papers arranged themselves in a handsome bureau. Other fancied wants have been provided for me in my library, and nothing remains of my former mediocrity but a carpet of list. This mean carpet does not agree with the luxurious articles which surround me. I know it, I feel it; but I have sworn, and I do swear that my feet shall not trample on a chef d'œuvre of worsted work. I will preserve this carpet, as the peasant transplanted from his hovel to the palace of his sovereign, reserveu his wooden shoes. When in the morning, covered with scarlet, I enter my closet, if I look down I see my old acquaintance. It reminds me of my original state, and pride is arrested in my bosom ere it can enter my heart. No, I am not corrupted; I hold my head no higher, my mind is not elate: my luxury is of recent growth, and the poison has not yet begun to act. But with time, who knows what may happen?-Ah! my friends, raise your hands, and pray to be delivered from the perils of prosperity. Let not riches corrupt your hearts; rather destroy, or dismiss from your sight the costly things which feed your pride, if, when looking on your newly-acquired possessions, you can not say, "Old friends are best.” SABBATH EVENING THOUGHTS. BY MISS ANNA MARIA SARGEANT. Evening is at all times beautiful. Yea, even in the desolation of winter, when clouds and bitter blasts are its attendants, but such is not the present: it is a clear Autumnal Eve and the decline of the sacred day of rest. Rest! it is a lovely word. Some have said the sweetest our language contains. comprehending all that is desirable, for to be wholly at rest the mind must be perfectly happy, the body free from weariness and pain; such a state of repose is not to be obtained in this world of sorrow and strife. Yet there are seasons when we may so far enjoy it as to form some conception of its sweets. There is a sweetness in a Sabbath eve unknown to any other; then the hum of business has ceased to disturb the equanimity of the thoughts; and in the country, the beast as well as his master partakes of the blessings it affords. I love to hear the chime of the village bells, and see the poor in their holiday attire, repairing to the sacred Temple. It matters not how humble the building be, if the heart offers but its pure devotion there. There is something, in my opinion, exceedingly beautiful in the idea of millions assembling together, and simultaneously presenting their petitions and praises to their Almighty Creator. Such an idea is likely to expand our hearts with kindly feelings of benevolence and love; we consider the wants of each other, and pray for each other, our voices unite, and our heart can scarcely forbear accompanying them. Some are of opinion a public building wherein to worship God, is unnecessary, contending that all places are alike to him, and prayers and thanksgivings offered at any time, and in any place, are equally acceptable. We would make the open field our Temple and the azure sky our altar, say they, and I agree with them in the sentiment. The glowing landscape, the garden redolent with sweets, the azure firmament, the majestic ocean, each and all should awaken feelings of devotion; but this does not of necessity render an edifice to assemble in unrequired. Such is the proneness of the human heart to neglect that which is excellent, that we should soon cease to worship him either in our families or in private, were there no Temple wherein our devotions could be paid. Some persons can offer up their prayers and praises only in some stately fabric, where the architect, the sculptor, and the painter, have lavished their skill,-only where the "pealing organ swells the note of praise," but I confess myself to have been frequently as deeply impressed by the simplicity of some humble edifice, whose only attraction must be its being dedicated to the most high. Fancy at this moment pictures to my imagination a single building-an Episcopal building--situated about two miles from the village in which I some few years ago resided. To this unassuming abode the cottagers for miles surrounding thronged, filling not only its walls which were celebrated for their small dimensions, but its burial ground also. To this edifice I have often bent my course, nor were The wise man who dreads opinion, is like a ge- my devotions in the least disturbed by the roughneral who trembles at a cloud of dust. ness of the Temple; a charming diversified path |