293 ducted us into a parlour, where Millichamp placed Margaret on a sofa, and sat down by her, holding her hand, with all his anxiety painted in his face. Barbara seemed bursting with vexation. Margaret opened her eyes, cast a vacant look around her, and closed them again. We obliged her to swallow a little cold water, which she did, without speaking. It revived her, and as soon as a bed could be prepared, she was carried up lawns. They were kept with the most scru- We waited the arrival of the surgeon with an anxiety which lasted two hours. At the end of that time he came, and having examined his patient, assured us all was well. Externally she had received no other burt than a few bruises; but he thought it proper to bleed her, and keep her quiet for two or three days. Millichamp waited for the tidings with agony, and received them with silent thankfulness. Charles had appeared truly sorry for the accident, and more on Margaret's account than his own. He now partici This day's journey passed off happily, like all the preceding. The next, when we were within ten miles of home, as we were travelling along the side of a mountain, we saw Charles Oakwood's horses set off at a great rate, and himself vainly endeavouring to stop them. There was no fence on the falling side, and they had only to go one step too near the edge, to plunge their master and Margaret down the precipice. What were our feelings!pated in our satisfaction. Even Satterthwaite We durst not follow, lest the noise of the pursuit should augment the speed of the horses. Millichamp had just presence of mind enough to give his reins to Barbara, and beckon a servant to her assistance, when he jumped out of the gig, and ran after them with the swiftness of an arrow. rejoiced, and plainly evinced he did not wish to get rid of the mean wife at the expence of her having a broken neck. Barbara alone was discontented. I thought she looked malig nant, and was now convinced she had serious designs upon Millichamp, which the undis guised interest he took in Margaret's wel My brother undertook to inform John and Mrs. Freeman of the accident which had happened to their daughter; and Millichamp begged permission to ride over in the morning to inquire after her. Barbara," said I, "will you go with the gentlemen to Oakwood, or remain here with me." We saw the horses on the brink of the pre-fare must completely frustrate ? cipice; when, providentially, the wheel went over a large stone, and the violence of the shock threw Charles and Margaret out on the other side. No longer in fear of doing mischief, we hastened to the spot, and found Margaret senseless in the arms of Millichamp, and Charles lying on the ground. The horses were going on, dashing the curricle to pieces. We thanked God we saw no blood. Charles soon recovered, being only stunned by the fall. Margaret did not; and Millichamp, who would not suffer any body to share his burthen, carried her to a house in the valley below. My brother dispatched a servant to the nearest town for a surgeon, and we all attended her. The mistress of the house, in whom I recognized an old acquaintance, had seen the accident, and met us at the door. She con "I shall go to Oakwood, ma'am," replied she; "I think one of the family is enough to attend upon Margaret Freeman. I fear she will injure Millichamp with his uncle." The next morning Margaret was sufficiently recovered to come down to breakfast. Her father had walked from Oakwood, and was waiting to see her; Millichamp arrived soon after, bringing the mother in the gig, and they all spent the day with us. We gave Margaret another night's repose, and on the evening of the following day my brother sent the chariot for us, and we took leave of the hospitable Mrs. Spencer, with many thanks. I found Mrs. Spencer standing on the highest pinnacle of human happiness, blessed with an indulgent husband, and surrounded with a family of grown up sons and daughters. I had much pleasure in renewing my acquaintance with her, and recalling to mind the amusements and events of our youth. Her father was vicar of our neighbouring little market town; her mother, sister of Sir Hugh Colwyn, a baronet of the true irrascible Welch breed; and she, with her cousin, Miss Colwyn, who was younger than ourselves, had frequently been at Oakwood-house for a month together before I left it. Very different had been the lot of poor Miss Colwyn from that of her cousin. I had met with her accidentally at Bath, nine years ago, and renewed our former intimacy. I found her married, but without a family. Her husband, Mr. Lewellyn, a younger brother of profligate character, was repaying her sincere attachment to him with neglect, and sometimes with insolence. His attachment had been to the Colwyn estate, which, after a long Chancery suit, had been divided between her and her sister, the only children of their late father. I inquired after this lady. Mrs. Spencer told me she now resides with her husband, in South Wales, in a house little inferior to the family mansion, standing on that part of the estate allotted to her; and that her mother, who is still living in the mansion, is her neighbour, and has £800 a year allowed her out of the whole. Mrs. Lewellyn is extremely miserable; she not only endures the pangs of slighted love, but jealousy, too surely founded, operating on a violent disposition, little accustomed to controul, throws her into paroxysms approaching madness; and, in these, her husband has so far forgotten himself as to beat her. She has jumped out of bed to avoid his blows. Such are the extremes of wedlock! If middle states are best, as wise men have agreed, I may be thankful for the single one. Mrs. Lewellyn was brought up in a sad school for a wife. Her father took delight in putting her into a passion, for the sake of the amusement her anger afforded him. What a monster! to find pleasure in exciting fury in the breast of a fellow-creature, and that creature his own child! He often tried the expe. riment on his own wife, but she was more than a match for him at his own weapons, and never suffered herself to be put out of temper. Mrs. Spencer has frequently been at table with Sir Hugh and Lady Colwyn, and heard ber say the most provoking things imaginable to him, with the greatess coolness, till be could bear it no longer, and has snatched up a tankard, or whatever stood next him, and flung it at her bead. She never moved a hair's breadth to avoid it, but, having received the blow, she has taken out her pocket handkerchief with great composure, and applied it to her face, streaming with blood. She would remain at table during the repast, without making him any reproach, or deigning to take the smallest notice of what had happened; and would say, “Sir Hugh, shall I send you a little more of this fowl?" or whatever dish stood before her. When the cloth was drawn, she would retire; and when she entered the family apartment again, shewed no remembrance of the injury she had sustained, by her words; though Mrs. Spencer still saw malice in her heart, and says, she only waited another opportunity to provoke the same treatment. She is still a fine woman, though her face is covered with scars from the repeated wounds she has received. Though Sir Hugh Colwyn took the liberty of behaving ill to his lady himself, it was a privilege he would never grant to any other person. Mrs. Spencer was once at their house at Christmas, which was then a season of great festivity in Wales. Lady Colwyn was confined to her chamber with a rheumatic fever. The guests arrived. The eating, drinking, harping, and dancing went on just the same as if she had been at the head of them. But he insisted upon his daughters visiting their mother once every day; and never failed to inquire if they had performed that duty. It happened one evening, when he met them in her apartment, that he took occasion to blame her for something he did not like, and told her it was very wrong. "Very wrong, indeed, Sir," cried Miss Ellen, the youngest daughter. "You think so, do you?" demanded he. "Certainly I do," she replied. At some times Mary is a great favourite; at others she will revile and curse her in the most unlimited manner, and with the greatest solemnity. In either case she seldom forgets "Why then, I must tell you, Miss Ellen," || her dignity. She has high notions of her own said he, "if I find fault with my wife, you shall not find fault with your mother." And without further ceremony he drove her to the top of the stairs, and fairly kicked her to the bottom. The stairs came into a large hall, now filled with company, and the young lady came rolling down among them, to their great astonishment and her own dismay. She came off for a few bruises; but her dancing was spoiled for that night. During the law suit, Lady Colwyn had only a small annuity granted by the Lord Chancellor, out of the estate; and though she allowed herself but two domestics, a man and a woman, she was obliged to contract debts she could not pay, and lived in perpetual fear || of her creditors. Now her income is ample, her establishment is the same. Her servants have married, and when they want the house to themselves, they pretend to see a dun at the gate; their lady orders herself to be put to bed immediately, and lies quietly the whole day, without giving them any disturbance. consequence; though she has ceased to possess or command any thing. Her servants would, doubtless, take the management of her pecuniary affairs, if her son-in-law were not so near. As it is, he kindly takes care of her whole revenue, and her ladyship lives upon less than half. Mrs. Spencer mimicked her lofty manner and dignified tone of voice; and while I heard her quick transitions from good sense and good breeding to the grossest cursing and swearing, I listened with astonishment and shook with laughter. I give you these anecdotes on the authority of Mrs. Spencer; but I dare answer for their truth myself. Besides my knowledge of her veracity, they carry internal evidence of their reality in their extravagance. It is such, that the most eccentric genius could not have invented them. If the Colwyn family were not exceptions to the rest of the Welch gentry, you would pronounce them far behind the English in civilization. (To be continued.) ANECDOTE OF HENRY IV. OF FRANCE. HENRY IV. of France, it is well known, was not less famed in the field of love than in that of glory; amongst the variety of ladies who, by turns, reduced the conqueror to a captive, the fair Gabrielle Destrees held the highest place in his heart; and it was in one of his nightly excursions frem his camp at Ivry, to visit this beloved object, that the adventure we are about to relate took place. those of love; and perceiving at some dis tance a light glimmering in a cottage, he hastened to it for the purpose of getting some refreshment. Near the fire sat the master of the cottage, whose exterior, rude, harsh, and unprepossessing, gave the wearied traveller little to hope from his hospitality. Henry, however, accosted him, and saying that he had missed bis way, requested a shelter for the night. Henry left his camp in the disguise of a peasant, and for some time pursued his way with all a lover's ardour; but whether his head was too full of his mistress, or whether he was not perfectly acquainted with the road, we cannot decide; all we know is, that he lost his way, and after wandering about for several hours, the pangs of bunger began to supersede | young man seems very harmless, and-" "I don't know whether I ought to give you one," muttered the peasant, eyeing him at the same time with a look of suspicion; "these are very troublesome times, and I don't think it prudent to admit a stranger into my house." "Nay, but husband,” cried his dame, "this "Harmless indeed," replied the surly husband; "and how do you know that?" "She is perfectly right, however," cried Henry; "I assure you that you have nothing to apprebend from me." "Why," said the peasant, "it would to be sure be strange if you did not speak well of yourself; but I think I see a storm coming on, and so at all events you may stay." Henry, thanking his host for this ungracious permission, advanced to the fire, and taking a seat, was about to place himself in it, but the peasant rudely pulled it from him. "By the mass," cried be, "thou art a pretty fellow, to seat thyself at my fireside without my leave: what, dost thou not know the respect which is due to the master of the house?" "I had forgotten it, I confess," replied the monarch, who in spite of himself could not refrain from a smile; "but I trust you will not be hospitable by halves, but allow me to rest, and give me some supper, for in truth I am very hungry." "Thou shouldst have been a courtier, 1 think," cried the peasant ; "for thou hast suf men in the adjoining village, one who possesses property enough to maintain her like a lady, and yet she has rejected bim, for the sake of a beggar; for you know very well," continued he, turning spitefully to his daughter, "that Louis Deconcy is nothing more." "Well, but husband," interrupted the wife, you should not be too harsh with Nina: recollect, that almost from the time of her birth, Louis and she were never separated till you forbade her seeing him, after his father became so unfortunate; he would not have been a beggar, had not that wicked Antoine seized his father's property so unjustly, when Nina refused him her hand." "Hey-day!" said the peasant; "what, do you too, take the part of this disobedient wretch; be silent I charge you, or I shall think you as bad as her." It was evident that the peasant was master in his own house, for his wife made no reply, and the sweet features of Niua, which during her mother's speech bad brightened a little, resumed their peusive cast. "Thou shalt not long wear the look of ficient assurance to ask for any thing; pati-sorrow," thought the benevolent Henry, as he ence, however, my good friend, it is not my supper time yet, and I would not alter my hour for his majesty." While he spoke a very pretty girl came from an inner room, and making a bashful obeisance, to the stranger, seated herself by the hostess. The King, ever an admirer of beauty, gazed upon the fair Nina (which was her name) with admiration.-"Is this sweet girl your daugh ter?" asked he. The peasant replied in the affirmative, and Henry could not refrain from praising her beauty and wishing her a good husband. "She is an obstinate fool," replied her father; "or else I should have seen her well married before this time; but she must fall in love forsooth, and with one as poor as herself too, like a disobedient baggage as she is." "My dear father," cried Nina in an imploring tone. "Don't dear me," said the surly peasant. "Iwill be judged by the stranger here, whether thou art not the greatest fool in the world. You must know," continued he, "that Nina has been offered the band of one of the first gazed upon the interesting girl, whose future felicity with her beloved Louis, he internally determined should be his future care." You must not be too rash with your daughter," said he to the peasant; "she is a charming girl, and if her mind equals her form, she is worthy of a monarch?” "Why, in truth," answered the peasant, "I should be sorry if our Henry was to see her." "And wherefore?" asked the King. "Wherefore," repeated the peasant; “why, where have you lived, not to know that the King is a devil of a fellow amongst the women ?" "He is then a very bad man,” replied the Monarch, who wished to hear his own character from the mouth of his surly host. "A bad man," cried he, angrily," and who told you that our Henry was a bad man! What, our good King, the father of his people, to be abused under my roof, and by such a one as you; I believe that you are of the League, and if I was sure of it, you should not stop here a moment longer." "You are mistaken," said the King, "6 80 far from being of the League, there is not a man in France, who is a more hearty well wisher to Heary than myself, but yet I am sensible that he has a great many faults, and you must allow it." "I shall not allow any such thing; I tell thee that he is the father of his people." "But his fonduess for women," resumed the monarch, "there you must own him highly reprehensible." "And why so," cried the peasant, "the women are as fond of him as he is of them; and if his nights are given to his mistresses, his days are spent in providing for the welfare of his people, whom he loves with all his heart,|| and for whom he daily exposes himself to danger and hardship; God bless him, and preserve him from his enemies; by the mass, if I had them in my power, I would shoot every one of them as readily as I would so many wolves." The affectionate heart of the monarch glowed with pleasure at this rude, but sincere tribute to his worth. Supper was by this time ready, and Henry wanted no iutreaty to induce him to partake, with an excellent appetite, of the homely meal, to which he sat down with the family. While they were at table, a young peasant entered the cottage, at the sight of whom, the host started from his seat:-"What brings you here?" demanded he, angrily. "To see my Nina for the last time," said the peasant in a voice of agitation;" to-morrow I quit my native village uever, I hope, to return to it." Ab, what became of the tender Nina at hearing these words from the lips of her lover; forgetful of the presence of her father, she started up, and would have flown to the embrace of her dear Louis, but her strength forsook her, and she sunk motionless into the arms of her mother. "And will you," cried Louis, throwing himself at the feet of the peasant," will you break the heart of your daughter by sundering us for ever? will you devote me also to destruction? for if I quit my Nina I shall seek death in battle." No. XXXIII. Vol. V.-N. S. "I care not where you seek it," returned the inexorable father; "leave my house this moment." "Oh, no, in pity, my father," cried Nina, who recovered her senses just as he uttered the last words, and springing towards him, threw berself beside her lover at his feet. Henry had beheld beauty glowing in all the pride of youth and vivacity, but never had he been so touched, so interested as at this moment; Nina's fine dark eyes were fixed upon her father with a look of intreaty which might have softened the heart even of a savage, while the paleness which despair spread over her beautiful features, gave additional interest to one of the loveliest countenances in the world. The sight of his daughter's distress evidently softened the rough old man.-"What can I do?" cried he, after a pause; “you know, Louis, you are not in a situation to marry-no, no, I cannot consent." "Yes, you will," said Henry, with vivacity. "I will provide for your daughter and her husband." "You will provide !" cried the peasant, in an incredulous tone; "6 my good friend you have certainly lost your senses; go, Louis," pursued he, "I cannot consent, and you must give up all thoughts of Nina." Before the King could interpose, the horn was sounded, and in a moment some of his Majesty's attendants entered the cottage. He had been missed from the camp, and his faithful followers, terrified at the danger which he incurred in wandering alone through a country, where fanaticism had raised him so many enemies, had sent a large party in search of him; these dispersing, took different routes, and on entering the cottage, their exclamation of "Thank Heaven! your Majesty is safe," struck the peasant and his family with astonishment. The old man advancing, threw himself at the feet of the King. "I crave pardon, Sire," cried he. "What," answered Henry, affably, "for. having spoken well of me?" "No, Sire, but for the rudeness with which I treated you while I was in ignorance." |