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ocean of life. It was approached by no regular track of human commerce or traffic, being bounded on the most accessible side by a thick forest, and on every other by lofty hills of every varied form and aspect. A small silver lake reflected the white walls of the village in its unruffled bosom. A chapel, surmounted by a cross, seemed to preside over the humble dwellings beneath it, occupying the most elevated station in the valley, as if to invite the weary from afar, silently proclaiming, "Religion is the guardian of the quiet, that reigns here: religion embraces all this spot in her venerable arms. A little below the chapel, on a circular mound, or platform, that commanded a delicious view of the lake, the forest, and the summits of faint blue hills beyond, was the minister's house, whose simple white-washed walls and rose-encircled porch were perfectly in unison with the character of the surrounding scenery. "Here then," said Narenor, "I will hope to find as much peace as can remain unto a soul that has been so agitated as mine. I no longer ask for happiness;-rest, rest is all that I pray for from my inmost heart!" And thus it is with men! They "labour for peace," and, when it is attained they call it stagnation. Again, they "make ready unto the battle;-again, they sigh for repose; and so life passes. But the thirst with which Narenor panted for rest was, in this case, the effect of bodily disease as well as of the mind's fever. The wrought-up energies cannot suddenly subside without a shock to the frame, similar (in kind) to that which is felt on first falling to sleep after long fatigue, when a person starts up with the sensation of falling down a precipice. Not long after Narenor had taken possession of an apartment in a small neat cottage, occupied by a kind-hearted old couple, he was unable to rise from his bed, and soon, in the delirium of sickness, he lost all consciousness of what was passing around him. On the first day, when his recollection returned, he heard the voices of two persons near his bed. They were conversing very gently; yet he could distinguish that the sweet low tones of one were very different from the aged pipe of the other, who was his good old hostess. The sweet low voice said, "You know, Maude, it will be quite improper for me to come into his room when he gets better. The delirium will soon be over, and then, poor fellow, I must not bring on a worse sort of delirium by making him fall in love with me. Do you know, Maude, I have half lost my heart. He really must be very handsome when he is well." "Dear Miss, (replied Maude,) it would be very unkind in you to leave him just as he is getting better. It might bring on the fever again; because, you know, he would only take his physic out of your pretty hands, though he did fancy you were an angel! Lord bless your sweet face, no wonder!"

"He will wonder, I think, when he gets well, if he should ever know of it (replied the softly-laughing girl). I an angel! an angel, with a turn-up nose! more like one of the cherubs over the altar! Dear Maude, I often think what an ugly old woman I shall make-not like you with your fine Roman face: such noses are not to be seen now-a-days. Oh, do imagine me with spectacles on! lend me yours, just to show you how I shall look :”—and she rose to adjust them at the glass. By this movement, Narenor obtained a view of the speaker, through a fortunate aperture in the curtain. There she stood-a slight girl, rather under the middle size; her age might be about eighteen-dark glossy curls escaped from a large cottage bonnet, from underneath which peered an arch countenance, which was not beautiful, if beauty consist in feature, but which was truly beautiful if beauty consist in expression. Her large dark eyes had a diamond spark in them: her complexion was rich with youth, and health, and her laughing-lip had eloquent blood in it. Figure to yourself this sweet infantine face, trying with all its might to look like an old woman! There she stood-pursing up her pretty mouth, putting forward her dimpled chin, and half-shutting her radiant eyes behind Maude's spectacles. But in a moment (whether it was that she detected the gaze of Narenor with more speculation in it than it had lately displayed) she ran out of the room, saying, "Well, I must go, or I shall be too late to make tea for my dear uncle."

And was the medicine again presented by the same fair hand? It was not. But this circumstance, far from retarding the recovery of Narenor, accelerated it, by the impatience it produced once more to behold the lovely vision, which at times seemed almost to hover on the verge of the unsubstantial creations of his delirium: but Maude had assured him that the fair form was real flesh and blood, that it had a human name, and an actual living uncle. The name was Ernestine: the uncle was Mr. De Villac, minister of the village, who lived in that pretty white-washed cottage on the mount. I am afraid to describe so hackneyed a theme for description as a good, pious, old-ish clergyman. Let the reader, then, imagine something less sentimental than La Roche, and rather less simple (in one sense) than the Vicar of Wakefield;-in short, a plain, honest man, religious, and sensible, well-informed, and cheerful. I have, alas! no pathetic tale to tell of blighted affections, or of a wife lost soon after the birth of the first innocent pledge of connubial love; nor can I interest my readers' feelings by telling them what delicate health Mr. De Villac had; he was always well-had never been unhappy-and was an old bachelor. I will not affirm that he had never been, or fancied himself, in love; but certain it is that he was none the worse for it, if he had. Ernestine was his brother's only child: her father and mother were

both dead; and, therefore, she lived with her nearest surviving relative, whom she dearly loved, and by whom she was as dearly loved again. She was his little kind nurse for his sick poor, and his sweet lady Bountiful for the needy, and his pretty schoolmistress for the chubby children. And so she had found out Narenor, who, as a friendless stranger, had double claims upon her kindness, and had visited him in his illness. As soon as he could walk, he bent his steps to Mr. De Vallac's: common gratitude required this. Gratitude to Maude would have been all very well; but gratitude to a young and lovely woman is (as every body knows) a dangerous thing. O Narenor! I tremble for you! Remember that you have a wife!

Ernestine was not at all sorry to see her patient, who now began to justify her encomium upon his looks. She shewed him her birds, her flowers, her drawings, with all the innocent delight of a young creature, who has for the first time found something better than all these. There was peculiar danger for Narenor in the manner of Ernestine towards him. The utter absence of all art, or affectation—the ease, the unconsciousness, with which she addressed him—formed a more effectual veil to the peril, than the most studied reserve could have done. In the gaiety of her heart, she would rally Narenor most unmercifully whenever she could find occasion, and laugh at him so sincerely, that (while he himself became every hour more and more fascinated with the lively girl) he never would have dreamed of becoming an object of tender interest to her. The grand subject of her raillery was the awkwardness with which Narenor climbed her native hills; while she, as if endued unto them, flew, like a wild gazelle, from steep to steep, and frequently, having gained some point of vantage, would stand, mocking at his snail-like progress, and waving to him triumphantly with her hat, while her uncovered locks were shaken sportively in the mountain breeze. Yet Ernestine began to shew marks of attachment, which, to a less inexperienced eye than Narenor's, would have been indubitable. As long as they were in the free open air, where she could dart away from him, like a bird, and return at her pleasure, and where every object supplied matter for conversation, her manner was wholly unembarrassed; but, alone with him in a room, surrounded by four impenetrable walls, she always sunk into unusual silence, and seemed to shew him a sort of deference and respect, as if then only she betrayed her real opinion of him. But the moment Mr. De Villac entered the apartment, it was again, "Who cares what you say ?" "Go along you fright!" "Here, come and hold my silk for me! Awkward! Fidelin would hold it better! Here, Fidelin, my dear dog, come and teach this man how to hold it!"

"She despises me, (thought Narenor to himself one day,) and

therefore she can never love me." But I may worship her from a distance, and sun myself beneath her eyes, without a thought or wish beyond the happiness of her presence."

All this is very well for a time; but poor human nature will get tired of living upon looks, and being dieted upon smiles. And what was Mr. De Villac about all this while? He was visiting the sick, and composing his sermons; and, being as poor a novice in affairs of the heart as Narenor, thought, whenever he saw the young people together, that his dear Ernestine was very hard upon the poor young man; and sometimes he would give her a little lecture upon good manners, and beseech her to treat his visiter with somewhat more consideration.

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One summer evening, Ernestine told Narenor that she was going to practice a little air which he had taught her, on the guitar, in her bower. "It will sound so well, in the still calm evening, (she said,) and besides it will be so romantic;—and you love a little romance. Narenor accompanied her to the bower. It was in a little dell between Mr. De Villac's house and the church, and commanded a view of a fall of water, just far enough distant to blend its murmurs soothingly with music in the bower. Ernestine ran over the chords lightly, and, in a fresh, clear, gushing sort of voice, thus began.

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Thy jocund wing o'er ocean roves,
An echo to the sea-maid's lay;
Then, over rose and orange groves,

Thy fragrant breath exhales away ;-
I envy thee, thou careless wind !”*

"Yes, I do indeed envy thee !" said Narenor half involuntarily. "Come, good, now, do not be pensive, (returned Ernestine, laughing,) or I shall run away from you and leave you to write a sonnet to the rising moon," "There was something in the gaiety of Ernestine, at this moment, which jarred disagreeably with the

*I hope that the fair authoress of this song will forgive me for the liberty I have taken in transferring it to my pages.

feelings of Narenor. "I would that you could be serious for a few minutes, (he said,) I am not happy, indeed I am not! I have no friend but you, and perhaps I may be soon obliged to leave you, my only friend. If I go away, dear Ernestine, will you sometimes play that song I taught you!" Ernestine answered not. He looked at her; her head was bent down and averted. He was conscious that she was weeping.

The next morning Narenor waited on Mr. De Villac to ask the hand of Ernestine.

What! with a wife still living?

Even so! After having debated with himself all night, he had at length pronounced a divorce in foro conscientiæ, sophistry sitting umpire in the gown and wig of conscience. The baroness, he argued had broken all her marriage vows of loving, honouring, and obeying. With her he could not live-yet he could not obtain a legal divorce;-and was he to pass the remainder of his days wifeless-a widower, yet forbidden to marry? He snatched up his hat, and went to Mr. De Villac's.

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The first questions which that gentleman asked, on being solicited for the hand of his niece, were pertinent enough." Of what family are you, and what fortune can you ensure to Ernestine?" "I am the only one surviving of a noble family:" replied Narenor-(he had so long been accustomed to consider himself in that light!) "My fortune is chiefly in specie. One voucher for myself I have brought with me-my genealogy, duly drawn out and emblazoned ;" and he unfolded the glittering scroll, rich with vermilion, azure, and gold. "You need not give yourself the trouble, (said Mr. De Villac, putting back his hand) I have much confidence in you-but stop! what is this? Son of cobbler! hum-hum-tinker! What is all this? Do you mean to mock me, sir? Sir, let me tell you, that, though I am only a poor minister, my descent is unblemished! I am not to be imposed upon by tawdry letters; though perhaps you flattered yourself that I should pass over them (as indeed I nearly had) without inspection. I would advise you to withdraw, and not to insult an honest family any longer by your presence!" While Narenor stammered, hesitated, and was ready to expire with shame, a voice-a not-to-bemistaken voice-reached his ear from without, and rooted him to the ground like a statue." Where is my lord? (it said) Where is my dearest husband? Conduct me instantly to him!" The door flew widely open, and the baroness Rudolpha appeared, leaning most becomingly on a female attendant. She swam across the apartment with easy grace, and half-sunk into the passive arms of Narenor. Mr. De Villac now addressed the baroness: "Is this gentleman, madam, really your husband ?" "I have the happiness to call him so," she replied with fascinating sweetness; - then

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