pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weepshe did not break forth into reproach-she said not a word-but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul; and clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage.

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his selfreproach, and stifled his tenderness; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scene of rural quiet and village simplicity-the white cottage-the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection.

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and bystericks had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about his fignre, and his plume waved in the breeze: he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness.

It would be trite to dwell upon the particulars of her after story. It was like all other tales of love,melancholy. She avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of the village church; and the milkmaids, returning from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses around the form, they would make way for her, as for something spiritual, and looking after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding.

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions; and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she penned him a farewell letter.

It was couched in the simplest language: but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings she had experienced; but concluded with saying, that she could not not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing.

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day, and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any oue the malady that was preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom, and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom blossom of ther hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning health.

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in their's, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained round the window.

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church; the bell had tolled for the evening service; the last villager was lagging into the porch; and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to her's the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye-Was she thinking of her faithless lover? or were her thoughts

wandering to that distant church-yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered?

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard-a horseman galloped to the cottage-he dismounted before the window-the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair;-it was her repentant lover! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted forin-her death-like countenance, so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation,-smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise-she attempted to extend her trembling hand-her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulated-she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness-and closed her eyes for ever!

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time; and taken in connection with the affecting ceremony I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favourite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured.

The church-door was open, and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral: the flowers were withered, it is true; but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator; but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart than this simple, but delicate memento of departed innocence.

HISTORY and Biography are the two great mirrors in which we contemplate the human character. The first too often presents a frightful tissue of crimes and horrors, whilst the second frequently reflects from its calm and polished surface, every thing that is excellent, "lovely, and of good report.'

In this brilliant assemblage we dwell with sentiments of peculiar pleasure on the royal character of Mary II. consort of William III., the pride of England, and the ornament of her sex, who was born April 30, 1662, married at an early age to William, Prince of Orange, and Stadtholder of Holland. Her whole deportment was so amiable and condescending, that she became the idol of the country in which she settled. Persons of all descriptions in the United Provinces, vied with each other in their expressions of attachment and veneration. Her foreign birth and regal extraction, with every diversity of interests and opinions, were alike forgotten.

The talents of this illustrious queen were of no ordinary description. Of this, her management in times of danger and public emergency afforded substantial proofs. Whether she conducted the helm of government on these difficult occasions, or superintended the usual affairs which came under her inspection, she was equally prudent and tranquil. Like the fabled intelligence of some planetary system, she seemed to direct all these movements with order and harmony, and to diffuse an atmosphereof purity and brightness around her. Nothing was performed impatiently or in haste. Her devotions, public and private, were not shortened in their duration; and. she even found time enough to maintain the cheerfulness of a court, and to receive all who were entitled to introduction. Her administration of public affairs had this peculiar felicity; that while something in her manner

disarmed the majority of her enemies, the wisdom and secrecy of her councils defeated the designs of those who continued turbulent and implacable.

In her brightest seasons she never felt confident, por was she ever elated by prosperous events; whilst amidst all the enjoyments of life, she maintained a true indifference as to their continuance. Her body was the beautiful temple of a still fairer mind, and her graceful presence inspired a love and veneration worthy of empire. A degree of seriousness tempered with serenity, indicated the strength as well as loveliness of those principles, which were the secret springs of a deportment at once so cheerful and dignified.

Although the openness of the queen's manners subjected her to general observation, it was so well regulated, that those who knew her best and saw her oftenest, could never penetrate her intentions farther than she chose to discover them. She disdained to borrow any assistance from those arts which are so common in political councils. She would never deceive others, or even express any thing which might give them occasion to deceive themselves. When she did not intend to promise, she took care to explain herself so unequivocally, that no such construction could be drawn from general terms of favour or courtesy. In the course of several years, and during the occurrence of various memorable events, numerous temptations presented themselves for the adoption of a more artificial policy, from which, according to worldly maxims, considerable advantage might have resulted. The queen, however, maintained her sincerity unimpeached, and had never once occasion for any subterfuge to justify either her words or actions.

Quickness of thought is frequently superficial. It easily inflames, and for a season may sparkle with some degree of lustre; but this is often temporary and transcient. In the queen, on the contrary, vivacity was combined with investigation. The English, Dutch, and French languages were almost equally familiar to her; but she devoted the closest attention to the study of the scriptures, and books connected with them. Next to these, history, as best adapted to afford her useful instruction, was her favourite pursuit. To this was added, na tural history and philosophy, mathematics, perspective, and geography. Architecture and gardening were also occasional recreations; and she had a fine taste in both.