protestations, and then demanding that the latter | through her window till his carriage disappeared alone should be accredited? of re They had parted in anger; but a reconciliation might have soon been effected, had it not been for the repeated folly of Lennox. He had derived most of his ideas of women-of young women, at least-from novels; so, guided by these monitors, he thought the best way gaining Constance's affections was to pique her by redoubling his attentions to Miss Courtenay. With a silly woman-are we wrong in saying, with many?-this might have succeeded; but upon one of such high principle and pure education as Constance, these arts were entirely thrown away. She attributed his conduct to its ostensible motive-admiration of his cousin and indifference towards herself; and it was perhaps fortunate for him she did so, for had she penetrated his real design, her only emotion would have been increased contempt at his having formed so low an estimate of her character. Thus the breach was becoming everyday wider, and altogether things were in a very hopeless way. While everything was thus tending towards the accomplishment of Mr. Lennox's wishes, that gentleman suddenly chose to interfere and spoil the whole affair. Had he but left matters as they were, he would have been quite successful; but he thought fit to alter them, and the alteration he determined upon was the very worst possible. He took it into his head that his son was becoming attached to Constance, and that he should take him away from home. Accordingly he was seized with a violent desire to see his eldest son, and declared it necessary to set off at once. Henry petitioned for a reprieve; and he was left behind, on condition that he would follow his father next day. He took the carriage round by Springvale, and called there to pay his adieux. Only father and mother in the room. "Wishes for a pleasant journey," ," "looks like fine weather," &c., &c.; then, Susan, tell Miss Mordaunt that Mr. Henry Lennox is on his way to Devonshire, and has called here to say 'good bye.' A pause- rather stiff and chilly; Henry silent, nervous, and uncomfortable. "Miss Mordaunt's compliments, and she is engaged in her room; but hopes Mr. Lennox will have an agreeable journey.' "She might have come down to bid her old friend good bye,' I think," growls the father. Susan, go and say Oh, never mind-never mind; don't disturb Miss Mordaunt on my account; and besides, I must be off; I've delayed too long already," said Lennox, jumping up. Well-well, as you like; only I think it's rather odd: hope you'll find your brother recovered." One spring down stairs-into the carriage; and, as he sank back among the cushions, a deep groan burst from his lips, and a tear started from between his hands, fast clasped over his face. Could she have but known it! Or could he have but known that she gazed among the trees, and then, with a deep sob of anguish, sank half-fainting into a chair! Meanwhile, he was hurrying on to the bedside of a delicate brother; comforting himself, after the first pang of sorrow, with the reflection that all difficulties would be removed upon his return home. CHAP. III. "And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brighten'd glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light a while." In consideration of her aunt's loneliness, Emma Courtenay had consented to exchange, until her uncle's return, the pleasures of town for the charms of the country. No sooner had she taken this resolution than she also formed another: viz., to become very great friends with Constance Mordaunt. Constance at first shrunk from the proffered intimacy, regarding Emma as the cause of all her unhappiness; but Mrs. Mordaunt, with the view of dissipating her daughter's melancholy, warmly encouraged it; and by degrees, as Emma's comparative innocence was made manifest, and her good qualities (for she had many) came to light, a sincere friendship was formed. From this Constance derived much comfort; and, moreover, it served to open her eyes regarding a great many points. In the first place, she became aware that there had never been anything like lovemaking between Henry and his cousin; and further, that Mr. Lennox had always encouraged the latter in exacting every possible attention from his son. Also as they became more intimate, Emma learned the hidden secret of her friend's heart, and at once informed her that Mr. Lennox had never known anything about the engagements; Emma was very much shocked at the consequences of her vanity, and, among other desperate remedies, proposed writing to Henry, and letting him know the real state of matters. Upon this sagacious plan, however, Constance put a decided negative; and obtained a promise from Emma-though rather unwil lingly given-that she would never allude to these circumstances in any intercourse she might have with her cousin. But she had learned a good deal; and after she parted with Emma--not without exchanging presents and vows of eternal friendship-reflection taught her a good deal more. She began to have some glimpses of the truth. She began to see that Mr. Lennox, unaware of anything but a boyish fancy on his son's part, might have adopted, with the view of removing this fancy, those very means which she had at first regarded as unworthy of him. From these meditations, she came to sympathise with Henry's situation; to think on all he must have undergone; to dwell upon the nobler qualities of his nature, which had been, for the time, forgotten; to cherish the memory of the happy days she had spent in his society-until she ended by being as much in love with him as ever, and in longing eagerly for his return. At last they were coming. They came-Mr. Lennox and his eldest son; but without Henry. His father had begun to think it necessary that he should do something for himself, and accordingly had got him appointed attaché to the legation at Constantinople. There was, of course, no message to her. Years rolled on. Time-that great physician that alone can "minister to a soul diseased"passed away, producing all those changes that ever follow as attendants in his train. Sorrow to some; joy to others; Lethean waters, of more or less potency to all, does this great teacher and tamer of the human heart bring. A strange medley of woes and blessings continually wait upon him; over all men does his dreaded scythe and his never-resting hour-glass reign. Yet there may be passions which, in some bosoms, defy even his power. If there be any such, it must surely be the first-the last love of an affectionate heart. They had parted-if not in anger, at least without any pledges of affection; and yet they confided in each other's love. Upon looking back, the mists of feeling which had blinded them were cleared away, and they saw things in their true light; all their former misunderstandings vanished, and they did but wonder how they could have been so foolish. Constance, we have seen, had been aided by her friend; but, on the other hand, Lennox had less to get over. He held the key of the whole mystery in his own hands, and a little thought enabled him to use it. Thus they went on, trusting in each other and in time. Meanwhile the beauty of Constance had not wanted admirers. Mrs. Mordaunt understood, at times regretted, the discouragement they all met with, but she confined herself to regrets; and her husband, though perhaps he wondered, never put himself to the trouble of checking it. There are instances, even in this selfish world, of noble individuals thus confiding in a mutual interchange of hearts, though prudence had forbade them to express it; trusting in each other's love, though that love had never been spoken; patiently abiding the time when their probation might end, and their happiness commence. It might perhaps tend to increase the happiness of the world were there more such! Shortly after her return to town, Emma Courtenay had been married. She had not suffered this event to interfere with her friendship for Constance, but had kept it up by writing regularly; and now she paid her a longpromised visit. Struck by the alteration in her friend's appearance (certainly not for the better), she instantly proposed that Constance should accompany herself and her husband, during tour they projected, on the Continent. Mrs. Mordaunt at first declined the favour; but afterwards yielded to Emma's solicitations, upon condition that when they arrived at Naples, Constance should be handed over to an aunt of her own, who had been staying there some time. Constance benefited greatly by the change. Don't be afraid, reader, at the word, Continent; you shan't be bored with a single description of scenery. So we must skip over their journey to Naples, which was more than they did; for Emma, being loath to lose her friend, tarried much by the way, and before she got to Naples had contrived to spend a sufficient number of weeks to have taken her there five or six times. When they arrived, the dreaded aunt was not there after all, having gone to Rome; so, congratulating themselves on their good fortune, they continued to enjoy each other's society a little longer. Constance loved the water-every lady should; and boating excursions were their constant amusement. As they were returning from one of these, at the close of a true Campanian day, the sun just sunk to his rest; a rich glowing purple exhalation rising slowly from the ground, and overhanging the vineyard of Italy; the gorgeous splendour of the land, relieved by the chaste and majestic loveliness of the sea; gazing on all the glories of a sunset in the bay of Naples, scene unsurpassed and unsurpassable"But no descriptions, if you please. 99 We bow to your rebuke-the rather that such beauty is indescribable; for who can paint a Campanian twilight? As they thus glided through the waters, a boat darted across their bows, with a tall figure reclining in the stern. Constance's heart beat quicker. "Can it be he? How came he here?" She was just beginning to think, when Emma's husband began to expatiate on the charms of all the elements as then revealed to them, and interrupted her incipient reverie. "Thank you, I'll not accompany you this forenoon; I'm rather tired, and I would prefer staying in the house for a day." Such was her answer next morning, when her friends asked her if she would join them in a walk. Why did she remain at home? Was she really tired; or had she the faintest possible. hope that she had seen him last night; that he had seen her, and that he would call this morning? He had not seen her; but scarcely had Emma left the house when she met him, and-whose foot sounds so quickly on the stairs; though not so quickly but that her heart can keep pace with it?-The door opens, and he stands before her! Oh, the perverseness of the human heart! How she longed for this; and yet she meets him with a cold "How do you do?" and a regret that " Mr. and Mrs. Grey have just gone out." When our tale commenced, this would have repulsed him; but he knows better now. "I met them; but I wished to speak to you, fair children are those gambolling over it? Is Constance! I wished to tell you," continued that handsome mother at the low open window he, growing more earnest, "of all my repentings, bending over her last-born, the golden-haired and all my sufferings; to clear up all misunder-girl at her feet, and teaching her to lisp her standings-and, if I could, to regain your heart!" | morning orisons, while the father looks smilingly Did she listen with a willing ear as he told a on-is that our old friend Constance? Oh! tale, already half known, half guessed; or did loveliest of all sights, a lovely mother performing she deem the recital tiresome? She gave one her holiest duties! It seems as if the Deity yet glance of half distrust-repented of as soon as loved to purify and exalt his fairest work; as if given. those shining ones that watched the couch of Eve, protect Eve's daughters still! It is a rare one? precious picture of domestic bliss-is it also a He raised his finger. "Constance, the torquoise is unchanged, and so is my heart!” "Forgive me!" murmured she, as she sank upon his bosom, overcome by the recollections of former happiness, which the sight of that ring evoked. That moment, when he strained her to his heart, was a full reward for all their sufferings. Then was their probation ended-their happiness begun! Once more among the lakes. Where our tale commences, there must it end. Mr. Lennox, still in mourning for his eldest son, sits with his sister in the parlour, anxiously expecting some arrival. Henry Lennox, summoned home upon the death of his brother, visited Naples on his way; and from thence he returned not alone. Now past the village, and the noisy gratulations of its inhabitants, sweeping up the long avenue, comes their carriage. For a moment before entering the house, they pause upon the step, to gaze upon the scene. The sun was fast settinghis last rays still flashing on the highest peak of Ecclefrig; like hope, which only lightening the present, sheds its brilliant gilding over the distant future! The sky had not yet begun to weep the loss of day, nor did aught betoken the triumph of night over its departure; far stretched that green lawn, skirted by those sombre trees, over which, amid rich pastures and waving cornfields, curled the blue smoke from the peasant's cottage up to heaven-as if a grateful incense returning thanks for heavenly blessings! O'er the whole was heard, echoing, the note of day's last songster, as he trilled his lullaby to the sun from the neighbouring grove! In the distance lay the calm waters of Lake Windermere, sleeping beneath the rays of Cynthia-even now bright in the sky, and sparkling like a sheet of silver; while these same rays, full streaming on the fair young faces of the lovers, like a mother smiling on a cherished child, read there a passion so holy and so pure, as need have called no blush even to the cheek of Dian! They gazed, and as they gazed the memory of when last, thus linked together, they looked on such a scene, came fresh upon them-that time when those vows were spoken which had never been forgotten; and with a sigh and a tear, though not of sorrow, they turned to meet the embraces of a father. youthful gambollers yet ringing in our ears, Thus, then, with the merry laugh of these and the delighted smile of the father yet dwelwith the heavenly countenance of the mother ling in our minds, let us look our last upon them! Not always, gentle reader, do the disturbing elements introduced into this tale produce such evanescent results; not always are concealment from parents, and an inordinate love of admiration, so innocuous in their effects. Do you, if yet young, follow the advice of those who have trodden before you the path of life, and eschew such faults, if you would consult your own best interests! H. H. THE ICE PALACE. "Silently as a dream the fabric rose." COWPER. The Empress Anne upon the Neva's shore Once raised a stately palace: there she set Star-like in brightness, on her diadem. How beautiful! until the noon-day sun Gleamed on the ice, and lo! the palace gone! A PORTRAIT. BY MRS. PONSONBY. Thy perfect beauty, and thy lofty lot; And in that slow, faint smile, what sadness lies; At the close of a long bright summer day, I took my way through the mazy paths of a forest, where the boughs met high over head, and only admitted at intervals the rich golden beams of the setting sun, which shone with unruffled radiance on the ivy-covered ground, save where they met the dancing waters of a murmuring streamlet, forming miniature rainbows, and seeming to woo the spirit of the fountain. A thousand birds made the air melodious with their sweet songs, and warbled a farewell hymn to the grand luminary who was soon to vanish from their sight. I seated myself beneath a spreading oak, and listened to the fairy spirits dancing and singing amidst the leaves; and this was one of their songs 66 Many years ago a fair maiden came to this spot, soon as the flowers began to droop their heads-her cheek was rosy, and her step light and joyous. With her came a youth, whose dark eye looked love to hers. We surrounded them, and whispered sweet thoughts in their ears. The nightingale sang more melodiously-the brook glided more noiselessly over the pebbles, to hearken to the gentle voices of these young and innocent beings. Often they did not speak, but only read in each other's eyes a tale of happiness, as if reluctant to break a spell of so much enchantment. but we "But this soon faded, like all earthly joys; the dark, cold winter passed; and with spring's first roses, we again sported in the moonlight; saw them not. At length, on a cloudy evening, when all nature seemed mournful, came the maiden alone, pale and sad; her eye was dim with unshed tears,' and had lost its wonted sparkle. We told her of all the happy moments she had spent here; we recalled to her mind the sweet things said by her lover; the past came up before her; she seemed to live over again those buried hours, and for a moment the sting of her grief was not felt. But it still lurked in her heart; and nightly as she came to weep and think of the absent one, her cheek grew paler, and her step more slow and melancholy. He came not; and when the leaves fell from the trees, she faded too; her gentle spirit flew to its home in the skies, where there is no falsehood, but truth and love and everything beautiful. "The breezy music wandering There through th' Elysian sky And there the day's last crimson So ended the song of the nymphs of the oak. At this instant I heard the shrill scream of an "Oh owl, thou owl in a neighbouring tree. wise bird, thou counsellor of princes! canst thou tell me where happiness is to be found?" "Seek wisdom, and thou shalt find happiness," said a solemn voice. The silver tones of the nightingale next took up the strain. "In love only is there true joy to be found; for 'Love is Heaven, and Heaven is Love!' That fair maiden was inexpressibly happy while her soul's dream lasted. Wouldst thou not drink a cup of nectar because it contained one bitter drop? Nor would she exchange her variable life for one of little sorrow and likewise of little joy." Lovely bulbul, thou singest to thy rose, and she loves thee; but not for mortals is anything "The treasures of antiquity laid up No science did I leave untried: I read the face of the heavens, and saw the destinies of man revealed in the starry wonders of the firmament. I descended with the geologist and mineralogist to the secret caverns of the earth. I dived beneath the wave where are the coral palaces of the sea-nymphs and water-sprites, like beautiful Undine, where lie "the cities of a world gone by"-the pearls from "ten thousand royal argosies;" and, far more than these, the ships that "ne'er came into port again" to bring back the beloved son, the last hope of his widowed mother, who wept and watched for him through many a long, weary night-to restore the husband and father, whose guiding hand and cheering voice are heard no more, for whom "The place was kept at board and hearth so long, And the vain yearning woke 'mid festal song." I followed botany in all its stages, from the five hundred plants of Theoprastus the Lesbian, the pupil of Aristotle, and the first imperfect system of Gesner and Cesalpinus to the modern and enlightened labours of Linnæus and Jussieu. All languages were familiar to me, from the ancient Arabian to the dolce lingua Italiana. Nor did I neglect politics: I was a statesman, crafty as Richelieu, ambitious as Ximenes. I looked with the metaphysicians of Germany into the human heart and mind. I wandered to sunny Italy; there I studied the immortal works of Michael Angelo, Canova, Raphael, Claude, Titian, &c. THE SOLITARY KING. The eagle had folded his golden wing And proud was the eye of the feathered king The linnet and thrush, 'mid the myrtle bush, Were hushed in breathless slumbers. To soothe with her gentleness. As the rain by the cloud, as the corpse by the shroud, So he soared above his race. And the monarch wept o'er the humble who slept, And envied their low degree; For he knew that Power could boast no dower Like the love known by Poverty! I roamed amid the splendid scenery of that "land of the mountain and the flood, of brown heath and shaggy wood," my own beloved Scot-Tis land, and heard the spirit of Scott breathing to me by the banks of the Tweed and on the heights of Cheviot. I visited fair Melrose by pale moonlight-I stood where the red cross points to the tomb of the mighty wizard: I forced from him his magic book, and, like Margaret of Branksome, learned to bow Shut out the world's unquiet scenes, and leave our hearts reposing; 'Tis To sweet to feel, as night steals on, the dead we love Old happy scenes come back to life, beneath the moonlight beaming, And in their well-known wonted shapes are present to our dreaming; But dearer, dearer far than these, the old familiar faces, That, just about the gloaming, peer from memory's haunted places. 'Tis not a dream! They haunt us still—the dead that used to love us, And linger through the busy day all patiently above us They know our cold hearts yet estranged by this mad world's delusion, And wait our spirits' better mood, made holier in |