and yet firm. Meanwhile, Miss Margaret finds out that her old Walter is in love with her, and that his love is worth far more than Edmund's; so she discovers a means of letting him know this; and there is a very pretty chapter, in which she leads him on to lay bare his secret heart and long-resisted passion. But he will not let her engage herself. She is going to London for the winter, and she must, he thinks, be free to understand her own feelings when tempted by the love and adulation of others. So Margaret accompanies her father and Ginevra to the gay world. Both are objects of admiration-both have pre-occupied hearts; but Margaret is a true woman, and has no objection to flattery and flirting. Walter comes up to London, and sees her greatly absorbed in the attentions of an old friend of her own age, Frederick Vincent, the brother of her companion, Maud. He does not know that the bond of union is curiosity about Ginevra, and that the handsome young Honourable is assisting Margaret to find out the real cause of her sister's sadness and frequent agitation. Novels would soon become bankrupt were it not for misconstructions, and therefore we must not cavil at the absurdity with which novel heroes always avoid the straightforward way of making inquiries and gaining proper explanations. Walter thinks Margaret repents of having taken pity on him, and she is astonished, one fine morning, by a very disinterested letter giving her up, and informing her he had gone off to the continent! She writes, half pettishly, half lovingly, bidding him return; but he does not get the letter, and consequently she gets no answer, and both are offended; and then she sets to work flirting for mere pique. As for Ginevra, she is nearly driven mad. Edmund is at first in Paris, trying to stimulate her to jealousy by paying court to a dashing widow. He has not answered her last letter, and she is utterly bewildered, and has almost lost the clue as to the line of her duty. A private theatre is got up by a party of her friends, and her father, who is proud of her genius, wishes her to act; she declines, till she hears that if no actress can be got, Edmund Neville and the fair widow, who are daily expected in town, will be asked to perform the part of the lovers of the piece. At this idea she hurriedly agrees to act with a young man who is a rather intimate friend of the family. The night arrives; she sees Edmund in a box; her face lights up; she electrifies the audience with her magical power. He is enraged, for he had written desiring her not to display herself in public. This letter, like Margaret's to Walter, miscarried. (Ah! it is a comfort that Rowland Hill's postmen are much more safe than Lady Georgiana's!) However, the selfish, despotic Edmund revenges himself by openly flirting with Mrs. Fraser, the fair widow. Ginevra is carried, fainting, from the theatre. Next day she nerves herself by a strong effort, and accompanies her champion to a public breakfast, where she knew Edmund is to be; she is resolved to see him, to force him to put an end to her

situation. Sir Charles Darcy, with whom she had acted the night before, is of the party. He takes her aside, and proposes to her; she vehemently, but kindly, refuses him. At that moment Edmund stands beside her, his eyes glaring with jealous rage. He detaches her from the rest, hurries her to a small summer-house, and, locking the door, bursts into upbraidings. She meekly excuses herself, and implores him to unseal her lips; but he goes on more violently, and then she learns that he had forbid her to act, Even her innocent self-exculpation cannot prevent his wild passion from further insults, till she exclaims

"This is too much, Edmund; this is more than man should inflict, or woman can endure. To cast me off, like a discarded mistress, because I stand between you and your wealth; and then to accuse me falsely, and turn my very patience into a crime. Was ever there a woman so used?-a wife so insulted? Go, Edmund, leave me, now: you have filled the measure of your wrongs by that sneer, which you will remember one day with remorse. Let me go; you shall not detain me here!"

She leaves him indignantly, and he hears no more of her for some time.

She is almost broken-hearted when she goes home. She resolves, like a good Catholic, on leaving the world for a season, and trying to discover her duty in the solitude of a nunnery. She tells her sister this much

"Doubts have arisen in my mind, which never rose there before; and I seem to have lost the tract, which, narrow as it was, once appeared so clear. When this happens to a Catholic, Margaret, this is what he does: for awhile, if he may, he withdraws from this perplexing world, and communes in deep silence with his own soul and with God. In one of those calm retreats-where the light of eternity shines on the paths of this life, and the still, small voice of conscience is discerned by the hushed spirithe listens to that solemn message, and returns to the world, like Moses from the mount, ready to break the idol, or to offer the sacrifice that Heaven requires."

This is very sweet and sentimental, but it is surely false religion. The still, small voice of conscience may be discerned at any time, in any place, if we will only choose to listen; and why not commune, as the Psalmist says, "with your own heart on your bed and be still?" Go not hunting after peace and light-it is within us, is around us; but it requires prayer, not solitude, at least not solitude of residence.

it

Just before her retirement she happens to hear old Mr. Neville's will discussed in conversation, and, for the first time, learns the true state of matters. She hears that people do surmise that there is an invisible wife, and, while one speaker excuses Edmund on account of his heavy debts, the other contemptuously declares that it would be a mean fraud, and dishonesty, so to act.

Poor Ginevra goes home, still more uncomfort able under her enlightenment. She now longs to see Edmund, to insist that she will no longer

be a party to this grievous wrong and injustice to his sister; but she sees nothing of her husband; he is said to be out of town. At this crisis Col. Leslie is summoned abroad by the illness of his nephew, who had accompanied Walter in his tour. He takes Margaret with him, who is now pretty tired of flirting, and anxious to see her elderly lover again. Ginevra goes to her convent, in the suburbs of London; but, instead of collecting her thoughts, she feels every day more weak and overpowered with illness. While she tries to prepare herself for confession, she hears from a poor woman, whose husband is the Italian courier that had accompanied her from the continent, that he is engaged to go abroad with her reviler, who is to be married that day at St. George's. Thunderstruck, Ginevra springs up, rushes to the street, and into an omnibus, hardly conscious of what she does. The omnibus stops, she is in agony; one of the passengers says, if she is in a hurry she had better take a cab; she does so, half frenzied, reaches the church, runs in, sees her husband at the altar! He turns round and recognizes her, takes her and draws her into the street, alarmed at her apparition. He finds, to his horror, that she is out of her senses; she answers nothing but "Yes," to all his questions. He is almost frantic; he sees, by the courier's letter to his wife, which the poor woman had given her, that his sister's marriage, to her cousin Charles Neville, had caused the mistake; but he does not know where she had come from, for his inquiries previously at her father's house had been answered by the nurse that the family had gone abroad, and he had thought, in despair, that his wife had cast him off for ever-and now she is in his arms, staring like a dull idiot. He takes her to the home of his nurse, sends for a doctor, and finds her in a brain-fever. She grows wildly delirious; he stands and hears it all. "Then he, for the first time, felt whom he had striven against when he put his own human will in opposition to the conscience of a fellow-creature; and the nature of the warfare he had waged against the faith of that young heart, which had not yielded in weakness, but broken in agony.'

He leaves her to bring up his sister, to whom he confesses everything. Ginevra is given over. She recovers her senses while he is absent, asks for a priest-one is sent for; he turns out to be her own granduncle, Father Francesco, who had come to London to look after her; he knows not who the patient is who desires the "holy offices." "It was with a sigh that he glanced over a letter which had reached him that morning; it spoke of difficulties and troubles besetting one he loved, and whom he had been that day about to seek; and the delay which this new duty imposed upon him was one of those countless sacrifices of which the life of a priest is composed. It would have been difficult for any one to look upon this old man without a feeling of reverence: his brow was thoughtful, and his countenance had that mild and grave serenity which is sometimes the visible sign of a life throughout which every selfish object has

been renounced, every passion subdued, and every virtue practised.'

A flattering portrait of the priesthood, truly! What a contrast to Michelet, who is as prejudiced on the other side! This one reminds us of a touching, if not faithful picture, drawn by an eloquent French preacher, of Le bon pasteur;" but that was a fraternal sketch by one of the band. This surely is not from a Protestant. The Romish priesthood, as a body, are unquestionably zealous and active; but though we may appreciate their exertions, we need not exaggerate their merits, nor shut our eyes to the inevitable consequences of their unnatural and forced position, so well illustrated by Taylor, in his Histories of Enthusiasm and Fanaticism. It is a dangerous thing to lose sight of sober fact, in these days of morbid sensibility and craving after excitement. The Romish faith is full of allurements for woman-the romantic fervour which this dull work-a-day world stifles can there have free vent. Her delicate taste is gratified by the lavish beauty of the arts which are heaped in offerings at the altar. Music and painting exalt the imagination of the devotee, and the splendour of the church effaces all memory of the pomps of the world; but it is only an exchange, not a transformation. Then "the arm of flesh" extended to the weak woman, becomes the staff of her salvation—her confessor is her dear friend, to whom she confides her spiritual ailments, as nervous ladies trade in sympathies with their family doctor. Surely, surely, we are going farther from God in these things, instead of nearer, as Lady Georgiana would fain have us believe.

To return to her tale. Father Francesco finds his Ginevra in the apparently dying woman. She confesses all, and sinks into insensibility. Edmund returns with his sister, to find her lifeless, but not dead. All the long night he sits holding her cold head on his breast. With the dawning the tranced spirit seems to return-the pulse beats stronger-she moans-she swallows helplessly a reviving cordial, and falls asleepShe is saved. We will not dwell longer on this most affecting scene, wrought up with the richest graces of description, nor paint in miniature what Lady Georgiana has spread over broader canvas-the repentant love and gratitude of the erring Edmund. To set matters right about his fortune, his sister reveals that her father had given her a codicil, in which he revoked his will, if indeed it turned out that his son was already married at his father's death; his suspicions having been raised by an anonymous letter from Italy, relating the fact of his son's secret marriage. The old man, however, was so sure of his Edmund's candour, that he would not believe, and only made this codicil on express condition that his daughter should never show it unless she discovered that her brother really had married previous to his parent's decease. This is the only compliment paid to a Protestant in the book, for it required no slight amount of disinterestedness to produce such a deed, known only to the possessor. Some sisters, we fear,

would have burned the codicil, and ruined the brother; and no father would have been justified in tempting human virtue so severely, as to make the next heir sole guardian of such a deposit. However, all's well that ends well; Ginevra gets her husband, and he gets his fortune, and they go to Darrell Court, close to Grantley, to welcome home Colonel Leslie and Margaret. This latter had refused Frederick Vincent; and on Walter finding it out, he was emboldened to renew the subject of his own feelings. All the misconceptions were cleared up, and the little wilful heiress marries her old Walter, twenty years older than herself! Colonel Leslie is naturally very angry with Edmund for the way he has treated his beautiful darling daughter; but he is at last appeased, on Ginevra showing him the foundation-stone of a Catholic chapel, inscribed, "In memorial of an eternal repentance and of an eternal gratitude." Rather an odd way of reconciling a Protestant father; but all Lady Georgiana's Protestants are queer ones. Colonel Leslie is indifferent, Walter is prejudiced, Edmund is worldly, his sister is bigoted, and Margaret is ignorant and careless on religious subjects. The whole interest is centered on Ginevra, and her merit is strongly insisted on as resulting from her faith. It is not that she is good in spite of being a Catholic, but she is good because of being a Catholic. The influences of her religion are fully set forth, its seductive charms, its specious promises. Everything redounds to the honour of her creed-and she moves among the worldly self-seeking Protestants like a being of heavenly origin. Here lies the unfairness of the book. It is not a correct likeness. The lights and the shadows are both too strong. The contrast Ginevra presents is unjust to our church, and unworthy of one of its daughters, if indeed Lady Georgiana be still among us-if she have not taken that fatal plunge which divides her for ever from the fold of her early faith. She is a brilliant writer; she works up the narrative with uncommon skill, and the sequence of her events is natural and well sustained. Her mind is evidently a cultivated one; her taste is fine, though it often overpowers her judgment. She gives us a story intensely interesting; and it makes one sad to see such genius thrown away in resuscitating "the old wives" fables" of Romish glories. She should be one of the onward movement, instead of creeping back to the dungeons of the dark ages. We feel sorry she is not a painter instead of a romance writer. Such powers in such a cause would produce altar-pieces worthy of Notre Dame. We can faucy a rich Italian Madonna by her hand, or a pure self-sacrificing St. Margaret; but at present she is wasting her powers in putting sweet for bitter and bitter for sweet. Alas! we remember that on such, Scripture hath cried, "Woe unto them."

P. P. C.

Why I deemed you timid, maiden; And I thought you dared not wait (And you're with no pitcher laden),

By the moss-girt spring so late. See, the moon is o'er the forest,

And the harvest-field is still, And the dark bat waileth sorest,

Silent is the stream-turned mill. Why I deemed you timid, maiden; Why, then, do you linger now Here beside the spring-course, shaden By the broad and dim elm bough? Song is silent in the thicket,

And a rising moon, I ween, Ne'er has led you through the wicket Leading o'er the church-yard green! Kelpies, fairies, and their hauntings,

You were ever wont to fear;
But your very looks are vauntings,
As you stand all silent here!
Not one answer! Onward went I;
Thoughtful look'd she, yet so meek;
And an anxious list'ning lent I;

And a brave voice softly singing,
And a foot-fall nearer springing,
And the moon a shadow flinging-
Told the tale she would not speak.

THE WHITE BUTTERFLY.

(A Legend of North York.)

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

lowing ballad was related to the author in early child. The superstitious anecdote embodied in the folhood, and then made an impression which his verses can hardly be expected to produce on readers of maturer age.

The damsel she at noon grew weary
With the labour of a harvest day,
And where the bright sun shone so cheery,
Upon a mossy bank she lay.

Hard by, a rivulet went wimpling,

Half hidden by the willows near, With many a little ripple dimpling

Its limpid wave, as crystal clear.

And overhead an elm, wide-branching, Hung its broad leaves so green and fair, Whence many an insect gay was launching Its course into the sultry air.

The damsel lay asleep in seeming,

With dark eyes clos'd, and lips apart. It might be she was sweetly dreaming Of some deep secret of the heart:

For o'er her smooth cheek, slightly flushing, At intervals fresh colour came,

As if in fancy fondly blushing

At mention of some well-lov'd name.

Soft through the elm the breeze went sighing,
Bearing sweet scent and pleasant sound
To all, save her who cold was lying,
And the fair girls who wept around.

They bore her to the lowly dwelling,
From whence at morn in health she went;
Ere eve,
St. Michael's bells were telling
With heavy knell the sad event.

And many a prayer, before the morrow,
For her soul's peace to heaven arose ;
And many a tear of truthful sorrow
Was shed above her calm repose.

'Twas then her young companions ventur'd To tell their tale, with secret pain, Thinking, had that strange insect entered, Perchance she would have woke again!

And when beneath the church-yard willow Her breathless corpse to rest was brought, They, gazing on her earthly pillow, Wept as the deed themselves had wrought. Banks of the Yore.

THE SPIRIT'S PROMISE.

At the quiet hour of twilight,
When grey mists shroud the glen,

When deep sleep shuts each fainting flower,
I will be with thee then.

Thou wilt know that I am near, love,
Tho' no earthly form I wear,
For a far-off tender dying strain
Will float upon the air.

Thou'lt hear my low voice mingling With the soft breeze from the west; Thou'lt see my glory imag'd

On the still lake's purple breast.

I'll haunt with thee each sweetest spot
We lov'd in days of yore;
I'll gently kiss thy fever'd brow,
And bid it throb no more.

I'll fill thy heart with mem'ries sweet
Of old remember'd hours;
But the blight shall be forgotten, love,
Which marr'd that love of ours.

At the quiet hour of twilight,

When grey mists shroud the glen, When deep sleep shuts each fainting flower, I'll be with thee, dearest, then.

Ramsgate, July 16, 1847.

A. T

Teresa was born at Avila, in Old Castile, in 1515. She was of noble family, being the daughter of Alfonso Sanchez de Copeda and Beatrice d'Avila Alhumada; and a child of singular intelligence and rare beauty. Thoughtful beyond her years, she not unfrequently both astonished and bewildered her preceptors by the startling questions which she would suddenly propound to them, as well as the ready answers she gave upon most subjects. But Teresa's chief attraction was that genuine and simple piety that preserved her humble and meekspirited among all the praise she was constantly receiving.

Don Alfonso frequently read aloud to his family, upon which occasions Teresa always liked to be present; although, from her extreme youth it was not imagined possible that she could understand much of what was going on. They little dreamt that the tone and colouring was thus being given to her future life. In this manner Teresa first listened with suspended breath and flashing eyes to the thrilling histories of the lives of the saints, and longed in the depths of her earnest heart to become a martyr, and lay down her young life for God. Night after night, with burning brow and throbbing temples, she drank in the inspiration of those wild tales, and mused and dreamed of them until they became, as it were, a part of her very existence. Unable at length to conceal the fervid purpose of her mind, Teresa made a confidant of a brother a year older than herself, and proposed that they should secretly quit Castile, and seek martyrdom among the Moors. The boy's adventurous spirit supplying the place of his sister's enthusiasm, he cheerfully consented to

the scheme.

"Let us go boldly hand in hand," said Teresa, "and tell them that we are Christian children, and not afraid to suffer or to die for the sake of our religion. Perhaps they will torture us before they put us to death, to try our faith, but we must not complain or cry out —” "To be sure not," interrupted her brother. "I shall rejoice in shewing how bravely I can bear pain.'

Yes; and we will tell them how sweet it is to bear it in such a cause; and die singing and

praising God, like those martyrs of whom our father told us. When shall we start?" "The sooner the better," replied her brother. "Let it be to-night then. But -" "But what? Surely you are not frightened already, sister?"

I

"Only lest my mother should weep for us. am not afraid of anything else."

"I had forgotten that," said the boy hesitatingly.

"And I was wrong to remind you of it. But never fear, dear brother, God will comfort her!" Teresa wept nevertheless when she received as usual her mother's loving kiss and blessing, clinging around her neck with a natural sorrow, that she was thankful her brother was not by to witness.

"Are you not well, my Teresa?" asked Donna Beatrice, observing the child's agitation.

66

Yes, darling mother; quite well and quite happy! But kiss me once more, if you please." Donna Beatrice pressed her to her bosom, and overwhelmed her with caresses; but Teresa's resolution never faltered, although her little heart ached at the thought of leaving this beloved parent.

That night, after all had retired to rest, the children crept from their warm beds; and having first knelt down and commended themselves to the protection of heaven, took each other by the hand, and went cheerfully forth on their wild mission.

As soon as their absence became known, messengers were dispatched in all directions, and the young enthusiasts reluctantly compelled to abandon a project which they no longer sought to keep secret, and return to their distracted parents. Disappointed in her dream of martyrdom, and won by her mother's tears to promise never to repeat the attempt, Teresa, still assisted by her brother, consoled herself by erecting little hermitages in her father's garden, where they frequently retired to pray. She also set apart stated times for prayer and meditation, which no inducement or temptation could prevail upon her to break through. By degrees, however, the boy became less strict in his devotions, and he finally left his sister sole proprietress of their little hermitages.