Theresa and about himself; and when Mr. and Mrs. Somers returned, which was in the course of an hour, they found that their daughter only waited their consent to accept the matrimonial overtures of the disconsolate widower.

When Theresa's engagement was made known, her young friends were all wonderstruck at her tameness and want of dignity; they consoled themselves, however, by thinking they should now be sure to hear every particular respecting Catherine Wilton; but, to their amazement, Theresa answered their interrogations as cautiously as Moncrief himself could have done : "Was Catherine Wilton an actress?" 'No.'

A year after the decease of the late Lady Moncrief, Theresa became invested with a legal right to her title. Mrs. Nettleton frequently, in the presence of the happy couple, talked about first affections and first wives, and the misery of receiving the remnants of a blighted heart; but Sir Edward and his bride always exchanged a smile of such perfect trust and good understanding that she soon desisted from her kind efforts to make them uncomfortable.

Were I possessed of her love of teazing, I should certainly leave my readers in the same uncertainty in which Moncrief and Theresa left the world respecting the history of Catherine Wilton; but I will take pity on their curiosity, and give them the communication made by Moncrief to Theresa, in his visit to her:

"Imagine my feelings, dearest Theresa, when on reading the will of my uncle, I found that he had bequeathed his large property to me solely on condition that I should marry within a month of his death, and that the bride of my choice should not be Theresa Somers! In the event of my disobedience, the property was to revert to a distant branch of the family, a grasping and sordid old miser, already possessed of immense riches. I locked myself in my room for some hours, to meditate on this unexpected blow. I felt for myself; I felt for you; I felt for the memory of my once dear uncle, who stood exposed to the world's censure and contempt for evincing in his last hours so lamentable a proof of a vindictive disposition. At last I sent for Ferguson, who had been present at the reading of the will. 'I am resolved to resign my

uncle's bequest,' I said; 'I cannot give up Theresa.' If you resign your uncle's bequest, you must also resign Miss Somers,' replied Ferguson; for you cannot suppose that her parents will agree to bestow her on a penniless suitor; had you not better, then, enjoy ten thousand a year encumbered with a bride, rather than live in poverty and solitude, while your rightful property increases the hoards of a heartless miser? But what a penalty,' I exclaimed, to pass perhaps a long life in the society of another than Theresa.' 'Remedy that,' said Ferguson, by choosing one to whom a long life would be improbable, if not impossible. Absurd,' I replied, peevishly; 'humanity and decency would forbid me to court a bride in the last stage of a mortal disorder; and if I fell at the feet of some venerable infirm dowager of my acquaintance, beseeching her to honour me with her hand on this day three weeks, would not her grandson order me down stairs, even if her asthmatic cough prevented her from desiring her footman to open the door for me?' 'You have somewhat foreseen my plan,' said Ferguson; but you must have nothing to do with dowagers or footmen.' He then proceeded to inform me that he had been talking over the matter with Miss Gower; that among her pensioners was an infirm and feeble woman, of the age of eighty. five, and he suggested to me that I should suffer the marriage-ceremony to be performed between myself and this person, and that I should allow her a separate establishment in my own house till the time of her death. I had two objections to this plan: it would expose me to a great deal of ridicule, and it would proclaim to all the world the cruel and vindictive feelings of my uncle. But Ferguson suggested to me that the circumstances of my marriage might remain a secret, that nothing need appear in the papers but the name of my bride, and that I might immediately remove her to my uncle's seat, in Scotland. I gave my consent, that of my bride-elect (who had sufficient plain sense thoroughly to understand the circumstances of the case as represented to her by Miss Gower) was soon gained, and I met at the altar Catherine Wilton!' I accompanied her to Scotland (lest you should feel jealous, dear Theresa, let me assure you that I was in a separate carriage!), and afterwards saw her for about ten minutes once a week, when I invariably received her earnest thanks for the comforts I had bestowed on her. She had spacious apartments, a pleasant flower-garden, and careful attendants, whose implicit secrecy I could well depend on, as it was made the condition of their engagement, and was further ensured by enormous wages. Such, dearest Theresa, was the all-conquering Catherine Wilton, whom you and your friends exalted into a Grace, a Muse, and a Goddess. She died a year after our marriage; but I can safely say that I believe the care she received prolonged her life, and at all events rendered it more happy. Let me now make a confession to you of my weakness: I had a reason beyond that which I disclosed to Fer

THE MISER.

An old man dwelt in a lonely room,
With a cold and selfish soul;
Thro' a broken pane, on his golden gain,
The light of the morning stole.

His eyes were fixed with a steadfast look
On a heavy iron chest,

Which he strove to hide by a mean bed-side,
Where he lay in the night to rest.

Oh! sad were his looks; in his sunken eye
Was a volume of misery seen:
That ghastly stare on his treasure there
Was his only joy, I ween.

And many there came to this old man's door
Who pitied his wretched lot;

For they knew not the wealth he'd hid by stealth
In that miserable spot.

The pauper hath passed his drear abode-
But what for his suppliant tone?

To ask an alm there he did not dare,
It so resembled his own.

Dark waves are rolling o'er the heath

That girdles in the troubled lake; And to the spreading plain beneath The deer themselves betake.

No hunter's in the distance seen;

My thoughts are sad-are very sad; They dwell on pleasures that have been, When many friends I had.

And shall I then behold no more

My lovely maid? Appear! appear! Come bounding light the heather o'er, My sinking soul to cheer!

Thy hair far-floating on the wind;

Thy bosom heaving to the sight; Thine eyes-clear mirrors of thy mindFilled up with tear-drops bright;

Tears for the friends concealed from view
By flying mists. O fairest, come;
I'll comfort thee, and bring thee to
My father's quiet home.

But see! she moveth o'er the plain;
Oh, bright and lovely is that form
As autumn moon ere it doth wane,
Or sunbeam in a storm.

O'er rocks and mountains comest thou; Thy Shilric every movement heeds: Hark! now she speaks; her voice is low, As breezes in the reeds

"Safe thou returnest from the war;

Where, Shilric, are thy friends all fled? I heard that thou wast slain afar, And mourned thee as one dead."

Yes, I alone, of all my race,

Return to sing the mournful strain, Around my father's dwelling-place; The rest are with the slain.

But thou art here to pour the balm
Of peace into my troubled breast;
Why, why elude mine outstretched arm?
What fear hath thee possessed?

"Alone, my Shilric, all alone,

Within the winter-house of gloom, I pined until my heart grew stone, Then sunk into the tomb ;

"And now I am a spectre pale."

She fleets, she saileth fast away, As mountain-mist before the gale; My loved Vinvela, stay!

Stay, and behold my gushing tears;

Alive how beautiful wast thou! And yet methinks thy face appears

More sweet, more lovely, now!

Here on the breezy hill I'll sit,

Close by the mossy fountain's side; Oh, let thy phantom round me flit, And here with me abide.

Upon the desert-breezes come,
That I may listen to thy voice;
Far from my dwelling-spot ne'er roam,
Sweet maiden of my choice!

"Return to town without delay!' I daresay I will," exclaimed Julia, crushing a letter up in her hand. "What do you think, Matilda? Shut up that stupid book, and listen to me."

"How tiresome you are, Ju! just as I am reading such an interesting scene, and longing to know how the heroine will escape from her troubles, to be asked to leave off and listen to you! What is the matter? Has Fido pouted over his breakfast, or have you torn your lace visite, or has the favoured swain pour le moment failed to keep his appointment?"

"Not one of these events has occurred, most sapient sister; but I have had a letter from Susan; and what do you imagine the old maidish thing advises?"

"Nay, I cannot even guess, especially just now when I am dying to go on with my book," "Advises, yes, and entreats that I will return to town without delay. Just now too, when London is a perfect desert, and when this place is so gay !"

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What is her reason for urging such a thing, Julia?"

"Because Charles is getting into gay society! Why it is the very thing I would have him do. Between her and his mother he had acquired some very ridiculous notions and habits, and if he'll break himself of them it will save me a great deal of trouble."

"And you are not afraid of being rivalled by any one he may meet in these circles?"

"Not a bit! If he has so little taste as to prefer another, I shall not break my heart, be assured, or pine in single blessedness."

"And in order to avoid all possible chance of such a fate, you encourage that young officer to dangle after you. Tell me, Ju, what do you mean to do with him? for he's in earnest, though you are not."

"Do with him? What nonsense you talk, child! Your head is so full of your novels that you cannot distinguish a 'walking-stick' from a lover. But Miss Susan says that Charles is getting very gay, learning to keep bad hours, and guilty of various extravagances; all of which derelictions she attributes to his being brown

entirely upon his own resources for amusement, and politely asserts that my influence will immediately reclaim him."

"I think papa hinted something of the sort in his last letter."

"Yes, I recollect he did. However, I shall not trouble my head about the matter. A spice of the rake would decidedly improve Charles; and besides, to interfere with his pleasures and pursuits would be setting a bad example, one which I should not approve of his following. Do you know, Matilda, whether that pink crape bonnet has been sent home? Captain Gordon will call for me almost directly, as the military band plays on the Parade this afternoon."

Left to himself, with no one to welcome him home, no Julia to fill up his leisure hours, no warning voice or gentle hint to check him, Charles every day mixed more and more with young men of his own age; suffered them to lead him into follies, and to laugh him out of what they termed his methodistical notions. It is astonishing what pains human beings will take to make each other worse than they were before. Vice is not half so much persecuted, ridiculed, and fought against, as virtue; and what is stranger still, is, that human beings are for the most part much more ashamed of their good than of their bad qualities. The world exercises an extraordinary influence over all its votaries; we enter it full of good intents, high purposes, beautiful imaginings, resolved to find a field wherein to work all these out; but a blighting chilly air meets them, and dwarfs their growth, if it does not actually nip them in the bud. Custom, fashion, and the example of others, replace prudence, reason, and virtue, and assume the guidance of the actions; habit rivets the chain; the thoughts and feelings gradually acquire the same bias, and things from which the mind once shrank in disgust become regarded first as venial, and then as exceedingly proper.

Mrs. Stephenson had erred in her system of education; she had sequestered her son from the world, given him home affections and amusements, but had not strengthened him

against its trials and temptations, or taught him to rely on his own resources. Had she lived, or had the influence and affection of a wife immediately succeeded to hers, and still retained him in his old habits, he would doubtless have continued to be a very steady personage; but, as his love of home and domestic enjoyments was the result of habit rather than choice, and his disregard of the gaieties of the world arose from his never having needed them, it was not astonishing that now he sought these latter to fill up the void in his heart and time. And a young, rich, handsome man is easily received among the votaries of gaiety; the tempting cup of pleasure sparkles before him with all its rainbow hues, and he quaffed it with that zest generally inspired by novelty, and mingled in scenes in the very existence of which some few months before he would not have believed. Yet our hero was but little altered in actual character.

Half, nay, two-thirds of our fellow-beings are the creatures of habit and circumstance; principle has much less to do with the regulation of their conduct than we are apt to pretend; it takes its hue rather from outward influences and acquired tastes, from accidental and fortuitous positions and events, than from premeditation and deliberate resolves. Our daily actions are for the most part links in the great chain of conventional habitudes. How careful then ought we to be in entering on these, how earnestly to pray for a guidance more efficient than our own frail natures can, unassisted, furnish!

There is, too, a plasticity about human nature, which renders it peculiarly liable to take the impression of those objects with which it is most closely brought in contact. To the gentle how few would be harsh to the courteous how few rude! Charity begets charity; meekness shames the outbursts of passion; and piety sheds its mild radiance on all who come within its sphere. So also do evil influences modify the characters on which they act. Should not such reflections be our most powerful stimulants to aim at the attainment of every good and virtuous disposition, not only for our own sakes but for the sake of those we love?

flection more generally made, we should see a different system of education pursued, and those who are one day to become wives, mothers, and the mistresses of families, would no longer be allowed to fritter away their youth in the acquirement of superficial accomplishments and mere outward graces.

But we must return to our tale.

Mr. Montgomery, who was rendered seriously uneasy by the increasing excesses of his intended son-in-law, fetched his daughters home, in the hope that Julia's presence would charm her lover from his new pursuits: and to a certain extent he was right. Charles was still the slave of her beauty, and, had she known how to use her power aright, might have paused there, and become all his friends could have wished. But Julia was too fond of pleasure herself to think of checking him. Races were delightful scenes; and if he did bet a little, it was only what every gentleman did; billiards took him rather too much away, yet still she should not always want him tied to her apron strings-so that passed: and on the whole she considered him very much improved; and he found that their ideas and likings assimilated much better than they used to do.

The period of mourning had expired; the house was newly furnished in accordance with Julia's taste; a gay wedding took place, and the bride and bridegroom started for Paris.

Mr. Montgomery sighed deeply as he turned from the window after watching the travelling carriage depart. "God send that they may be happy!" he murmured.

"Amen!" ejaculated Susan, who had been summoned to the wedding. "Charles always was an excellent young man, and now that he is married I trust that he will return to all his old habits. It was but the vacuum caused by the loss of all his social comforts and pleasures which drove him to seek for amusement else▪ where."

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"I wish it may prove so, Miss Adams! But the habit of dissipation is easier learned than forgotten. Besides, in my daughter, I am sorry to say, he will find no inducement to reform; she is an avowed enemy to what she calls the monotony of domestic life.' Were my time to come over again, how differently should my children be brought up! I have not done my duty by those girls; and the discomfort of my life is a just punishment for my culpable neglect and folly. Alas! that we should only begin to see our errors when it is too late to repair them!"