randum-book, seem to have been the sole remains of former days. The estate was sold to a man of great wealth, who was purchasing land for political purposes, and I am told that he threatens to pull down the old house, which step, as it involves the destruction of a remarkably fine baronial hall, says not much for his veneration of ancient relics. The Hawkestones, with a narrow income rescued from the general ruin, retired to the continent, where Mr. Hawkestone, restless and miserable, conscience-stricken and broken-hearted, with his victims always in his sight, the constant sense of privations to which he was unused, without energy or power to redeem his character, died shortly after they had settled at Tours, leaving his exemplary wife and his numerous children dependent on the friendship and kindness of friends and relations. There they still reside, respected by all who know them, and not uncared for by many at home, who will exert themselves strenuously for the advancement of the boys, when they are of age to enter into a profession. "And Francis Clare," I asked, "what is become of him?"

"If you attend this church next Sunday," replied Mrs. Lindsay, " you will hear the service performed by a tall, pale, pensive young man, who whilst he looks calm and serene, yet bears upon his countenance traces of sorrow that can never wholly pass away. That is Francis Clare. After losing Mabel, he seemed to forget the pious lessons she had taught him, and he fell into a state of deep melancholy and despondency. His father sent him abroad, and I heard of him at Florence during my travels, as very little amended by change of scene or climate. On my arrival there, I sought him out, and found his mind to be in a thoroughly unhappy and uncomfortable state. Mabel's pure and scriptural belief had led him to think more on religion than formerly, and his naturally clear judgment had pondered on the many errors of his own faith, till he was shaken and bewildered. He confided to me his doubts and apprehensions, and at last yielded to my entreaties that he would consult a learned and excellent clergyman, a friend of my own who happened to be then residing at Florence for his health. On his discretion, tenderness, and moderation I knew I could rely, and as they wandered along the Arno or climbed the heights of Fiesok in the lovely evenings of spring, Francis' mental eyes became cleared and his ears received the words of truth and soberness. The result was, his sincere conversion to the Protestant Faith, and, an after-consequence-disinheritance by his father. This, however, was more grievous as an unparental act than from any pecuniary loss it involved; for ruin of worldly prosperity had already befallen his family. Francis now bent the whole force of his mind to the study of Divinity; and becoming a good theological scholar-took holy orders-and by the exertion of some interest in a right quarter succeeded in being appointed to the little Rectory of Hawkestone. Here he officiates, with the effigy of his beloved Mabel before him, the spot in the church-yard where her remains are laid being fully visible from both the reading-desk and the pulpit. I doubt his being long-lived. Grief and vexation, care and disappointment have each gnawed sharply at his heart, and have completely subdued his once cheerful and happy spirit whilst with the loss of her on whom all his affections were so deeply fixed, was transferred every hope of happiness to another sphere: yet his days pass in peaceful serenity, for he feels how strictly she

would have required him to have performed the sacred duties of his office; therefore, this motive is added to that of his own conscientiousness, and to their fulfilment he devotes himself ardently, whilst there is a constant source of satisfaction to him in his proximity to the scene of Mabel's sepulture. He would, however, scarcely have approached so near his father's residence, he being, as you may imagine, most indignant on the subject of his conversion; but his ruin followed so closely on that of Hawkestone, that the estate was disposed of, and the family had retired to France with all they could save of their scattered fortunes, long before their son was appointed to the living of Hawkestone.

And now, my dear sir, my long and simple memoirs are ended. But, devoid as they may be of stirring interest, I must nevertheless claim my reward. I must recall to your mind that I am the most intimate friend of all this family; that you, kind as your feelings may be towards them, are yet a total stranger, and I will leave it sincerely to the decision of your own heart, whether the little Red Book should not be transferred from your hands to mine. I shall without scruple immediately bear away the flower-vase of so many tender recollections, and be grateful to you as the means of procuring me such a precious memento.

"See," continued Mrs. Lindsay, gently taking the little book from my reluctant hands, and opening it at the last page, or, rather, at a last paragraph which had been written after the interval of several blank leaves:- "See the final close of this innocent journal, and confess that a stranger intermeddleth not here." So saying, she pointed to some lines which were traced in a very trembling hand, as if she knew their import. In truth, she had seen these memoranda just after Mabel's death, and had replaced them in the drawer of her bureau, nor could she otherwise account for the situation in which I found them, but by supposing this one volume had been inadvertently separated by her mother from the rest; nor the loss discovered until the family were far away.

"I think I have decked my flower-vase for the last time. I could scarcely sit up to arrange the flowers he brought me this morning, and my fingers trembled so much, that they fell from my hold and bestrewed themselves over me. I felt adorned for my burial, but I said not this to Francis-or

The next paragraph was in some words nearly illegible, but I read it through, and it was the last.

"Few and short have been the days of my pilgrimage, and though much of joy and happiness illumined my hours of childhood, sorrow clouded my youth, yea! how far more darkly than any one has knowledge of. From this time I shall write no more; my earthly hopes are changed for Heavenly ones, my mourning spirit will soon, I humbly trust, be a purified and a happy one. Weep not for me mother, most beloved, for I am sure I should ill have borne the evil to come. Weep not for me, indulgent friend of my earlier years and revered monitress of my youth, weep not that poor Mabel is spared from trials she had not strength to bear with a firm heart and you whom I loved in my earliest years as a brother-and since, with a still more tender love; you, who have soothed my hours of pain and lightened my hours of health, who will, I trust, witness my departure from this vain and unsatis

fying world, I implore you, Francis Clare, weep for me no tears but such as shall relieve the first pangs of regret, and then remember that the spirit of your Mabel is ever beckoning you onward-onward through all the changes and chances of this mortal life, to join her in the realm of the blessed, where faith in the sacrifice of the Redeemer shall give us entrance.

I certainly could not contend the point with Mrs. Lindsay, but in placing the book in her hands it seemed as if I were giving up a talisman which would have preserved me in many an hour of temptation. There was a spirit of innocence and purity throughout, which I felt I should have loved to have dwelt upon; and now that I could retain the precious leaves no longer, I inwardly prayed that I might never forget them, but endeavour to cherish feelings as blameless as Mabel Hawkestone's, and, performing all my duties as steadily and unselfishly, find that the things of this life should be as little attractive and alluring to me as to her. Certainly, my walk that sweet May morning had not been fruitless; for, whilst my senses were gratified by the abundant beauty of external things, my heart had been softened to the impression of pity and admiration; and strengthened also by the example of one so young, so fragile, and yet so good as to endure all the dispensations of Heaven unrepiningly, whilst I read a sterner lesson in the reckless career of Mr. Hawkestone that no one can injure himself alone; but he who indulges his selfish disposition involves the innocent in the consequences of his failings, and finds too late that what he has accustomed himself to regard as venial errors, may occasion a desolation on the domestic hearth as complete as the commission of more seemingly atrocious guilt. B.

The little flower she lov'd to greet,

Was the blue violet, lone and sweet;

But ah! she cried-how short its reign,

When spring shall come 'twill bloom again!

Then in the woodlands she would stray,

And wander all the live-long day;

Or sit beneath some pensive shade,
Or gather wild-flowers in the glade.

She'd watch the little sprightly wren,
That chirps, and twitters in the glen;
And catch with joy each gentle note,
Which warbles from the robin's throat.

And in the soft, and balmy ray,
Of noon-tide,-on a summer's day,
She'd mark the golden insect's wing,
And
cry-"
-"Thou art a gaudy thing."

Then, as it hum'd, and flutter'd by,
She'd mutter-" vain and silly fly,

Canst thou thus sing-and flit and play

Whose span of life-is but a day!"

Whate'er was beautiful and fair,

Whether of land, or sea, or air,

She lov'd;-but then, alas !—she'd sigh,

The sweetest flower,-doth soonest die.

And so it was,-for lo! there came,

All stealthily, that King of Fame,
Who withers nature by his breath,
And bids the fairest yield to death.

He came; and raised his with'ring dart
Then gently touch'd her beating heart,
The pulse stood still,-she meekly sigh'd
And on my aching breast,-she died!

Now in the church-yard doth she sleep,
And there I oft my vigils keep,
While violets grow, and lillies bloom,

And robins twitter round her tomb.

MAIDEN, COME AWAY, AWAY.

O'er the fields with dew-drops bright

Softly whisp'ring breezes play,

Fragrant with the tears of night;
Maiden, come away, away.

Now the lark is soaring high;

Songsters warble from the spray;

Love and Music fill the sky;

Maiden, come away, away.

Sunbeams on the waters dance;

Wild flow'rs all their charms display ;

What are these without thy glance?

Maiden, come away, away.

We will watch the sea-gull sail
With its snowy plumage gay,
Pois'd upon the morning gale;
Maiden, come away, away.

We will climb the mountain's side,
Where meand'ring streamlets stray,
Where the heath blooms in its pride;
Maiden, come away, away.

We will wander by the brook,-
Each fond tale of love re-say,
Sigh for sigh and look for look ;
Maiden, come away, away.

By the charm from Love supplied

'Neath the moon's voluptuous ray;

By the link affection tied,

Maiden, come away, away.

W. LEDGER.