THE FLOWERS OF LITERATURE. A VILLAGE TALE. "The girl was dying; youth and beauty, all The dif It was evening. The early song of the nightingale had just welcomed in the approach of twilight, and the fine summer sun, sinking gently behind the western hills, gave a rich expectation for the morrow. ferent groups of peasantry, who had been enjoying their pastimes on the village green, were all quietly dispersing; and their frequent bursts of merriment, as it came wafted on the wings of the wind, was succeeded by the most profound silence. Occasionally you might hear the gurgling sound of the rivulet leaping from rock to rock in its course; or the distant whistle of the ploughman, as he returned from his daily labour; but even this sunk at last into silence, and the general tranquillity of nature ushered in the coming of night. But the cottage of Farmer Ashfield still re-echoed the boisterous mirth of a numerous village assemblage. The VOL. IV. B rustic song, and the joke, went round in concert with the jug of home-brewed ale; and the faces of all the party appeared to be lit up with the sunshine of unclouded happiness. The farmer himself was snugly. seated at one end of his long oaken table, and his daughter Fanny, a pale interesting girl of seventeen, was stationed at the further end of the apartment. It is not often that you would see so sweet a creature as this young village maid: she was exquisitely delicate in her person, with eyes of the most lovely softness. Her features were not strictly regular, but there was an expression of goodness in her countenance, that rendered her irresistibly attractive. Her mind, too, was cultivated beyond the generality of villagers, but so guileless, and so innocent, that it would be worse than blasphemy to pervert it. She was of course the delight and admiration of all who were now assembled at the house of her father; but what gave her additional importance in their eyes, was the circumstance of her marriage in the ensuing week, with a young soldier, who was daily expected home, after a long absence from his country. Many a sly hit and shrewd innuendo went round on this occasion; and honest Ashfield himself, with the tankard raised to his mouth, and the pipe placed modestly by his side, drank a health to the " young dog,” as he facetiously termed the future heir of the family. This lively quiz kept the whole company in a roar r; and poor Fanny, whose pretty face was in one continued glow, was compelled to return thanks to her friends, for their kind but officious interrogatories. But it was now drawing late, and at the motion of one of the junior peasants, the party were preparing for their dance. The old blind fiddler had accordingly taken his place at the window, with the spirited determination of overleaping the bounds both of space and time in his airs, when the sudden bark of the house dog, and the long-continued pull of the postern bell, brought all in a hurry to the door. At this instant a young man was discovered walking slowly up the avenue that concealed the front part of the cottage, and the next moment was clasped in the embraces of his favourite Fanny. We need hardly observe that it was Philip, who had thus opportunely arrived to witness the merriment of the party. The regiment to which he had attached himself had been ordered home to England, after a year's residence in India; and, worn down with fatigue, and broken-hearted with anxiety, he had returned to his native village to lay himself down and die. All crowded round to congratulate him on his arrival; but his pallid countenance arrested their immediate attention. "Why, Philip," exclaimed old Ashfield, half rising from his chair, to which a merciless fit of the gout had confined him, "ar'n't glad to see thy friends, man? Here's poor Fan has been wandering about, so wo-begone and wretched ever since your departure-why! haven't you a word to say to her?"-"Ten thousand, my dearest Fanny," returned Philip; "but at present I am so fatigued, that the least exertion is painful."-" Let him retire then, papa," returned Fanny, eagerly; "he looks ill-very ill indeed. Come, Philip," she continued, "I must be your nurse now; lean upon me, and I will lead you to the apartment prepared for your reception." They then left the room together, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the old farmer, who was desirous of hearing all about the lions and tigers of India, and whether the native blacks were born with tails, as Bill Bobbin, the village barber, had solemnly assured him was the case. But his curiosity was soon forgotten; for in about half an hour Fanny returned into the supper room, with her eyes filled with tears, and her countenance stamped with the deepest dejection. The illness of her lover, it seems, which in the irritation of fatigue he had exaggerated, had impressed her with the most alarming apprehensions. She contrasted his present jaded looks with his former healthy appearance, and felt too truly, that if one year could so materially injure his constitution, a very few months more might suffice to tear him for ever from her sight. The love of this young virgin was indeed of the purest, the truest description. It was the result of an ardent disposition, anxiously seeking to attach itself to some one that might protect and foster its native innocence, without injuring the delicacy of its spirit. In Philip she had found this protector; they had been both reared together from their infancy, and were as much united from a sympathy of tastes, as from an old family connexion. An orphan from his earliest childhood, the young villager had gained the pity, and ultimately the protection of Ashfield, who had latterly adopted him as a son-in-law; and previous to his departure with his regiment (a situation which his dread of dependence induced him to solicit), had promised him his daughter in marriage. He had now returned to claim the promise, and to find in the bosom of his family that domestic tranquillity which his restless spirit had hitherto denied him. A few days had now elapsed since the period of Philip's return, and his illness still remained undiminished. The sultry climate of India had effectually ruined his constitution, and deprived him of his former flow of spirits. Still he never complained, and it was only by the glow on his cheek, and the lustre in his eye, that you might perceive the violence of the disorder. Ön such occasions, when the ruddy flush of consumption passed across his face, his neighbours hailed it as a symptom of returning health, and congratulated him on his apparent restoration. Fanny, too, clasping his hand. in hers, and looking up to him with fondness, would often smile as she saw the splendor brightening in his eye, and resume for a time her wonted vivacity. But Philip knew too well the deceitful nature of his disorder, though, fearful of damping the joyous expectations of Fanny, he would seem to give into the delusion. If any thing indeed could have restored him to health and happiness, it would have been the constant attention of his friends; they accompanied him in his rambles, soothed him in his sorrows, and did all that reason or affection could suggest. But Fanny was his most frequent and favourite attendant. In the long evenings of summer she would sit with him under the porch of her father's cottage; and while the breeze fanned his faded cheek, she would read aloud the tales that had endeared her solitude. Often, too, would she venture to anticipate the future, and talk of the joys that were yet to arrive. This was bitter conversation for poor Philip, and he often turned aside to conceal the tears that were starting to his eyes. But the traces of long-protracted care make terrible inroads on the constitution-the cheek soon fades-the eye soon droops-the mind soon flags when the cankerworm of sorrow is preying on the heart; and though true love is ever the last to perceive the alteration, necessity soon enforces the acknowledgment. It was scarcely to be expected that Ashfield and his daughter should now be insensible to the danger of their favourite friend. A physician was consulted-came-and retired with a sigh. He told them that he could do nothing; that the patient was beyond his skill, and that death even now claimed him as his own. But it is idle to dwell longer on the detail of this painful scene. A few days saw Philip borne in sad procession to the tomb of his ancestors, and the tears of blighted love and ill-starred friendship dropped on the grave that enshrouded his ashes. His decay was gradual, but stamped throughout with all the melancholy interest of consumption. The hectic flush on his face remained unchanged to the last, and his eyes shone brightest at the moment when he closed them for ever. He never once complained of his untimely dissolution, but he prayed earnestly that his Fanny might never forget him. He gave her a ring, as the last pledge of his affection, and told her that they should both meet again in the land of spirits. He entreated her, moreover, to preserve her own life for the sake of her aged parent, and to wait with resignation the period of their reunion. Fanny promised to obey his injunctions; but the fulfilment was beyond her power. When she followed her lover to the grave, and heard the funeral service read slowly over his ashes, she drooped like a withered Aoweret of the field. She never wept, nor was she ever |