happy. Only once in the week did she permit him to see her, always on the same evening, and always by the lonely well in the thicket of roses, with which she seemed to have some mystic connexion. One restriction was placed upon their intercourse-strictly, most strictly, did the lady charge him to leave her before the bells of the distant churches announced the midnight hour, and upon no account, whatever, to salute ber. She warned him earnestly that, if he disobeyed either of these injunctions, their mutual ruin was inevitable.

And thus nearly two months sped on, Sir Ivo's heart being wrapt up in the delicious dream into which he had so curiously fallen: faihfully did he keep it secret; but, though most anxious to know the name and abode of the lady of the fountain, to neither of which he possessed the slightest clue, he never, for a moment, suspected she was aught but a mortal maid. Still, at intervals, he felt embarrassed and uneasy at his ignorance, and half resolved to break, if possible, through the mystery but in vain; the nymph was always awaiting him at the appointed time, and when they parted, his utmost vigilance was unable to detect whither she went.

The eve of St. Michael arrived, and De Norbet repaired to their trysting-place. The broad harvest moon shone sweetly on the valley, where the winding Yore glittered in her cold white beams like a belt of silver; the church tower of Spennithorpe, rising above the eastern trees, was conspicuously visible by the soft light; and the opposite castle of Middleham, frowning in all its strength, looked like a solid mass of dark rock, and flung its broad shadow far to the north. There was not a sound audible, save the gentle rustle of the leaves, and the occasional cry of owls in the distant oak woods.

bosom, and impressed upon those lips love's first last fatal kiss!

The hour had flown! From the gloomy church towers the midnight bell resounded on the airone shrill, heart-piercing shriek, the lady of the fountain escaped from her lover's embrace. For an instant he beheld her features-beautiful still, though marked with extreme agony-gazing upon him with a fondly reproachful look; and, stunned and stupified, her parting words rang wildly in his ears. "Rash, unhappy man! our ruin is accomplished-farewell, for ever!"

From that moment those words were branded on his soul. How had she departed? Overcome with anguish, he almost unconsciously bent over the well; its waters, usually so clear and limpid, were now black and fearfully agitated: a deep, long-drawn sigh, as of one in the death agony, rose from them, and the lady of the fountain was never seen again. How Sir Ivo reached Bolton Castle that dreadful night, he himself could not have told. The servitor who received his horse, long afterwards remembered his wild haggard look and incoherent speech; but without attempting to give any explanation, he retired to his couch; it was not to sleep: that dear face, distorted with agony, seemed ever present; that piercing shriek rang continually in his ears; he cursed his own ungoverned rashness, and certain that she was lost to him for ever, prayed fervently that death might come. When morning at last dawned, he discovered that his dress was stained with blood!

After the catastrophe Sir Ivo de Norbet became a moody, melancholy man. Mysterious as his adventure had been throughout, he became convinced he was the murderer of that beautiful being whom he loved so passionately, and to whom he was evidently so dear. Every wonted pleasure grew wearisome to him; he loathed every accustomed sport; hunting and hawking were abandoned; he neglected his person, and all his cares were concentrated on his battle-steed and war accoutrements.

England; and all the while he was most miserable. In the cheerful light of noon, in the gloomy hours of darkness, in silence and solitude, or in the bustle of the camp, at the festive board, on the tedious march, in the battle-field-a ghastly remembrance was ever with, a fearful spectre haunted, bis ima

her last, rose like a pursuing spirit before his eyes. If he looked on earth, or sea, or sky, he still saw that lovely face convulsed with inward pangs; while her parting words resounded perpetually in his ears, blended with that agonizing cry. Then came the torturous and maddening thought that he, though involuntarily, had been the cause of her destruction! Still, reason retained her seat,

Twelve months had passed since the disappearance of the beautiful lady of the fountain, when, on the morning of St. Michael's feast, a woodcutter of Spennithorpe, proceeding early to the forest, as he passed by a thicket of hollies and wild roses, heard deep groans, apparently those of a dying man. After a little hesitation, he entered the thickly-matted bushes, and discovered the body of a knight, lying upon his face, beside a turbid and discoloured stream. Upon raising it, life had evidently been extinct for many hours, notwithstanding the sounds heard by the peasant. Although there were no external marks of injury, a quantity of clotted gore appeared on the bosom of the corpse. It was that of Sir Ivo de Norbet! The lapse of four centuries has wrought great changes in the aspect of the valley: the heronry which Sir Ivo was passing when he first heard the song of the fairy, has long since disappeared; and the little village of Harmby now occupies the hill side: the woods have been cut down, the country enclosed and cultivated; but a footpath which leads from Harmby to Legburn, across pleasant meadows, pursues for some distance nearly the same track which De Norbet took in his frequent journeyings to Jorevaux Abbey; and still, a few yards to the south of that path, may be seen the clear spring, beside which the nymph invariably appeared. A straggling ash-tree overhangs it, and the hollies are gone; but the water is shadowed by white thorns, among which linger still the graceful wild roses, relics, no doubt, of those beneath whose branches Sir Ivo de Norbet and the lady of the fountain so often sat during the brief period of their happiness. The spring, though it long ago recovered its wonted transparency, is considerably diminished in size, as if still mourning for the loss of its naiad. The villagers are, for the most part, ignorant of the legend we have given above, but many of them believe it to be peculiarly haunted by the fairies, whose name it bears to this day; and the field in which it is found will be readily pointed out to the curious stranger who passes through Harmby, on his inquiring for Fairy Well Pasture.

Bunks of the Yore.

THE MAIDEN'S REMONSTRANCE.

BY MRS. F. B. SCOTT.

Oh! say not that you love me now,
'Twould shame my cheek, and flush my brow;
The dream of other days is fled,

Love must be numbered with the dead.
The joys of other hours are gone,
And I must henceforth live alone;
Alone in heart, alone in mind,
Estranged from all my fellow-kind:
Alone in woman's changeful mood-
The dreariest part of solitude.
Nay, look not on me, thou art fair,
And I, undone in my despair;
Thou'rt with the fearless, with the gay,
Where bright-eyed mirth keeps holiday;

Thou where the laugh is echoing,
And I, a care-worn, joyless thing.
Pleasure and joy each claims a part,
Quick'ning the life-pulse of thy heart.
Bright, is the course, my life all pain.
How, then, could we twain meet again?
No, say farewell! The quivering sigh,
The scorching tear-drop of the eye,
The woman's silent agony,
The life's long struggle, death's last tone,
Shall touch no heart save mine alone.
No look, or word, or act of mine,
Shall e'er upbraid that heart of thine ;
For thou wast to thy first vow true,
Till o'er the rainbow tinted hue
Of our young love Fate threw a cloud,
The which Time changed to a shroud—
A pall-like image spreading far
O'er life's young morning's dawning star;
It deepened into darkest gloom,
And oped love's pathway to the tomb!
Ah! never more, no, never more,
Can we twain speak of days of yore.
The fleeting blush, the downcast eye,
The question answered with a sigh,
Are mine no more. The autumn leaves,
Which fading earth each year receives,
Are like my heart, thus differing,
This buds no more at early spring.*
Then ask thy breast how could I share
The blooming flowers implanted there;
No, seek another! let her be
All that I could have been to thee,
Ere grief and pride, and shame and woe,
Had made this bosom's pulse beat slow.
Let not her lip in scorn be curled,
It shows a knowledge of the world;
Hope not for fire in her dark eye,
It tells a want of sympathy.
The tear of feeling rarely flows
From eyes of fire o'er cheeks of rose.
Such worms as these will rankle on
Until their ruthless work be done;
Sapping the trunk of what should be
A goodly, fair, and gracious tree.
Then let her be but young and true,
Her mind expanding to the view
All clearly pale-a paleness bought
With the deep store of inward thought;
And let her own a quiet grace,
With all her heart seen in her face;
And when her lip to thine is pressed,
And thou art loving and caressed,
When brightens on her lip and eye
The mellowed touch of ecstasy,
Think thou, as she her joy doth tell,
"I once knew one who loved as well!"
Cambridge.

* It is a beautiful fancy of the old writers, that the withered leaves being received in autumn into the bosom of Earth, are nourished and restored by her, and sent forth again in spring endowed with new life and youth and beauty.

THE VISIT.

main street! My reader will agree with all who heard this fact (and these were soon all the village)

WEAKNESSES.

If one had been listening at the door, or in the well-lined closet of a small, pretty chamber, at the window of which the friendly wind was lifting now and then the white looped curtains, that the green leaves of a clustering vine might take a better peep at the scene within-if, as I say, one had been listening (which I confess would have been a very improper thing), one might have heard the rosy-cheeked occupant and mistress of all she surveyed, exclaim, "Boston, dear Boston!" in the true à la Kemble style. But to tell a story well, it is quite important to commence well. So let me answer three inquiries about this rosy-cheeked maiden, which I know are trembling on the tongue of the gentle girl, or more lordly but as curious youth, who may be whiling away a moment over this tale.

In the first place, her name; in the second, was she engaged; in the third, where did she dwell? She was called at that quite unpleasant, but I suppose very necessary period, of introduction, "Miss Elizabeth Grey." But with those who knew and loved her well, 'twas simply "Lizzy." Was she engaged? If the course of a small black chain about her fair neck had been followed from the neat gold clasp which fastened it, the questioner would have met a locket, which opening by a spring, showed the fine features of seemingly a very young man. They could not have been those of her dear father, for the hair was beautifully dark, and slightly curling over his open brow-her father's locks were grey with years. Lizzy had no brother, and it may well be said that it looked suspicious, very-that miniature of a stranger placed so near her heart. But if it were necessary to bring more proof, look out with me upon the green below the window of the pretty chamber I have told you of before, and watch the eager spring of a horseman to the ground, and tell me if he look not very much like a lover, such as you may have heard of when your heart stirred within you with the first romance of youth. A long while they have been separated-a day. And now he is looking up to catch a glimpse of a sweet face, which he knows will glance a look of love upon him soon, through the green lattice-work of leaves, that seem to her to be always murmuring his name. Ah! there it is. The eyes are softer than they were when we first looked upon them, and "Francis, dear Francis," is now upon her lips.

What could one wish more to teach them that Lizzy's lot in life was fixed-that the future was to her one beautiful perspective of bright and joyful scenes in which that dark-haired youth and herself would wander with ever fresh and glowing love. Yet to remove all doubt, I will say that the village belles and beaux had received the news of Lizzy Grey's engagement to Francis Low from good authority-Mrs. Stone, a lady very much interested in the prospects of all her friends, who had seen them twice walking arm in arm up the

Every one knows that New England claims a noble river which waters its western section. Upon the Massachusetts bank of this long-wandering stream was located the dwelling of Mr. Grey. It was a lovely spot, so lovely that my humble pen could poorly paint that glowing picture of earth and sky and flowing water. It was a scene of perfect beauty. Let each one take this sentence, and make of it all his warm imagination can. His fancy will not exceed the lines of nature's pencil. At a short distance from the village lived the wealthy father of Francis Low, in a quiet, retired spot, just suited to his taste and love of solitude. He did not love the crowd of busy, bustling men, but sought for happiness in a circle of sympathizing and dear friends, which he gathered around him in his calm home. Francis inherited this beautiful feeling of devotion to a few, and love for holy household joys, and was grieved to see that his beloved Lizzy, with all her beauty and gentleness of heart, entered not with him as warmly as he could have wished into the domestic plans of which he loved to talk with her. Although he was often conquered for the moment by her witchery, and would, with a lover's admiration, bless her as she said, “anywhere with you, dearest, I should be happy!" yet, when she was away, when the full, fascinating, tender eyes were lost to view, and the bright ringlets fell no more upon his cheek as he pressed a warm kiss on her laughing lips; then would he find the voice of reason awakening the sorrow in his heart which had been soothed by her joyous tones and mocking playfulness. She loved to think of the gaiety of a city life, of its exciting changes. She would not be a village belle alone. She would not live all the bright spring days of her youth, and then pass the winter of old age in the same dull round of country visitings and country scenes. She had friends in the city of Tremont, and thither she was soon to go to pass some months of life and enjoyment; and this was the cause of the exclamation, "Boston! dear Boston!" with which we have introduced our heroine.

She was to leave to-morrow, that sad "tomorrow" of parting words and lingering looks; and Francis had come now to say those precious things which are so full of meaning to the loving and the loved, but which to those who have no better aim than the drudgery of every-day pursuits, seem very much like something even less than "vanity."

And now, after the lucid explanation given above, to all who were curious to know the history of Lizzy and her betrothed, before we took this present interest in them, we will watch them as they go wandering slowly through the pretty garden attached to Lizzy's home. The lover's arm is wound around the waist of the dear one by his side (I would not say small waist, it is so common for heroines to have such marvellous "taperings." Besides, I would not say anything of her that was not true, and Francis could have told you, perhaps better than I, that his fond arm encircled more

than the coveted span which art has invented instruments to compress from nature's beautiful proportions). They are making poetic resolves to watch at the same hour the gentle moon, when she should come forth to be the envy of the starry host, and listener of mortal lovers' vows. Did you but breathe now in their ear, my reader, a word of the world's fickleness, that constancy had been known to fail beneath the witchery of foreign eyes, and influence of time, they would scorn such tales, and give most virtuous counsel respecting your regard for truth. He thinks his Lizzy, at this moment, more dear than the devotion of a life can prove, and she feels proud that the whole bevy of city beaux will bear but poor comparison with her own warm-hearted Frank. It is, indeed, a strange happiness that they feel, as they walk together by the beds of fragrant flowers, quite unheeding where they stray, knowing the while that to-morrow they are to part. But the sweet-scented air, the clear, round, liquid notes of birds, the music of their own low, loving tones-they were not mortals to combat the hope and joy with which such influences most mercifully fill our hearts. Yet, when the mighty sun-god draws the star-gemmed curtains of his couch about him, and bids the weary labourer and toiling beast take heed of his decline and rest-when the green meadows, which so lately smiled and wooed them on, grow cold and dim, and the birds in their leafy homes hush their sweet voices till another morn; then it is that our lovers find that life is not all sunlight, that the night of parting will cast its shadow over the brightest day. Upon their hearts that general shadow falls, and by the time that they reach home there is a tender moisture in the eyes of that loving girl; and Frank-he feels the woman weakness at his heart, but will not give it vent in tears. We will not melt our own tender heart to a fountain of sympathy, or that of our reader, with a description of that night's parting. We will but hint at the warm kiss, the sorrowful bequeathment of each to a true and loving memory, and the last pressure of the hand, and its accompanying look, when the farewell was said. Enough, they parted. The following spring Frank was to bring his Lizzy home. "Gentle reader," (as all writers say with a quiet flattery, so I must e'en suppose with the rest, that all must be "gentle" who read this tale), have you the will to pass the time until then, in watching with me the sweet flower which is to be exposed to the withering atmosphere of fashionable life? Was it my vanity or your own voice that answered then-" So interesting a commencement must certainly lead to something worth a few months fellowship, so I will bear you company." Not being distinguished, particularly among those of my friends who are most partial, for vanity, or any like weakness which might lead me into error on this point, I, with the warmest gratitude, resolve it was your voice I heard, and so will introduce you to the Misses Thorne, to whom Lizzy is to pay her eagerly anticipated visit.

If I were sure that you had in your study a plaster copy of that wonderful dwelling-place of tender nerve, and some say mind, the human head, marked off and numbered with most mysterious

meaning, then I should not spend my time in giving you some little knowledge of the Misses Thorne's prevailing attributes. My pen might rest while, with a phrenological survey, you read the organs of their intellect and heart. Ay, even without the aid of eyes, you could, as do the blind with their raised characters, discern strange truths. But fearing you are not so scientific as all this, I must give you the returns of my more learned vision, in the following brief chart :"Admiration" of nice young men (that is, fashionable)

"True poetry"

"Music and waltzing"

Amiability" before visitors

"Amiability" before "none but the family'

"Veneration" for sedate old maids, and

9

0200

8

10

7

But yet, my readers, do not judge from this plain statement that the Misses Thorne are unworthy, altogether, of being our sweet Lizzy's hostesses. Oh no. They are what the world calls “wellmeaning girls," and fashionable society, "the charming Misses Thorne." They are rich, admired, indolent, in fact, mortal young ladies, living in all the folly of a life of ceaseless gaiety and show. What can you expect of such?

But Lizzy is among them now, and we will see if the effect of that city life for which she would have almost chosen single blessedness (or as so she thought, excepting when Frank's arm was round her waist, and his words of tenderness in her ear), will be to make her more in love with her own sweet country home or not.

I will beg of my reader-companion to imagine that three months have flown in the history of our friend, and at the same time ask indulgence for having brought about an introducton to the Misses Thorne in the common imaginative way, when, by a wonderful process, I can bring you face to face. Genius of Mesmer, pardon my error, and deem it not too late to atone for it, by conveying as speedily as possible, my companion from the spot where we first met, to Lizzy's present dwelling-place. You are with me, reader. This is the good oldfashioned stage. But here now are the noisy locomotives. Let us enter. Swiftly we go, now with villages beneath our feet, and now through the bowels of the earth; but ah, we are at our journey's end. What do you see now? "A great many houses." Right. Let us leave the cars, and pass down this long street. Turn to your left. You are with me. Well, what do you see now! "A beautiful extent of ground, laid out with walks and noble trees, having hill and valley, whose snow-white carpeting bears the fresh impress of tiny feet. And them I also see, running the merry race of sled and slide. Oh, tis a joyous sight!" "Tis surely so, but we must not stay to admire it now, for opposite is Mr. Thorne's. We can enter without the servant's aid, and make our

way unmolested even through the parlour-door. | There you see upon a low, embroidered tabouret, our Lizzy! Now that you are face to face with her, in a spiritual sense-thanks to that wonderful science which produces such benevolent effects-I drop the style mesmeric, although I "will" you to be with me, while I watch her movements for some little time, thereby gaining some knowledge of her heart's present sentiments, and the manner in which she passes her hours. There she sits, as I have said, on that low seat, with her ringlets fashionably looped, with bracelet and girdle, and all the little etc. which inconstant fashion invents to charm the variety-loving female taste, and bring fair customers at every change, to the door of him, who in very large characters without, commends himself, and libels his neighbours, by declaring his goods to be the "richest, the cheapest, and most unique" of any to be found, among which may be seen "the rare la Miller silk, of entirely new style," &c., &c. Lizzy's head is resting upon her fair hand (a sadly impressing posture for a light-hearted girl), and there is a look of weariness in her sweet face. A novel lies in the chair by her side, and she is thinking how the hours have been taken from adding knowledge of living men and women to her scanty store, while she has been shedding tears over the fictitious fortunes of some almost perfect pair, who, through many grievous tribulations (from which they escape most marvellously just at the right time), at last only get married. Caroline Thorne is putting the last stitch in a pair of elegantly embroidered slippers, which are to be a philippina to some rich old bachelor, and Mary is reclining upon the lounge without any visible employment, although she is actually engaged, with that wild worker the imagination, in dressing herself from head to foot for a ball, the when and where of which is explained in that exquisite little article marked " quadrilles," which lies upon the mosaic table in the recess yonder. She asks Lizzy what she intends to wear, ceives for a reply, "My white dress, to be sure; what else prettier have I?" At this Mary seems in no way surprised, but in a very impressive manner rejoins, "Lizzy, dear, you must not wear white to-morrow night. That love-in-a-cottage dress is very pretty to talk about, but nothing else. Plain white, with your hair just looped, and without an ornament, as you wear it here at home. Why, I believe have appeared at every party during the fall in the same charming simplicity,' as some would-be poets call it. You must have something more attractive and unique if you would make a sensation at that splendid ball. Come, put on your hat, and I will go with you to choose the costume for so great a debut, as we French scholars say." And what can Lizzy do? Slowly she rises from the rich cushion of green leaves and buds and flowers, and consents to Mary's plan.

you

and re

As we have travelled already much to-day, my reader, they may go alone to make their purchases,

and we will rest the while.

They have returned. And there the servant enters with the neat "brown paper parcels," which to those who have not mingled in the "shopping," are so full of exciting interest.

Guided by the rich taste of her adviser, Lizzy has indulged in an expenditure which, three months before, she would have considered extravagantly appropriated for a mere dress, and would have thought how with it she could make the heart of some poor creature bound with gratitude and joy. To be sure she had hesitated when she purchased, but the gay girl, who in her luxurious home believed little of, because she could not imagine, the sufferings of the destitute, advised her to combat such notions; for it was very necessary she should appear well at this first great ball of the season; and she was sure there were societies enough to take care of the poor; she herself paid a yearly subscription to three or four, she had forgotten their names, but supposed, and in fact had heard, that they did a vast deal of good. And so, tempted by her friend's praise of the rich dress and her own admiration, it was purchased with the suitable trimmings, and corresponding ornaments for her hair. Now our eyes are to be gratified with a sight of the purchases, for while Mary throws herself upon the lounge again after so great a fatigue, Caroline, with exclamations upon its beauty, is spreading out the folds of the costly stuff, and placing them in a favourable light to show their rich shade.

And oh how beautiful it is! The richness of the velvet, the soit becoming shade of blue, the indented flowers! And there upon the table lie the girdle of white gem-like beads, (for the life of me, reader, I cannot tell their name, can you?) and the head-dress of blue and silver net-work, most indescribable. But we must not look too long upon the tempting things, lest we should forget, as Lizzy did, the foolishness of lavishing upon such decorations, that which would fill the mouths of the hungry, and clothe the shivering form of some child of sorrow. The velvet is folded again, and the servant is rung for to carry it to Mrs. L's, where Lizzy has been this morning to make the necessary arrangements for its being speedily made up.

It is after dinner, and the drawing-room is empty, for the three young ladies have, according to their usual rule, retired to pass the afternoon in refreshing repose. Evening is coming on, and now the toilet is consulted with peculiar care. Now, with the curtains drawn, and the latest invention for making the absence of sunlight less of an evil, brilliantly illuminating the room, we see Look at Mary! There must be some magnetic the family assembled after the evening meal. influence of the bell-wire upon her fingers, for the curl is adjusted with a hasty touch, and the last graceful fold put to her dress, as the servant opens the door to announce the entrance of a very fashionable young man. Another and another is announced, until quite a party of the lordly sex is collected at the house of Mr. Thorne, whose daughters are to have a little fortune each.

One of the most distingué in dress of the gentlemen seats himself at Lizzy's side, and after gazing upon her for a moment with unqualified and flattering approbation, asks if she " is not in raptures with the magnificent Jane ?" (He belongs

R