fident that ever and anon he cast glances at the window where she sat. Now was she sure. It was he-the visitor of her dreams-the companion of her thoughts-the being for her created, as she was born for him. She dwelt upon his elegance of form-she studied as well as the distance would permit, the contour of his face-she fancied the liquid melody flowing from his lips-she imagined -felt-knew that this was her perdue beloved, who had stepped, all perfect, like Minerva from the brain of Jove, out from the damp leaves of the last new novel! Her heart fluttered, her face was flushed and pale by turns-the crisis of her existence had at last arrived, and she had not then waited in vain! The stranger took a walk which approached the house-she saw nobility in his mien, and consciousness of proud birth and pure blood in his step. She half sighed that she was a plain republican-mere Clementina; but she rejoiced that her surpassing loveliness was about to call her to share the fortunes of the gifted of another land, and sink her plebeian patronymic in an aristocratic name. | He was not there. And then she remembered that, as a true lover, while yet his star of hope was not in the ascendant, he was bound to eschew society-all solitude to him; to avoid conversation, all vanity to a mind preoccupied; and to cherish, alone and by moonlight, his thoughts of her, and dwell upon the image of her perfection, indelibly imprinted on his mind. She wished that he possessed a miniature of her to console his despondence-or that the larceny of her watch might have been successful, that he might, as he counted the hours like minutes of her absence, press to his heart and lips the monitor of time, which had been her bosom companion. Rosy dreams visited her couch that night-or rather gilded dreams; for coronets, and equipages, and liveries passed before her sleeping senses, like the glittering pageant of a spectacle. And when she sprang from her couch, the night seemed all too short-the day all too dull and real, after such happy dreams. She was behind the hour at which the guests start upon their matutinal visits to the springs, to drink waters too nauseous for any body but tyrant fashion to prescribe-and knowing that at the morning rendezvous she should meet her mother, she started forth. The stranger! and leaning against the very tree where he stood the night before! Alone-and not a soul in sight! Should she avoid him? It would be cruelty to him, and to herself, and a heartless piece of affectation. Should she invite him to address her? That would be unmaidenly and without precedent in romance-not permissible, unless he were in extremis or she in distress, neither of which she felt quite sure was the case. By all the rules of romance, he was bound to start forward, and she to start backhe to fall on one knee, and she to die away in a swoon-and then to wake and find herself supported in his arms, with his eyes fastened on hers. If he should, under such circumstances, salute her with a kiss, it was her duty slightly to resent it, but only slightly, to avoid mistake; the object being to teach him that kisses were too pricelessly valuable to be had without the asking, begging, praying for. The stranger bowed and passed on-Clementina almost fainted, and quite dropped her hankerchief. She was restored to the dull realities of life, by her mother, who came to accompany her to the teatable. She looked with anxious hope from face to face about the board-his was not there. At any other time she would have studied the countenances of the gentlemen to see which might figure in her dreams, as that of him who was to come one day, and take her from the unreasonable vassalage and dependence of a father's house, in which her almost every whim was gratified-now the place was filled. The stranger sat upon the throne, and taking all the confirmatory circumstances together, she was sure that he it was who was born to unite with hers, his destiny. Had not the servant stolen her watch evidently for some admirer who desired to have ever near him a memorial of his beloved? Had she not seen that servant revealing to the distinguished stranger the failure of his attempt? Had not that stranger gracefully, tremblingly, modestly bowed down to her, thereby indicating his passionate preference? And was he not beyond all peradventure, a noble wanderer? All While these thoughts were rapidly passing her inquiries of others as to who and what he through her mind, she had almost reached the was, were foiled;- no one knew him-so com- spot where he stood, and had determined to pass pletely did he keep his incognito, that no one had without seeming to observe him. He did start as even observed him. He might be a foreign count she approached-he did take off his hat-he did —a lord-a duke-an earl-a prince! and Cle-step toward her-and she did actually feel as if her mentina thought when she should consummate her brilliant destiny, how, as countess, my lady, duchess, or whatever might be her title by marriage, she would kindly patronize and protect the parents whom she could not ennoble, how condescending she would overlook their plebeian checks upon her early aspirations. It is noble to forgive, and Clementina felt already as noble as if there coursed in her plebeian veins the blood of the Howards-not "all the blood of all the Howards," because that might have created a tendency to apoplexy-but just as much blood as a material sylph may be supposed to require. Where was the gentleman sylph? At night, in the crowded saloon, Clementina looked in vain. limbs were sinking beneath her. Now were her dreams of a whole teendom (she had turned the first of time's corners) about to be realized. My "Do not be offended or alarmed, my lady!" Clementina shook like an aspen, and spoiled the corner of her handkerchief with her nails. lady!" How respectful; and his accent, too, evidently foreign-bis manner, so deferential. She held her hand so that he might seize it if he would, and stood ready to scream a little; but he did not touch even the tip of her finger, and to tell the truth, seemed nearly as much frightened as herself. After a hesitating pause, he proceeded "I have spoken to your late coachman, and-" "I know!" Clementina interrupted; "I knew -I know it all!" The stranger seemed a little confused, and perhaps did not quite understand her; but, after look ing down at his boots an instant, he continued, while the lady listened with breathless attention "He encouraged me that I might venture, with best hope of success, to address myself directly to your ladyship." THE SHROUD FLAG. account of [The accompanying lines were occasioned by the following affecting incident, an which appeared in one of the Sunday papers in January last:-A ship had arrived in the Roads, from a long voyage on the African coast, and a young lad, named Maplestone, went aloft to bring down the union jack (I have, for the sake of sound, converted it to an eusign). When he had nearly gained the deck, he exclaimed to some of the seamen, "There's old England once more; let us give three cheers for home!" That home, how ever, he was destined never to find; for, as he Now the golden shower had indeed descended, and Clementina was happy. She did not screamher head was giddy, and she scarce knew where she was; but, after a moment, she said, hurriedly, "My filial duty-my maidenly modesty-my-cheered, the wind caught the folds of the flag, and but you must speak to my father, indeed you must; for I never can break it to him!" and away she danced to conceal from him the joy which, like a balloon, promised to lift her from the earth. Happy Clementina! The carriage had rolled round to the door for an afternoon's drive. Clementina, who, since morning, had been, unaccountably to her parents, in extraordinary spirits, came tripping down some moments before them. No! it cannot be! But, yes-it is. The new coachman-the wearer in his hat of that broad belt of gilt lace-the new filler of the suit of the lately discharged servant-can it be he? Was it one of love's disguises? "I did speak to him, miss," said the fellow, "as you told me, and he's taken me on trial." Clementina sank down into a corner of the carriage, to conceal her face from the coachman. She reviewed all the circumstances, and reached the first sane conclusion at which she had ever arrived, where herself was a party. As to her title of "ladyship," that was only a specimen of the art by which new importations, from servants up, assail, and too successfully, American, republican, title-despising vanity. His place secured, she had already sunk to plain Miss. Perhaps it is unnecessary to say that the old servant, knowing that Clementina's whims ruled the house, had recommended his success or to apply first to her. Her mistakes were no fault of the man's; nor did he ever understand why she behaved so singularly. She is Člementina is married now to the plain John of her's father's choice, and of her own too, when the scales were lifted from her eyes. The trip to Saratoga cured her of her romantic nonsense. a good, rationally affectionate wife; but as she never has fully confessed her Saratoga experience to her husband, you, reader, are particularly enjoined to keep the secret from him, in case you should meet. She has called her first-born Betsy, that it may escape the perils the mother has gone through; but human nature is human nature, in man or woman; and were Betsy now to be christened, we believe she would compromise with conscience, and load the infant down with the sufficiently uncouth combination of "Julia, Wilhelmina, Skegs." in endeavouring to secure it he was blown overin vain; he buffeted the waves for a time, and board. Every effort was made to rescue him, but then sank entangled in the flag.] "See where the land of home Looms o'er our vessel's prow, ""Tis the last sunset we Shall see upon the main, On British ground again. Till this last, long night be pass'd, Where the red-cross floated wide, But home is not for thee, Thou, of the fond, true heart; As if impatient now In its entangling fold, His hand hath lost its hold. It was with light hearts my cousin and I saw the morning dawn, on which we were to set out on our long anticipated journey to a gay metropolis, where we were promised a thousand delightful novelties, for we lived in a quiet country place, fifty miles from the city. On the first onset we were to appear at a ball-a brilliant ball! (my first) at the house of our fashionable friend Lady N.; and the all important event had been the subject of our conversation, and the object of our preparation for weeks: durst I say months? The selection of my dress took a world of pains; for three whole days I hung, in a state of uncertainty, over a list of patterns that (without much exaggeration) would have made a coverlid for a sizeable baby's cradle, and for three more hesitated between modest white and cerulean blue. At last it was selected, made, and fitted on, and the wearer pronounced to look her best in it; in fact, never did damsel anticipate more pleasure—a ball, a real, veritable ball, such as my fair relative had so often described to me; how delightful the very idea of it! The weather favoured our journey; it was a cold, but pleasant day in early spring, and we were in high good humour with every thing and every body; ever and anon we turned to each other and whispered: "Are we not happy? at length we are actually on the road to town; how I wish we were arrived!" Little did we dream that one of us would reverse that wish ere the day was ended: we took a survey of our fellow-travellers, and, like the contents of every stage coach, a motley group they were; with some courteous persons nearest to us we entered into conversation; various agreeable and amusing subjects were started and discussed, and of course, scenery, the traveller's never failing topic, was not forgotten; but the spirits, be they ever so joyous, will flag through a long journey, unless the attention is particularly attracted, at least I found it so; for, in spite of the eloquence of a brilliant conversationist beside nie, a yawn now and again escaped me, accompanied by a reiteration of the wish that the goal was reached; and often, very often, my thoughts flew forward to Lady N.'s ball, and my own white robe and white roses. We had thus progressed about half way, when, at a village where we stopped to change horses, a transition took place, and the seat opposite to me was taken by a new comer. I cannot explain how the "why or wherefore," but gradually "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream; " for four long hours Lady N. and her gorgeous halls were lost to the eyes of the heretofore ardent debûtante, for four long hours I forgot to yawn, or to wish the journey closed nevertheless, the close of it-like all earthly things-did arrive, and in a few moments the occupants of the D-stage coach were separated far and wide, perhaps never to meet again! which was to usher me into my first ball-room; The night-the long anticipated night arrived, careful hands presided over my toilet, and it would seem as if my future fortunes depended on the proper adjustment of the wreath that encircled my brows; but remember it was my first ball, and a first ball is an event. As I ascended the grand staircase of. house, a slight tremor shook my frame, which was hardly dispelled by the winning courtesy and fascinating smile of Lady N. as she took my hand, and leading me forward, introduced me to a group who were descanting upon the merits of the last exhibition of paintings in street. The band of theth struck up, dancing commenced, and in the usual parlance of newspaper editors, was kept up with spirit to a late, or rather an early hour: good music and well lighted rooms are exciting- "And all were gay, or seemed to be." More than once, in the windings of the dance, I encountered my handsome animated cousin, and her bright smile told me she was enjoying this, her twentieth ball, fully as much as any former one; and her bright eyes asked me if I were enjoying this my first? A smile and a nod was my answer, and again we lost sight of each other; but, as the happiest hours must come to an end, so must the gayest (mind I make a distinction between the two words); and as the journey up to town came to a close, so did the fête at house, in defiance of the hearts that wished them protracted. The pale light of morning was just breaking over the sleeping city, when I found myself whirled from the scene of late festivity, and re-established in my quiet chamber. With heavy eyelids I disrobed myself, uttering, now and again, a faint moan over the destruction of white satin shoes and spotless gloves. I laid my head on my pillow, dropped asleep, and dreamt of-what? Lighted halls? thrilling music? white cravatted partners? lace and satin in rich confusion? sprigs of myrtle and pansie presented with eloquent (say not conceited) looks, and speaking their own eloquent language? "deep toned voices" whispering, in the pauses of the quadrille, "Will I see you in the gardens to-morrow?" "Will you take a promenade in the park on Monday?" And surely-surely I must have dreamt of my carefully selected dress, and my admired wreath of rosesnay, not one of these important reminiscences revisited my fancy. Though the lights that enlightened my first ball, seemed yet to glare on my slumbering eyes, and the music to ring in mine ears, I dreamt of-a shabby cap, a close bonnet, an ungraceful travelling cloak, and a pair of searching eyes fixed earnestly on mine, apparently intent upon reading my heart and thoughts through all these unbecoming disguises! I dreamt of the D- stage coach and my vis à vis! Such was the result of my first ball which, for weeks preceding, had filled my imagination with gorgeous images and delightful anticipations! and such is life." The ball had, in the perspective, been regarded as the grand object of my visit; the journey, only a journey; yet, in the sequel, the ball was forgotten, and the journey remembered. GRACE DARLING'S FAREWELL TO FAIRN. BY W. M. KIRKHOUSE. Oh, linger, linger on the oar; Oh, pause upon the deep, That I may gaze on yonder shore, Where every thought still loves to dwell, And, bound by that enchanting spell, I wish not hence to roam. Tell them, ye winds, as ye pass by, Oh, what to me are fragrant bowers, Or, what are fields and summer flowers, For me, I still should love to dwell 'Mid ocean's rolling waves, To watch each billow boil and swell To see each bonny gallant bark Ride swiftly o'er the sea, Tell them, each wave, as ye pass by, I love to see the glorious sun Shine radiantly and bright; To lull each wave to sleep. Then let me linger here awhile, To view my native shore, Where first the light of friendship's smile And still I see each well known friend To calm my troubled mind. And now, each breeze, your echoes swell, To bear to them my last farewell. Brighton. It is seldom that we find historians and biographers dwelling on the lives and characters of insignificant personages; they love to recount the heroic exploits and brilliant actions of the warrior and the man of genius, leaving the lesser stars to shine with a light borrowed from the suns round which they move. The subject of the following few remarks is not to be numbered with these. Perhaps the reader will be of opinion that both subject and writer are well matched; so be it, say I. Allow me, therefore, to introduce “ Mr. Nobody,” in propria persona. Alas! he is but a poor, mean, spirited fellow; no vague desire for fame, no "honourable emula. tion" has a place in his composition. Endowed with he "an unambitious mind, content, In the low vale of life," pursues the even tenor of his way, caring as little for the world, as we are all pretty well aware the world in return careth for him; nevertheless, it must be admitted, that he is the author of a multitude of misdeeds and evil-sayings, so many in fact, that divers charitably disposed persons are inclined to believe more are laid at his door than by the laws cf" right and good conscience" should be. Take the following as an instance, and for it, I must conduct the reader (if he be one of the lords of the creation) to the scene of his youthful days," the school-room." Some grievous offence has been committed; the presiding Dominee, with anger depicted on his brow and cane in hand, ready to inflict summary punishment on the offender, paces the room in solemn silence. At length the dreaded question is pronounced. "Who did this?" "Not I," boldly replies one: "Do'nt know, indeed sir," timidly answers another. "Can't say," mutters a third; and so it proceeds, till the upshot of the matter is that, "Nobody" did it. He being, as I have before observed, wholly destitute of manly spirit, makes not an effort to repel the charge, and as the saying runs, "coolly pockets the affront." Then again, in the every-day walk of life; an unhappy wight has the misfortune to have some slanderous reports circulated concerning himself, tending greatly to injure his reputation. Being naturally desirous, if possible, to discover with whom they originated, he at once commences a diligent enquiry; and, after much mental anxiety and trouble, in tracing them from one to another, has at length the felicity of finding that, “Nobody" is the author. Alas! poor Nobody! However, with all his faults, we have sufficient grounds for believing him to possess talents far above the generality of mankind, and to ave it in his power to perform wonders few others can. When that prodigy of prodigies, the æriel steamship, alius the modern Pegasus, first attracted the notice of the cognoscenti, the newspaper critics in the "plenitude of their wisdom," were pleased to say it was a bubble of the brain, a phantom, en effet, an impossibility; but by way of salvo, at the conclusion, they candidly affirmed "Nobody" could bring it to pass. 66 Now whether our hero, relying on that assertion, has set about the task thus assigned him or not, matters but little-verb. sap: we know that he can do it, for who dare deny such authority as that above quoted? Mr. Nobody has, moreover, a licence to do things which, in another, would be high misdemeanors; in proof whereof, I must refer the reader to two of George Cruikshank's humorous etchings on the subject in his "Omnibus." Like Mr. Everybody (of whom I have previously had the pleasure of saying a few words to the readers of La Belle Assemblée), he has a vast deal of mystery hanging about him, which never has been, and never will be satisfactorily cleared up; but there is one point in which the two most essentially differ, namely: only a single "Mr. Everybody" can abide in a country at a stated period; on the other hand, there may be a host of Nobodies acting their parts upon the stage of life at one and the same time. Besides he, who is "somebody" in one person's opinion, is not so in another's, and vice versa. A young lady very properly regards her intended partner for life as a superior being in the scale of creation, still it is more than likely the identical young man is looked on by others of his acquaintance in a very different light; many folks also imagine themselves important personages, while the world at large is rude enough to consider them "mere Nobodies." Legislators, politicians, philosophers, painters, sculptors, architects, and every learned body, all have their Nobody, created either by selfishness, or spite, malevolence, or party feeling, and now and then by real insignificance. To conclude, should any of my readers, in their wandering through the maze of life, chance to meet with one of this lowly race, let me advise them (with all due deference) to treat him as they would his betters, always bearing in mind that the meanest cur has been known to bite even the noblest mastiff, Z. Z. The popular prosperity depends very much upon the popular morality. It is for a people to determine for themselves what they shall be, and what they shall become. Soil, climate, fortune, go but a small distance, comparatively speaking, in obtaining or securing eminence, happiness or permanence to any nation. Vainly would the patriot strive, and the sage counsel, and the soldier fight, if a people are neither true to themselves nor active in their proper purposes. Even Hercules, a god, could only assist those who were first prepared and willing to put their own shoulders to the wheel. RECOLLECTIONS.-A FEVER DREAM. it. BY J. E. Alice-sweet, soft, gentle, womanly name, how I love it! Once more I will think over past events -once more, and then they shall be buried for ever. Ha! do they not say that we cannot forget, that memory clings ever to us, strive as we will to shake it off? It may be so; but I will not remember! I will run, laugh, shout, drown the thought, stifle it for ever! Am I unhappy? Miserable, most miserable! Yet do I deserve Oh, did the world but know the monster that steps amongst its scenes, every eye would shun, every lip execrate me! Beautiful village-My birth-place! my fancy runs over thee again, and recalls thy irregular cottages, thy simple faces, thy ancient church, with its ivy-covered tower; and the lovely ruins of thy venerable abbey, backed by the glad woods, with their noble trees, the ground studded with thousands of scented flowers; and thy bright river and glassy rivulet running amongst them, and unceasingly singing, with gentle, murmuring voice, to those graceful trees. Ah, would that I were that gentle, waving willow on thy bank; ages have seen it there, and thou wert pouring out thy tale long ago. What, though old age settles on it, and it withers and dies, thou wilt still sing on; but to fancy's ear thy murmurings will tell of sorrow for its loss, and of love that cannot forget. But I can forget, and I must be happier than thou; so would I not change with thee, thou wailing stream! For how terrible must it be to love on, and love in vain! Alas! poor stream, I could weep for thee; but that would be useless; it would not bring thy willow back again-it would not make thee forget! No one weeps for thee. Why should they mourn for the merry streamlet? Is not his soft voice gaily carolling night and day? Oh, how happy must be the heart that thus overflows in song! And thus they speak of thee, oh stream! But they understand not thy language-they know not the voice of thy complaints. But I know all-the whispers of the blushing flowers, the sighing of the winds, the silent music of the bright stars, the silver ripple of the little waves, and thy own voice, oh beautiful stream, are understood by me. I would weep for thee, and comfort thee; but oh, lovely one, mine own sorrows have exhausted my tears, and my guilt has burnt dry my brain! Innocent ones, my tears would be mockery to you. Streams, streams, dost thou remember when I used, in past years, to wander on thy banks by that gentle girl, with her soft blue eyes, and dark, glossy hair-the gentle Alice-the kind, the good, the true? Yes, thou hast not forgotten. Well, thou heardest our vows, or rather mine, for she spoke but little; yet, yet I broke them, and her heart-aye, well mayest thou murmur thus angrily; but not yet, this is not half. Her sister came between us she was a radiant creature, a glorious one, and I plunged her into the dark waters of the bottomless well-nay, fair stream, never raise thy voice thus wildly; this is not all; no, no. Dost thou remember her brother, that And |