The Cornish Magazine.

NOVEMBER, 1st, 1828.

THE POWER OF AFFECTION.

Ir is about thirty years since the following event occurred at St. Ives, which is strongly characteristic of the place and the times. A young man of respectable condition, of the name of Williams, had formed a strong attachment for a girl of his own rank in life. He sailed as mate of a merchant-ship, and the period of his return was dear to both. This occurred two or three times in the course of the year, for his voyages were not very long or distant, and the young sailor caught with joy the first glimpse of the isle at a distance, as it rose on the face of the waters. By day and night, as he toiled and watched on board, the image of Anne did not leave his fancy or memory; and the thought of her pure embrace, and of the smile of pleasure with which she welcomed him to land, was the sweetest draught hope presented him with. She was a fair, handsome girl, with the bright eye and abundant light curling hair of her province; and, though capable of the strongest attachment, her disposition was gay and volatile, unlike that of her lover's, which was more sedate, and seldom was his spirit roused into excess of feeling; but when this did happen, the waves that rushed on his native rocks were not more violent and impetuous.

His attachment never strayed for a moment from its object; though, in the society of others, she sometimes forgot, in the gaiety of the hour, that there was one only who deserved her own, and from whom her imagination ought never to have wandered. That youth was no common character; for though his education had been limited to his profession, he possessed a restless and inquiring mind. In the intervals of leisure, especially when he came again to his mother's home, his great delight was to read of voyages to distaut lands and journeys of discovery; and his enterprising spirit would have urged him to seek a wider and more attractive field of action, but for his passion for Anne; for he could not resolve to wander from the spot where she dwelt. She was vain of her lover; for he had an open intelligent countenance, and on his finely-formed person brighter eyes than hers might have gazed with desire.

A few miles from the town stood the ancient seat of an old and wealthy family: an open park spread in front, and to the right were fine and gloomy woods, beyond which rose the rugged hill of Trecroven, whose summit looked on a stern and dreary scene. The lady of this mansion, being in want of an attendant on her person, cast her eyes upon Anne, whose modest and quiet manners fitted her for the situation, which she accepted with pleasure, as it placed her amidst a gayer scene of life than her own still home, and made her to be the chief of a numerous. retinue of domestics. Old customs were 'strictly preserved by the lady of the ancient hall, who on every sabbath morning, if the weather was fine, walked to the neighbouring church, followed by her domestics in procession, each according to their rank. This situation had been accepted while her lover was absent on one of his voyages; and on his return he heard, with no small surprise, that Anne had left the house of her parents for a new and more busy scene. He VOL. 3.

hastened to her new place of abode, and was received with sincere pleasure, although he fancied her reception somewhat less kind and warm than usual. During many weeks he remained at home ere the vessel sailed on her next voyage, and during this time of relaxation it was that jealousy first entered his thoughts; for some of his acquaintance began to talk of the great attentions that were paid to his mistress by the steward of the mansion where she lived, and which, it was said, were not unwillingly received. It seemed, in the Sunday's procession to the neighbouring parish church, (that stands almost embedded in loose hillocks of sand, which tradition says were raised one night by a strong wind,) the place of the girl had been by the steward's side, according to the strict etiquette of rank, and this had given rise to many civilities and attentions from the latter.

Williams did not communicate his suspicions; on the contrary, he brooded over them, and they every day acquired strength by the additions of his own imagination, till the fair structure of his happiness seemed about to be sapped and overthrown.

In the ensuing year he and Anne were to be united, and they had already fixed on the spot that was to be their future home. It was in a glen, about a mile from the town, so small that it eluded the eye of the traveller, unless he took a winding path that led up the breezy hill. On one of the sloping sides of this diminutive yet beautiful glen was a cottage, shaded by two high and wide-spreading trees; and the silence that prevailed was broken only by a rivulet, which rushed down into the sea. The windows of this dwelling overlooked the deep, between the advance of whose waves and where the wild verdure of the slope terminated, was a small beach of sand, of snowy whiteness, whereupon the moonlight always fell beautifully. And here did the young man with reason look forward to find exquisite enjoyment awaiting him on his return from his voyages; to exchange at times the toil and bustle of a sailor's life for this place of comfort and peace, and the society of Anne, to whom at evening he would then read his few books of voyages in distant lands.

And now, that clouds should darken such a prospect; that disappointment should come between, and with its warning finger point to the untimely wreck of every hope; and that these things should be from a cause that he could not bear to reflect on, and yet must endure was agony to his feelings! for he shared in the superstitious notions, and the belief in omens, that prevailed in his native place; and a dream had followed him for many nights, in which he seemed to stand on the brink of a headland; and though no wind awoke, forms came onward over the deep,-at one time that of the guideless vessel, her canvas filled, and on her silent deck stood a lonely female figure, who beckoned him to come and bear her company in that fearful voyage,-it was the form and face of her he loved, and her gaze was fixed on his like a spell, till she was lost in the distance.

These were presages of misfortune; at least poor Williams believed them to be so; and it was on the evening of a calm and cloudless day that he went to bid farewell to his intended wife, as his vessel was to sail in the night with the full tide. They walked out together into one of the retired and gloomy woods that bordered that ancient mansion, which was then sustained in its pride, but is now sunk into partial decay. The heart of each was full, for they were about to part, and the deep silence of the closing evening was in unison with their feelings. Williams at last gave vent to those which he had better have restrained, and threw out suspicions of the fidelity of his mistress's attatchment to him. She burst into tears, and attempted to vindicate herself, but confusedly, for she knew she had been guilty of too much levity during her lover's absence; yet her heart was his alone, and she assured him that her affection had never wandered. He ought to have unreservedly, believed her, and, like Allan, when parting on the shore from Judith, (in the beautiful tale of the "Parting Hour,") to

have left her with urgent yet tender injunctions never to give ear to a rival's tale. But his mind was chafed and wrought on by the malice of others; and his words became angrier and more accusing, till at length the spirit of the girl was roused in turn, and she sharply told him, that since he persisted in doubting her truth, in spite of all her protestations, it was better that their attachment should be broken off. His evil genius prompted him to return an assenting answer, though it came from his heart with a deeper pang than if the blood that warmed it had been suddenly poured forth. "Then it shall be at an end," replied his mistress in a decided yet agitated voice. He spoke not a word again, but cast on her features one look of unutterable anguish, and suddenly left her, without bidding adieu. He hurried rapidly over the path that conducted to the beach, where his vessel awaited him, and, springing on board, was instantly engaged in the preparations for sailing. It was midnight when the vessel left the port; the breeze was favourable, and she passed rapidly out of the bay. The eager and active exertion that had at first occupied Williams's attention, prevented him from being sensible of the whole weight of the shock his heart had received; but as the ship rapidly and tranquilly made her way, with sails all set, he had time to reflect on the moments that had passed that evening, so full of sorrow, and so bitter in their consequences. The parting words rang in his ear, and his intended wife seemed lost to him for ever: her fixed and upbraiding look was before him, and his spirit refused to bear such a reverse. A few days since, their union, on which, for years, every hope, every desire, had been fixed, was lovely in the prospect, and and now perhaps another might succeed him, and such a rival! an elder and a plainer man by far. Reason had no share in these bitter recollections.

The morning light that came from a pure sky brought no change to the poor lad's thoughts, nor even suspended the desperate resolve that had taken possession of them, to rid himself at once of an existence that he hated, because his love was blasted.

During the voyage, the unhappy youth gave the most unremitting attention to his duties on board; and on the second evening the vessel entered the port of Tenbigh, in South Wales, the temporary place of its destination. He looked on it with gloomy satisfaction, and next day took his solitary way along the shore to the left of the town, in order to find a spot that might suit his purpose. It is strange that the deadliness of this should never have relaxed for a moment; for the previous habits of his life had been tranquil and regular, and his mind unused to strong and overpowering impulses: but his affection for the girl that was to have been his bride was intense-it was a passion in which he had lived with such enjoyment, that to bear its extinction was more cruel than death.

He succeeded at last in his search. The waters had hollowed out a small cove or creek far below, and at bottom was a smooth, clear bed of sand. It would be easy to make the fatal spring here, and to find a quick death below, for the precipices descended perpendicularly into the calm basin at their feet. He had wandered a great way in vain; for, except in this secluded place, the beach consisted of long naked ledges of rock that sloped gradually into the water, with a sharp and ragged surface, that offered only a lingering fate to the desperate man, whose feelings, even in their then wild and confused state, recoiled from the misery of such an end.

Returning to the vessel, he watched hour after hour the slow approach of evening; paced the deck to and fro, and gazed on the waters and the shore that lay peaceful and invitingly around and beneath. Came not the image of the girl he had left to his memory? Her attractive person,-her eye of light-he would have given up life rather than the possession of them a few hours before; but he said afterward, that his fixed determination of destroying himself never wavered for a moment. Perhaps also he fancied

Then refuse not thy tears to the Minstrel's lone grave,
Stay not the sweet dews from his tomb,

Let them drop, and the flowers they cherish shall wave
To thee a yet sweeter perfume.

And haply his spirit soft hovering nigh,

Shall infuse itself into thy breast,

Shall shine in thy tear, and shall heave in thy sigh,
And sure thou would'st not be unblest.

But ah if indeed o'er the minstrels lone sod,

The fond silent tear thou canst shed,

And embalm with thy pure sigh the damp heavy clod,
That lies on his mouldering head.

Already the soul of a Minstrel is thine,

None but Minstrel o'er Minstrel can weep;

None but those that have bent at the same holy shrine,
With feelings as sacred, as deep;

O'er a loved fellow worshiper's cold, lonely urn,

In the land of the stranger will bend,

And e'er to the sacred indulgence return,

While his steps through the dark realm shall wend ;

And none but the votary of Nature and Song,

Will repair where a votary lies;

Will turn from the soulless, the feelingless throng,

Who ne'er the sad rapture could prize;

And recalling the strain that once melted, and thrilled,

From that now silent lip, and cold breast,

On the flowers grateful Morn's tears or Evening's have filled,
Shed his own on the couch of his rest.

And shall not the drops that thus heaven's overflow,
Teach verdure yet brighter to spring?

Yes, yes, and around his own lyre to blow,
Sweeter flowers of fancy, of lovelier glow,
That fame's lasting perfume shall bring.
Penzance,

S. E. H.

THE FLOAT.

THAT little dwelling, said my friend, is the cottage in which Mary Allerton once lived. Poor Mary! many a time have I seen her on a summer morning sitting under the honeysuckle, which then hung its verdant drapery over the rustie porch; and very sweet did Mary look as she sat there in her neat attire. She had been left an orphan while yet but a little child, and excepting myself, she had not a friend on the wide earth; but she was an industrious girl, and when she used to come on a sabbath morning to my church, and humbly seat herself on the pulpit steps, bending with her meek looks over her tattered bible, many a kind blessing was breathed by the aged matrons upon her head. The young maidens of the village, too, loved

Mary Allerton; and often did they assemble round her evening hearth, when the season of Christmas came in its happy idleness. Many a time have I stopped at Mary's door, and listened to the sweet concert of voices, as the young girls sang their Christmas carol; and many a time have I also heard arise the sounds of thanksgiving and prayer from that humble dwelling.

Mary was often about my house, for she was the cleverest work woman in the village besides, I felt much kindliness for her; and I had great pleasure in listening to her wild artless singing. Well, time wore on, and Mary grew up to be a woman-a fair, graceful woman. Yes; though but a simple villager, Mary would have graced a court. Yet there was ever a look of sadness in her face, and her voice was like some thrilling melancholy music. It was in autumn that William Stuart came to settle in the village. A fine manly-looking lad he was, and his cottage soon rivalled even Mary's in neatness. William could, as Mary used to say, put his hand to every thing; and when I saw how anxious he was to get employment, and how useful he could be, I had him often to work in my garden, and to do little jobs about the manse. I soon perceived that he contrived to find out something to do on the days when Mary Allerton was working for me; and at those times he always made his appearance with a nosegay of Mary's favourite flowers, which, before he left the manse, was usually transferred to the bosom of the maiden. About this time did I also observe a change in the bearing of the fair girl: formerly her eyes met mine with looks of innocent confiding, now they shrank abashed before my glance. Yet did they at times flash with a gladdened and brightened beauty from beneath their long lashes; while blushes, as if from a heart newly awakened to some strong emotion, would dart vividly across her cheek. And soon the cause of all this was told to me by William Stuart: Mary had promised to become his wife.

On the evening previous to the day on which they were to be married, I happened to be passing Mary's door; and as I wished to speak to her, I went into the cottage. There was a cheerful blaze upon the hearth, and a fir candle was burning bright upon the ingle. The change from the night air was very grateful to my feelings; for there was a cold north wind blowing and driving the snow in heavy showers from off the hills. The moon came out from behind the clouds in fitful gleamings, and threw her stormy brightness on the troubled Spey; and as I listened to the hoarse murmurs of the blast, I drew my chair closer to the hearth. Mary was sitting opposite to me on a low stool; the red blaze of the fire shone full upon her face. Perhaps it was this that gave to her cheek that unnatural colouring, and as I thought so, I moved a little away from her: but no-there was a strange glow upon her cheek, and an unsettled brightness in her eye. She sangand never did the lark sing with a gayer note than on this evening did Mary Allerton; yet was there something so wild and startling in her mirth, that I would fain have cheeked it, but I could not; for was it not natural that she should be happy on the eve of her bridal?

As I walked homeward, the snow was drifting across the path in dark whirlwinds, and the trees tossed their branches wildly in the air. I looked around upon the tempest, and thought of those who were now exposed to its terrors. There was a market that day in a neighbouring village, and I knew that many of my parishioners were there. As I remembered this, I looked anxiously at the dark and foaming waters of the Spey; for I much feared that, in their hardy and intoxicated daring, the men might attempt to cross the river, even in the darkness and in the storm. William Stuart had also gone to the fair, but about him I felt no fear, for he had promised Mary not to return home that night, and I was convinced that he would not disobey his bride. I was seated in my parlour, listening to the still