MARIAN SEAFORTH.

A TALE OF AMERICA.

"Thy destined Lord is come too late."

Bride of Abydos.

It was a beautiful autumn evening, in Pine Hollow. The sun had almost set; and deep rays, bursting through the clouds, glowed upon their leaden masses, in a dusky purple tinge. But it was on the horizon only that the shadow of a cloud could be seen, for all above was clear uninterrupted space. The blue vault, immediately overhead, declined, at the sides of the vast arch, into all those delicate untraceable tints, the exquisite blending of which lends so soft a charm to evening skies. The face of the earth partook of the influence of the hour. The wind had sunk so low that no leaf trembled in its embraces. Nothing fell upon the ear, to interrupt that murmuring which perplexes us to know whether it is

the creature of reality or of imagination,-save the faint and monotonous rippling of the stream, or the chirping of the owls, as they flitted around.

Pine Hollow was, at the period of my tale, one of those small, sweet vallies which, in an irregular country, like America,-unlevelled, or levelled only in a very partial degree, by the almost omnipotent power of civilization, so often arrest the wanderings of the trans-Atlantic traveller. Lofty pines which, with their far-spreading summits, seemed monuments of living antiquity, clothed its sides; and cast a dark shade over the bubbling stream that glistened beneath, wherever a gleam of light broke through the overhanging foliage. Lichens, nameless herbs, and wild-flowers perfumed the banks of the diminutive stream. These, becoming detached by the unceasing flow of the waters, and congregating with loose pebbles and other accidental obstacles, formed, at irregular distances, dams, over which the flood fell in noisy cataracts. The gloom which canopied the whole was such as inspired a pleasing awe,-wholly distinct from that terror with which the more secret recesses of nature are, sometimes, apt to invest the beholder; and, to one fond of indulging in fanciful reveries, at the expense of judgment, might have seemed one of the sylvan retreats of classic mythology, or the scene of the wilder and more romantic superstitions with which the traditions of the darker ages has delighted to people the more secret localities of nature. But the discoverer of the western hemisphere is not

supposed to have been anticipated, in his researches, by the deities of ancient Greece; and no spectre of modern date was known to have chosen, for the stage of its exhibitions, the spot of which I speak. It is, therefore, to be feared that Pine Hollow was,-and may yet remain,—undignified by any more astounding apparitions than the squirrels that sprung from branch to branch of the clustered walnut-trees, at the southern extremity of the Hollow; or the lizards, butterflies, and other reptiles and insects, which claimed an immemorial right of enjoyment in the produce of the uncultivated district (by far the most extensive) of the valley.

It may be inferred, from what has been just said, that cultivation was not entirely excluded. On one bank of the valley,-where the descent, becoming less precipitous, formed a gentle slope,—the neatness and conveniency of art had supplanted the wild luxuriance of nature. The turf had, in many places, been removed, to make way for small gravel walks, bordered either with shells or neatly clipped rows of box. A small grove of firs half concealed from view a dwelling, originally built of wood and plaister ; but the additions and alterations which had been made to it, and of which the number was by no means small, were of brick and other modern materials. The windows were small, and the glazing in the minute diamond style, except where the operator ad chosen to exhibit his taste and skill, in stars, cir

and other such fantasies. The little light which

could, under any circumstances, penetrate through the green glass of which they were formed, was, in a great proportion, intercepted by the intermingling tendrils of the hop-plants and ivy which clasped and kissed the white-washed casements. After the fashion of ancient dwellings, in our own country, the upper story of the building projected to a considerable distance beyond the level of the lower part; and was painted in chequers of black and white, and decorated with rude alto relievos, intended to represent human countenances, or cattle, or such nameless objects, as it had entered the head of the artificer to conceive. The roof was covered with tiles, intermingling with thatch, which a slight verdure had clothed with an uniform coating of green. The total want of design, and the irregularity observable in every point, gave a romantic, though not unpleasing, wildness to the retired dwelling. Yet, there was not wanting an appearance of neatness and comfort about it.

On the green platform before the house, stood a dial, which was so situated as, in sunny weather, to point out the progress of time, during three hours in the day. This, together with an hieroglyphic image, emblematic (for the obscure hint at the meaning which it conveyed, could not be called representative) of St. George and the Dragon, were the chief artificial adornments of the exterior part of the establishment. But the tulip-tree, on whose branches rested the pendant abodes of the fiery hang-nest, shed its perfume around; and, the lattice porch, al

most hidden by the vines which twined up its sides, gave a cheering promise of the spirit that dwelt within.

Glowing in all the richness of young loveliness, Marian Seaforth, in her seventeenth year, was the enlivening spirit of the abode which her presence consecrated. Tall in stature, and exquisitely proportioned, her figure met the eye as that of a perfect model. Her eyes were blue; and a common spectator would have said that they were beautifully bright. One of closer observation would have seen that their brightness was softened down into a mild and affectionate lustre, in harmony with the sweet and gentle expression of her features; while, they were the very eyes on which a poet would have gazed with inspiration, till he dreamed of liquid stars, and melting suns, and all the fond unintelligible of simile and metaphor,-and saw, in the brown locks that clustered around them, clouds, veiling the luminaries which his imagination had given birth to. But Marian knew little of poetry,-except the poetry of nature, which had taught her to feel, and admire,—and this was language which, in her situation, the breath of adulation had never carried to her ear. She was, at once, lovely, simple, and affectionate;-attributes which can so seldom be conjointly predicated of the same female, that nothing but the consciousness of inflexible veracity could have induced me to assert what the sceptical may consider as verging or the borders of improbability,—at least. Her mother had