said that he would not allow his sister to talk to him on any but family matters; and earnestly desired solitude as long as he could have it. He frequently deplored in a most earnest way, half-soliloquizing, what he had said and done against "his very good rector " as he called him, mentioning his name with great affection. And ever and anon he would start up from a state of apparent unconsciousness, and mutter to himself, "Hush! remember you are speaking of the poor; they are far too blessed to be spoken of in so shocking a manner: oh, my dear rector!-yes, in so shocking a manner!" And then he would move his lips, and point his hands as well as he could (for the stroke had partially affected his limbs) as if in prayer. What happened during that last night I cannot say, for the rector never, of course, mentioned these matters; but his end was peaceful, and he humbly received the last and solemnest consolations of his faith. One thing, however, the rector could not help telling us, and this was that, in sign of the reality of his repentance, he had left all his property to little Georgie Hutchins, on the sole condition that he should be educated entirely by the rector, and received forthwith into his house. "What do you say to this, Helen?" said her father; "would you mind the trouble of taking care of the dear little fellow?" chiefly roses, lilies of the valley, violets, and myrtle. I Over one grave, towards the east end, drooped a willow, round whose stem a passion-flower had twined itself in great luxuriance. I was going nearer when I caught sight of a female form kneeling down and engaged in tending the various flowers which were growing about the grave. It was at this moment that the last ray of the setting sun fell upon the face of the girl, and lit up with a heavenly brilliancy a tear-drop which was stealing, like a falling pearl, down her cheek. I saw it was Miss Montague, and unwilling to disturb a sorrow so sacred I withdrew, very quietly so as to be unobserved, among the trees. So young for sorrow! What a strange life is this of ours! If purity and innocence must suffer and weep even in their springtime, what must not the world-encased heart have to endure at some time or other ere it be purified! The sorrow of innocence is a very fearful preacher. I wandered about near the lane till I had watched Miss Montague back to the parsonage; and I then stole to the churchyard again to visit the grave which she had been watering with her tears. The stone was a floriated cross pierced in the centre; and on it I read, "Henry Montague, obiit June 16, 18-; æt. 16. 'In the day of judgment, good Lord deliver.' Here then was a brother only dead a twelvemonth—just at the very beginning of life. It was very strange that I "My dearest papa, what a question!" and rising, had never heard of it from Montague. I had ob- she went to the old gentleman, threw her arms round served when he came up at Michaelmas term that he his neck, and, kissing him, said in a low tone, “I was in mourning; but one has a natural repugnance shall be delighted, of course; and I rather think to make inquiries about such things; and Montague somebody knew that better than I did myself," saynever said a word on the subject, nor referred to iting which, she skipped lightly out of the room. in any way. And this, then, was one of his griefs! Poor fellow! I wish now that he had told me; for sorrow pent up without vent or outlet is a wearing, gnawing monster, feeding on the heart like the Promethean vulture. Grief is half remedied when we have a sympathizing friend whose heart is so attuned as to grieve with our griefs, and joy with our joys-one individual heart between two. It is the bright rainbow in time of rain, the warm ray of sunshine in a day of frost, the cheering break of blue sky in the passing thunderstorm. Poor fellow! If his brother were like him at all, it must have been indeed a loss! Yet there are the flowers of hope on his grave. It is kissed in the spring by the snowdrop and the primrose, and roses and lilies are always breathing sweets of incense there. He is only sleeping, and his dreams are doubtless soothing and bright; and he is very near to those who love him still. The dew of a sister's tears falls on the fresh bosom of his resting-place, and the midnight thoughts of an earnest-hearted brother are seeking him in the star-spangled air. An aged father's holy yearnings are ever to be united with him, there where the days and nights intrude not. Thou art the happiest and securest, my sleeping brother, for the voice of thy gravestone shall be heard, sweet echo of the litany thou didst often repeat in these quiet aisles close by whilst thou wast a weary pilgrim, joint-occupant with us of this very unsatisfying world. July 6th. It is all over with poor Colonel Hawkner. He died this morning at a quarter before six. The rector was with him all night: he was sensible to the last, though his speech, the rector told us, was terribly affected. But not so changed was he in body as in mind-his penitence was extreme. Miss Montague learned a great deal from his nurse, who was most inconveniently communicative. She "There is one difficulty yet," observed her father; "I fear we shall have some trouble to induce'Not Mr. Hutchins," said the younger Miss Montague. "I'm not so sure of that. Cary; but it was not of Mr. Hutchins that I was thinking at the time; I fear the mother will feel it very much. It will be better to say nothing about it to her-or, indeed, to any one. I will break it to her as best I can after the funeral. Perhaps, as he will be so near her, it will not seem so painful. But I shall not press it; for in such a matter as the sending a child from the protection of its parents into the hands of strangers, I think it is best to leave the decision entirely to the child's natural guardians. Colonel Hawkner is to be buried on the 13th; and he asked me to let him be laid in the churchyard, not in the church, and as near Henry-" Here the old man paused, for he was for the moment overcome; but the next instant, he added, "And he wishes you, Charles, to be chiefmourner. Miss Hawkner is very much opposed to both arrangements, but I must fulfil his wishes." We heard afterwards, that she wanted some other clergyman to read the service; but this the rector would not permit under the circumstances. She knows nothing of the way in which the Colonel has left his property. I fear much she will be outrageous when she hears it, although she has a very good income of her own. July 8th.-As I was walking about the village today, I met Mr. Hutchins. He told me he had just been visiting poor Helen Jewell, and he feared that it would be impossible for her to recover. He walked towards Colonel Hawkner's with me, to inquire after Miss Hawkner. On the road, he began to talk about the Montagues. He said he thought "Old Montague the best of them, but very obstinate and prejudiced in his opinions." I answered, of course, that I could not agree with him; that prejudice | obliged to connect the notion of unworthiness with a meant very different things in different people's mouths; and that I would rather not continue the subject. "But," I added, "can you tell me where Mrs. Montague is buried? for I have looked both in the church and churchyard, and I cannot find her tomb." "You do not mean to say, Freeman," (he had already progressed so far in intimacy,) "that you do not know all about it!" 66 was parent's image! To be forced to keep silence, and, THE PAGEANT OF TIME. TOWARDS midnight on the last day of the old year, I was sitting, thoughtfully revolving, as is my custom at that season, the lesson of the past, and the vague hopes and awful uncertainties of the future; with what feelings, and with what higher aims, it is not now my purpose to declare, nor would the young and inexperienced take that interest in them, which they may be inclined to do in following me through the imaginative scenery into which my slumbering fancy led me, when my candle burning dim, and my fire sending up few and fitful blazes, a soothing obsourity gathered round my closing eyes, and the inward faculties alone remained in conscious activity. "All about what?" exclaimed I,in utter amazement. Why, about Mrs. Montague." And then he told me a long story, and a terrible one indeed. It appears that she is not dead, but living apart from her husband, somewhere in London. She had been faithless to her solemn marriage-vow, and her name never mentioned by the family. This, then, accounts for my never having heard them refer to her or say a word about her. She was treated as one dead; and so here is another of poor Charles Montague's griefs-the bitterest, the most hopeless of all. And how little understood was his silence! Hutchins, the mean-spirited fellow! said that the mother was of humbler birth than the father, who was of excellent family, and therefore it was that her name was never, if possible, mentioned by any of her children. He did not at all imagine that this silence was caused by what had happened: which made me so angry that left him in disgust. The story of her humbler origin I believe to be true; but little did the man know Montague's character, to suppose that this would influence him in being silent about her. His is a soul infinitely above such wretched pettinesses. Valuing birth where God has given it, he values it only in measure, and such considerations certainly do not affect his actions. But oh, poor fellow! what a fearful snapping of the dearest of ties! When the young child first opens his wistful eye in this outer world, it is on his mother's breast; and the tones of a mother's voice lulling the cradled infant to his sleep, I thought I stood on the banks of a mighty linger in the remory to the last-the dearest and river, among a countless multitude. Of these tenderest link that binds us to the past. It is the myriads, all were silent; the stream, though child's first love the first object to which its young swift, was noiseless; not a breath of wind was heart expands, like a tender bud of spring bursting into flower. No voice of affection so pure and tender, stirring in the air; the sky, cold, grey, and misty, so enduring and sustaining. In the midst of life's as still above as the earth below; and the gliding stormiest tempest, its fond memories lull us to sooth-water faintly reflected the last pale beam of a ing quiet; and when the busy world has hardened by its restless activities the once soft and confiding heart, and much of the bright colouring of life, has sobered down into a dull grey tint, unvarious and wearisome, a mother's yearnings still shut in the heart with vestal flames that the wintry ice may not altogether deaden with its lethargic chill its noblest energies. Oh holiest memory of the past! which, when it has ceased to have a resting-place in this earthly and finite, carries up to the invisible shores of the disembodied this endless and sweetest love, and gives our wounded hearts a lodgment there! It is a glorious privilege,—when the arm-chair which once held an aged and tottering form dear as our heart-strings, holds it no more; and rooms which once echoed to that voice of anxious solicitude are silent and still; and the heart which thought only for us, never for itself, has ceased to beat with earthly joys or sorrows, that we are able to remember and to hope-to remember the saintly vision of past infaney, and to dwell in certain hope on entire glorification in the re-union of the future! And proportionately to the consolation of this, what must be the terribleness of the severance of such a tie! What terror, to be December twilight, where the heavens were darkening in the east, faint flashes of distant lightning, tardily followed by the peals of far-off thunder, alone broke the monotony of the wide expanse around us, and they fell upon the ear at intervals, like the solemn minute guns of a royal funeral. As this recollection came over me, methought sable canopied barges, two and two abreast of each other, came swiftly, silently along the middle of the wide river; their oars were seen, not heard, scattering flakes of silver on its dark grey surface, timing their strokes to a melancholy symphony, which one rather imagined than perceived to issue from the musical instruments, whose polished tubes caught a feeble ray from the departing twilight. As the boats came on, we saw that they were crowded with forms through which the dip of the oar and the gleam of the western horizon were dimly visible. They might not be mortal men; motionless, and without expression, they were not immortal spirits. It might have been said to every one of them, "Thou hast no speculation in those eyes that thou dost glare withal." As their visages became more distinctly seen, many among the multitude that were gazing on them began to weep bitterly, and I recognised ghastly and painful likenesses of some that I had loved and lost in the year that was now expiring. When twelve of these lugubrious barges had gone by, a large and lofty vessel rose in view, swiftly, silently it also bore onwards, without our or sail, along the centre of the river. Its sides were hung with funeral trappings, intermingled with various heraldic devices, which, however, I could not have deciphered, even if all my attention had not been riveted on the sad but beautiful burthen which its high decks bore; athwart the prow, which was almost covered by a snow of blossoms, lay the most lovely infant I had ever beheld, pillowed on moss and flowers; and but for an indescribable and awful expression on its fair forehead, the repose of death would have seemed only that of a gentle slumber. A garland of almond blossoms encircled its flaxen ringlets; pale snowdrops were heaped at its feet, and its little hands, crossed on its still bosom, held in their stiffened grasp young branches of the palmtree, such as in Eastern countries were borne in the solemnities which celebrated the resurrection of Him who was "the first-fruits from the dead." It was laid at the feet of a young lady, of exquisite beauty, as motionless and as death-like, who held in either hand a chaplet of withered roses. Raised above these affecting images of mortality, on a loftier bier, lay extended a noble-looking matron, in whose fine features there was such a resemblance to theirs, that doubtless, if she had not been their mother, she had at least been a sister of the same family; the pall on which she lay was of the colour of fallen leaves, and fringed with golden acorns. Far beyond, towards the stern, lay extended the venerable figure of an aged man; his long and silvery beard flowed over a mantle of the purest whiteness: sparkling through the increasing gloom, I saw an amethyst ring of surprising lustre on one of his hands, which were folded on his breast, clasping a golden cross that rested there; and but for the snowy hue of his ample garments, he might have been taken for an ancient bishop of theearly Christian Church. He seemed yet to breathe, but as if soon he would breathe no longer; and the dying seemed even more deathlike than the dead. it the barges, thickly peopled with sepulchral shadows, and finally the great ship itself. The mist which veiled the innermost recesses of the cavern departed to receive them, and we beheld thousands of chambers in the rock, each closed by a marble covering; others, in long perspective, remained yet open, but over the interior of these hung impenetrable shadows, so that we could only clearly discern the entrance of that one into which the vessel entered, and was in a moment insepulchred for ever. Clouds and darkness quickly gathered round the mountain, and hid the cavern and its mysterious chambers from our view. We turned away in silent sadness, when, lo! the dawn was brightening in the east, the morning-star was rising, and quickly the kindling sky began to be reflected on the far distant windings of the river, where was seen a low white sail looming in the horizon; its appearance was hailed by the crowds on the banks with shouts of rapturous exultation. I awoke, and found the bells of a neighbouring steeple had just struck up their accustomed peal, "ringing in," as it is called, "the new year." "And this, then," said I, "is the course of human existence; the pageant of earthly time, year after year, is swallowed up in the abyss of eternity; another of those portions of existence is now commencing for me,-whither will it convey me? That low white sail on which the rising sun beamed so cheerfully, was it not hastening to the dark catacomb of departed ages? That brilliant dawn, must it not have set in night? and ere the clouds of evening had wrapt the vessel in gloom, must it not have shown itself peopled with the phantoms of death? Could its freight have been distinguished by the rejoicing crowd, how many would have shrunk in dismay who greeted its appearance with unthinking rapture; whose images should I have seen among its ghastly crew ?-my own. A cold shudder came over me at the suggestion; I was, however, soon ashamed of a weakness so unworthy of a Christian. Imagination may indeed for a moment shrink from a contemplation of " the pomp and circumstance" of death, its dim and misty terrors, but faith entering within the veil, should rejoice in the substance of things not seen, those glorious and unimaginable realities which the Creator hath prepared for them that love Him. Sometimes, indeed, in moments of devotion, like the Prophet from the top of Mount Pisgah, the soul The ship of death swept on, and the gazing may gain a prospect of that goodly land; and multitude followed along the banks of the river; should the visionary ship be hastening on so what had hitherto appeared a dark cloud swiftly to convey us thither,-yea, if even I, who hanging over it in the distance, now arose in our write, and thou who readest, might have seen view in all the majesty of an enormous barrier our own resemblance among its shadows, whereof perpendicular rocks, on whose top abode the fore should we dread if such be our destination? tempest, and at whose foot a vast cavern ex-But if we dare not rest in that persuasion, let panded its gloomy portals, into which the great us not defer for another moment of the rapidly river glided, still noiselessly, and bore along with decreasing interval, to call upon Him who is mighty to save, who hath "abolished death and brought life and immortality to light" through the Gospel, remembering that "Now is the appointed time: now is the day of salvation." F. R. FRANK FAIRLEGH; OR, OLD COMPANIONS IN NEW SCENES.1 CHAPTER XX. PAYING OFF OLD SCORES. things and suspect her for one moment? But that old man's letter! What did it—what could it, mean? His allusion to some dark, hawk-eyed stranger—ha!— and as a strange, improbable idea glanced like lightning through my brain-like lightning, too, searing as it passed-I half sprang from the bed, unable to endure the agony the thought had cost me. Reason, however, telling me that the idea was utterly fanciful and without foundation, restrained me from doing -I scarcely know what-something desperately impracticable, which should involve much violent bodily action, and result in attaining some certain confirmation either of my hopes and fears, being my nearest approach to any formed scheme. Oh! that night—that weary, endless night! Would morning never, never come? Ir is a weary thing to be tossing restlessly from side to side, sleepless, through the silent watches of the night, spirit and matter warring against each other-the sword gnawing and corroding its sheath. A weary and harassing thing is it even where the body is the aggressor-when the fevered blood, darting like liquid fire through the veins, mounts to the throbbing brow, and, pressing like molten lead upon the brain, crushes out all thought and feeling save a dull consciousness of the racking agony which renders each limb a separate instrument of torture. But if, on the other hand, it be the mind that is pestilence-stricken, the disease becomes well-nigh unbearable as it is incurable; and thus it was with me on the night in question. The suspense and anxiety I had undergone during the preceding day had indisposed me for sustaining any fresh annoyance with equanimity, and now, in confirmation of my worst fears, that hateful sentence in old Peter's note, warning me of treachery "in the quarter where I was most deeply interested," rose up before me like some As it was nearly eighteen miles to the place of messenger of evil, torturing me to the verge of dis-meeting I could scarcely hope to reach it by seven traction with vague doubts and suspicions-fiends which the bright spirits of Love and Faith were powerless to banish. The old man's meaning was obvious; he imagined Clara inconstant, and was anxious to warn me against some supposed rival; this in itself was not agreeable; but I should have reckoned at once that he must be labouring under some delusion, and disregarded his suspicions as unworthy of a moment's notice, had it not been for Clara's strange and unaccountable silence. I had written to her above a week before-in fact, as soon as I became at all uneasy at not hearing from her, urging her to relieve my anxiety, if but by half-a-dozen lincs. Up to this time I had accounted for not having received any answer by the supposition that Mr. Vernon had by some accident detected our correspondence, and taken measures to interrupt it. But this hypothesis was evidently untrue, or Peter Barnett would have mentioned in his note such an easy solu-way," he added, eyeing my reeking steed. tion of the difficulty. Yet, to believe Clara false was treason against constancy. Oh! the thing was impossible; to doubt her sincerity would be to lose my confidence in the existence of goodness and truth on this side the grave! The recollection of her simple, child-like confession of affection-the happiness my love appeared to afford her the tender glance of those honest, trustful eyes-who could think of these About five o'clock I arose, lighted a candle, dressed myself, and then, sitting down, wrote a short note to my mother, telling her that an engagement formed the previous evening to meet a friend would probably detaini me the greater part of the day; and another note to Oaklands, saying that I had taken the liberty of borrowing a horse, begging him to speak of my absence when I returned. I then waited till a faint grey tint as a thing of course, and promising to tell him more in the eastern sky gave promise of the coming dawn; when, letting myself noiselessly out, I took my way towards the Hall. It was beginning to get light as I reached the stables, and arousing one of the drowsy helpers, I made him saddle a bay mare, with whose high courage, speed, and powers of endurance, I was well acquainted, and started on my expedition. o'clock, the time mentioned in old Peter's note; but action was the only relief to my anxiety, and it may easily be supposed I did not lose much time on the road, so that it was but ten minutes after seven when I turned down the lane in which the little alehouse appointed as our rendezvous was situated. I found old Peter waiting to receive me, though the cloud upon his brow, speaking volumes of dark mystery, did not tend to raise my spirits. "Late on parade, sir," was his greeting,-"late on parade; we should never have driven the Mounseers out of Spain if we'd been ten minutes behind our time every morning." miles to ride, and that your notice was too short to "You forget, my friend, that I have had eighteen allow of my giving orders about a horse over night." "You do not seem to have lost much time by the "What a noble charger that mare would make! Here, you boy, take her into the shed there, and throw a sack her a lock of hay to nibble; but don't go to let her or two over her, wash out her mouth, and give drink, unless you want my cane about your shoulders, do ye hear? Now, sir, come in." Peter?" exclaimed I, as soon as we were alone; “it "What in the world did you mean by that note, has nearly driven me distracted,—I have never closed my eyes all night." 46 "Then it's done as I intended," was the satisfactory | the library, and I heard no more; but the wery next reply; "it's prepared you for the worst." day come this here hidentical chap, he arrived in Nice preparation!" muttered I, then added, style too-britska and post-horses. Oh! he's a "Worst! what do you refer to? Speak out, man-reg'lar swell, you may depend; he looks something you are torturing me!” like a Spaniard, a foreigneering style of physiography, only he ain't so swarthy." “You'll hear it sooner than you like; try and take it easy, young gentleman. Do you feel yourself quite prepared ?" I am afraid my rejoinder was more energetic than correct; but it appeared to produce greater effect than my entreaties had done, for he continued,"Well, I see you will have it out, so you must, I suppose; only if you ain't prepared proper, don't blame me. As far as I can see and hear-and I keeps my eyes and ears open pretty wide, I can tell you-I feels convinced that Miss Clara's guv you the sack, and gone and taken up with another young man." As he delivered himself of this pleasant opinion, old Peter slowly approached me, and ended by laying his hands solemnly on my shoulders, and, with an | expression of fearful import stamped on his grotesque features, nodding thrice in my very face. "Nonsense!" replied I, assuming an air of indifference I was far from feeling, "such a thing is utterly impossible, you have deceived yourself in some ridiculous manner." "I only wish as I could think so, for all our sakes, Mr. Fairlegh; but facts is like jackasses, precious stubborn things. Why are they always a-walking together, and talking so loving like, so that even the old 'un hisself looks quite savage about it? And why ain't she never wrote to you since he cum-though she's had all your letters-eh?" "Then she has received my letters?" “Oh, yes! she's always had them the same as usual." "And are you sure she has never written to me?" "Not as I know on; I've never had one to send to you since she's took up with this other chap." "And pray who or what is this other chap, as you call him, and how comes he to be staying at Barstone?" 'Well, sir, all as I can tell you about him is, that nigh upon a fortnight ago Muster Richard come home, looking precious ill and seedy; and the wery next morning he had a letter from this chap, as I take it. I brought it to him just as they rung for the breakfast things to be took away, so I had a chance of stopping in the room. Direc'ly he sot eyes on the hand-writing, he looked as black as night, and seemed all of a tremble like as he hopened it. As he read he seemed to get less frightened and more cross; and when he'd finished it, he 'anded it to the old un, saying, 'It's all smooth, but he's taken it into his head to come down here. What's to be done, eh?' Mr. Vernon read it through, and then said in an under tone, 'Of course he must come if he chooses.' He then whispered something of which I only caught the words 'Send her away;' to which Richard replied angrily, 'It shall not be; I'll shilly-shally no longer, it must be done at once, I tell you, or I give the whole thing up altogether.' They then went into | "Don't you know his name?" inquired I. "They call him Mr. Fleming, but I don't believe that's his right name; leastways he had a letter come directed different, but I can't remember what it was it was either-let me see-either a hess or a W.; I think it was a hess, but I can't say for certain." "But what has all this to do with Miss Saville " asked I, impatiently. "Fair and easy, fair and easy; I'm a-coming to her direc'ly-the world was not made in a day; you'll know sooner than you likes, I expects, now, sir. Well, I didn't fancy him from the first; he looks more like Saytin himself than any Christian as ever I set eyes on, except Boneypart, which, being a Frenchman and a henemy, was not so much to be wondered at: however, he was wery quiet and civil, and purlite to Miss Clara, and said wery little to her, while Muster Richard and the old un was by, and she seemed rather to choose to talk to him, as I thought, innocent-like, to avoid the t'other one; but afore long they got quite friends together, and I soon see that he meant business, and no mistake. He's as hartful and deep as Garrick; and there ain't no means of inweigling and coming over a woman as he don't try on her: aye, and he's a clever chap, too; he don't attempt to hurry the thing; he's wery respectful and attentive, and seems to want to show her the difference between his manners and Muster Richard's, not worreting her like; and he says sharp things to make Muster Richard look like a fool before her. I can't help larfing to myself sometimes to hear him,-Master Dickey's met his match at last." - "And how does Cumberland brook such interference?" Why, that's what I can't make out; he don't like it, that's clear, for I have seen him turn pale with rage; but he seems afraid to quarrel with him, somehow. If ever he says a sharp word, Mr. Fleming gives him a scowling look with his wicked eyes, and Muster Richard shuts up direc'ly." "And you fancy Miss Saville appears disposed to receive this man's advances favourably? Think well before you speak; do not accuse her lightly, for, by Heaven! if you have not good grounds for your insinuations, neither your age nor your long service shall avail to shield you from my anger! every word breathed against her is like a stab to me." As in my grief and irritation, I threatened the old man, his brow reddened, and his eye flashed with all the fire of youth. After a moment's refection, however, his mood changed, and advancing towards me, he took my hand respectfully, and pressing it between his own, said,— "Forgive me this liberty, sir, but I honour you, |