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And, as years sped on, fair Friendship fill'd my buoyant breast with hope,

Mystic, mighty, unsuspicious, boundless as yon heaven's scope;

Here we twain in chasten'd silence o'er some chosen page would bend,

Rapt in all the bright creations poet's thoughts to mortals lend;

Whilst the very air around us seem'd by some sweet instinct hush'd,

As our swimming eyes o'erlidded, and our cheeks with fervour flush'd.

She, like some sweet sound hath vanish'd, still when Lilac branches stir,

All my heart's untaught emotions fly to innocence

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TRUTH AND SEEMING.

BY ALICE ANNE LAWSON.

"Oh! what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive !"

The Spencers were of an old, respectable family; we do not intend tracing their lineage, but merely to acquaint our readers that they were of "gentle blood." Mr. Spencer had been a handsome man, and a beau, who in an evil hour was captivated by the doll-like beauty of the honourable Emily Harcourt. After fluttering round her an entire season in London, they eloped, were married, and recognized by Lord Harcourt's family, which, joined to other civilities, convinced the young husband that he need not have taken the trouble or expense of an elopement, as the honourable Emily might have been had for asking; however, Mr. Spencer, being still in love with his bride, regretted neither the display of a fashionable marriage at St. George's, nor her want of fortune; he felt disinclined for further waste of time amidst heartless gaiety, and signified his wish to live on his estate in retirement. Mrs. Spencer's dissent and disapproval of such a measure astonished him; but when, with tears, she said that she could not live out of London, he grew cold and determined. After upbraiding her in severe terms for want of love and truth, when she had sworn to cleave to him only, he said, henceforth his home should be among those who could esteem him. Of course Mrs. Spencer had no choice but to submit, and six months after their marriage found them settled at their country seat, in one of the southern counties of England, on an income of twelve hundred a year, with a nice town on one side and a pleasant neighbourhood on the other. But both felt disappointed; Mr. Spencer that his wife should love the empty vanities of the world better than his society. He recalled with bitterness her entire devotion to him alone during the early season of their acquaintance; her murmured vows of constancy; her flight, in timidity and alarm; then her sullen acquiescence with his wish, expressed like a command, in so short a time after. The young husband looked into his own heart, and he saw there Love, yet strong and unquenchable, which his wife's inanity could not destroy. A review of all convinced him that while his feelings were true and genuine, his wife's had been either the semblance of what never existed, or so light and evanescent, their strength had worn away with their newness.

The latter was the case: Mrs.

Spencer was disappointed that she could not live in the world, and for it; she had expected always to find a lover, but was unprepared to

meet a husband who could, and would, assert a will of his own. To do Mr. Spencer justice, he endeavoured, by kind attention and ready compliance with any wish of Mrs. Spencer's, to win back her love and esteem; but the fickle Emily pined after London-her gay beaux and delightful dissipations: she railed perpetually against the barbarities of a country town, criticised her neighbours; and one day, when reminded by her husband of some occurrence in their early acquaintance, said, in her own languid carelessness, "Don't remind me of what I shall ever regret." Mr. Spencer stood like one thunderstruck; rage and surprise held him silent a minute, yet his wife looked coldly on the storm she had raised. The frail chord which had bound Mr. Spencer to his wife snapped at that minute; he told her she should for ever regret her want of truth, and in the rashness of intemperate warmth, vowed she never should see that dearly idolized London. Mr. Spencer threw up his seat in Parliament, watched over his tenantry, lived within his income in order to teach Mrs. Spencer economy, and hoard up fortunes for his daughters; gave dinners to his neighbours, fox-hunted in the season, and extended his patronage to all useful meetings; he lived on good terms with his lady, enduring her whims, but never consulting or asking her opinion; she had grown inactive, the victim of fancies; dull, careless of anything except her own health, never seeking to change her destiny, or contradicting her husband, who exercised his free-will in everything: he chose his son's tutor, and the governess for his daughters; dismissed or selected the servants; laid down rules to be observed, and was in fact dreaded by the household; his early miscalculation about happiness had converted him into a severe, tyrannical man, unrelenting in punishment, while any whose veracity he once doubted, could never regain his favour or confidence.

Years, many years passed away: Mr. Spencer's family was almost grown up: Hubert, his eldest child and only son, was twenty-one, pleasing and agreeable, manly and well made, but of a steady, serious cast: his young mind grieved for the alienation of his parents; he avoided gaiety, loved learning, and was a poet in very deed, one who did not study and labour over verses, but a genuine poet, who wrote in the depths of the night, without a tongue to praise or an ear to listen to the exquisite flow of feeling, which

he would repeat in solitude to unburden an over-wrought mind.

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Mary Spencer, with something of her brother's romance and mildness, a share of her father's decision and love of truth, mingled with her mother's gentleness and style of beauty, was a very woman in mind; sweet, smiling, yet never gay; affectionate and single-hearted in her love to all mankind, her very self forgotten in the devotion which she bore to one. Mary Spencer (or as her father always desired she might be called, Miss Spencer) reminded you of one of those creations of fancy, which a painter's love of the beautiful will depict as an angel or seraph her fair face, with scarcely a tinge of colour to mar the purity of the ivory cheek; small curved lips, slightly tinted with the rose; straight nose, perfect in symmetry; a dreamy eye of blue, and hair of the palest gold, made her at times look too shadowy and transparent | for earth; her small, slight, graceful figure, like the fragile stalk of the sweet pea, unable to stand alone. Every motion of Mary Spencer's had a charm, which unconsciously won your love; but every duty, though performed with care and system, was entirely without any energy of mind or body such she was when a child, such she was now at nineteen.

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One more daughter comprised the entire family-Rose Spencer, two years her sister's junior; the only one who ventured to address a question to her father, because her heedless, laughter-loving gaiety never felt a reproof, or her thoughts never dwelt a second on aught but the wild, unsophisticated pleasures of youth. She had seen her governess dismissed without a sigh of regret, and wondered for what her sister wept, when they were now free for ever. Rose laughed at friendship, and scoffed at love, constancy, and truth. A bunch of wild flowers, so that she had some hair-breadth escape to secure them, or a mad canter over the country, unattended, without her father's knowledge, those were the enjoyments she delighted in. Her style of feature too was quite different from her sister's; Rose, even at that early age, was tall; and brilliant, more than beautiful; there was a majesty in her erect head and haughty carriage, a captivation in her joyous tones and merry laughter; her dark hair fell in rich curls round her neck, and her eyes would have been too piercing but for the long black eyelashes, which veiled half their beauty: a bright colour burnt always on her cheek, and no reproof had ever banished the smile from her lips: it seemed like a freak of nature to display teeth white as ivory. Rose bore more resemblance to her father than to any other; there was the same rashness, causing its possessor to act from impulse rather than judgment; a vivid clearness of intellect, dangerous, inasmuch as we form from it hasty conclusions, and are heedless of public opinion. Rose Spencer carried about, what is frequently a fatal possession to women, an independence of spirit, joined to pride of heart; she was like a mountain torrent, which having burst the bonds of control, rushed blindly on, until, in over

whelming everything, it had lost all trace of its former self: one only cure was there for such a temper, the mild influence of religion made to bear within. But among the Spencers where was one like Rose to learn piety? her mother incapable of teaching it; the governess a quiet, polished woman, who knew little on the subject, and cared less; the tutor, intended for the church, and an humble Christian, fully capable of implanting good in the young; but when for some wild flight of passion he had corrected Rose before her father, Mr. Spencer severely desired, that such stretch of his authority might not again be used for so trifling an offence. Of course the young man was more sparing in future of admonition, and he turned his attention to the more gentle, teachable Mary, whose disposition was formed for receiving impressions, while Rose was governed by a moral sense of right, and a spirit which abhorred meanness. The tutor (Mr. Montague) had left two years before the governess's dismissal, to finish his course and to be ordained; so whatever good the Misses Spencer retained was the result of early impressions.

One morning Mr. Spencer broke the silence of his breakfast table by addressing his wife :"I have been thinking, Emily, a residence on the Continent would be beneficial to us all; your health may improve; Hubert's taste for scenery and sight-seeing can be indulged, while we can finish the education and improve the manners of our daughters."

Mrs. Spencer had been so long accustomed to passive obedience, that she did not express the joy which she felt at even so tardy an emancipation; a languid smile and bow were her answer. This, Mr. Spencer thought quite sufficient, for he continued-"I have decided on this plan for some time, and just received an answer from Edward Montague, whom I invited to come with us; he says he is delighted to have the privilege of travelling with our party.

"I am so glad," answered Hubert with animation; "Montague is a deep thinker, and possesses qualities which must render him loved; I wonder he has not written to tell me of what he knows must please us all. Don't I answer correctly for you, Mary?"

The question excited no astonishment in any present; but Hubert, not receiving an answer, looked towards his sister, and saw her cheek crimson, her eyes drooping, her whole frame tremulous from some sudden and inward emotion. Astonishment in Hubert gave place to delight; that his sister should love one so upright, he thought natural, but that she should have loved in secret, and without hope, during two years of absence, he thought impossible. The poet and studious man knew not the depths of woman's heart, how the small, cherished flower of love flourishes, though it is neither fed by the smile or warmed by the presence of its object. Hubert had written with feeling of the power and durability of love, the poet's theme; but who, that has not drunk deeply of its charmed waters, can enter into its true and winding sources?

can tell how it will live, feeding on some memory, her father to remain at home; while Rose, who or word-refusing to die, or break the heart longed anxiously for it, was prevented, and which so long has sustained it, while a hope never suffered to partake in the amusements may be drawn from uncertainty? Hubert too, which offered. To accompany her brother in longed to love some one, to prize his existence his rambles-to see all that Paris contained so for some other than self; but his creative genius worthy of inspection, and so replete with story prevented him from seeing, in any around, one and recollection, with an occasional visit to the who could satisfy all his wishes; a fault by which theatre, when her father always placed himself the gifted are often led astray-seeking for beside her-this was insufferable thraldom to perfection, and permitting their imagination to Rose, who pined for freedom in any shape. It take the lead of sense. He reflected a moment was the evening of their last stay at Paris; Mrs. that the brotherly regard and care of the tutor Spencer proposed adjourning to the theatre, which for his young pupil must have been actuated by met with ready compliance from all. How wearied some other feeling than duty, while Mary's heart Rose felt, when the performance was half-over! received the impression without being aware of She looked on the dressed-out ornamental it. Rose's gay voice broke the spell which figures on all sides, every one smiled upon by seemed over all; she cried in an ecstacy with some graceful cavalier; and vanity whispered, clasped hands, "Oh! it will be delightful to that she might rival the very finest there! She travel-see the world, strange faces, and new saw many an admiring gaze turned on her siscountries-I am sure I shall love everything ter; but invariably the look, passing on, was foreign; and the Italian Counts are perfect he- fixed on herself. "How can they slight Mary's roes; then, to have Mr. Montague to laugh at, heavenly beauty?" she asked internally: but a with his handsome face and grave talk, it will glance towards her sister answered the quesbe a paradise. Don't you think so, Mamma?" tion. Mary sat hearkening to Mr. Montague, Mrs. Spencer thought this a good opportunity her blue eyes raised to his, and for the first time to say something which might sting her stern it struck Rose, "Could those two love each husband, so she answered in the quiet tone other?" which she never deviated from-" No, child; no place can be a paradise to me; I am so long a fixture in the country that I have no relish for gay scenes, in which I could only sigh over my faded health. Besides, Rose, set not your heart on any one, or any thing, for disappointment will await you."

Mr. Spencer took no notice whatever of his lady's speech; he knew, as well as all her family, that she had not spoken the truth; for she yet longed anxiously to move from the country.

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Rose," said Mr. Spencer, in a measured voice and severe tone, "you will have something to do beside indulging flighty speculations. I shall have masters to attend you; think less of frolics beneath one of my daughters, and more of dignified demeanour, so admirable in young women. Never, by any chance, give way to the levity of mocking a pious man, like Mr. Montague; I should visit such an act with my heavy displeasure."

"Oh! such a lecture," said Rose to her brother, in an audible whisper. "Am I always to be a child? Fancy learning lessons at seven

teen !"

"Enormous!" cried Hubert, looking on the flashing eyes and energetic figure of Rose. "My dear sister, you will not be a child always. Heaven grant that wild fancy of yours may be tamed otherwise than by sad experience.

In a few days they were joined by Mr. Montague; preparations for travelling concluded, and all set out. Time passed on agreeably to each. They remained for a time in Paris, and Mrs. Spencer shook off her ennui, once again to mingle in the gaieties of the world; but she felt no longer young or able to enjoy dissipation. Her eldest daughter disliked the bustle and show attendant upon fashion, and pleaded with

Mrs. Spencer dozed motionless at the other side of Mary, and Hubert stood a little behind, contemplating with satisfaction his sister and his friend. Mr. Spencer watched fixedly the stage, and Rose, who sat as usual beside him, was fast relapsing into inattention. "I wish Í were in dear old England!" she mentally exclaimed. "One canter over my father's green hills is worth all the pleasure I have had from travelling!" And Rose leaned back, while a sigh came audibly from her. It was echoed in a lower key by some one near: she looked towards the crowded box next, from whence the sound proceeded, and blushed beneath the riveted stare of a handsome man. One look satisfied her that he was English, and an officer, fashionable and splendid rather than handsome, his magnificent height and figure, with dark hair and moustache, sallow complexion, and deep grey eyes. There was an air so interesting about him, yet not unmixed with languor; while his sunken eye told of dissipation. But Rose thought she had never seen any one come so near her ideas of perfection. His accent, too, was exquisite, as he spoke in a low tone to two Frenchmen, who seemed on intimate terms with him. Presently she heard the stranger address her brother familiarly, and Hubert's answer, "At Paris, St. John? I did not think you could breathe out of London"-informed her this was one of her brother's acquaintances, whom she had often heard described as the most fashionable man of the day.

"Ah, my dear Spencer," said those liquid tones, which invariably fascinated every one; and how could they lose their power over the young listener? "I have become weary of London; so, to divert my ennui, obtained a month's leave from my regiment to flutter in Paris. I am sick of the Guards; but my father

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won't hear of my exchanging. Why do you never come up for the season?"

"My father does not like London, and I love the country better. I hope your family are quite well?"

"Yes, quite well: the old Earl as cross as ever, because I do not marry. My lady mother writes to tell me to avoid extravagance, as my sister Lucy has come out;' and Mildred will be presented next year to the admiring world, and swell the ranks of disposable beauties in London; but," he continued, in a lower key, "what a churl you are, Hubert! If those beauties are your sisters, do introduce me: the old Earl and your father were good friends long ago. Come, be civil, I say.”

"To tell you the truth, St. John," answered Hubert, gravely, "I consider you a dangerous fellow but come into our box; I shall present you to my father; then make your own cause good if you can."

Rose could not hear the conclusion of this speech, it was spoken in so low a tone; but in a minute Lord St. John entered their box and was introduced to her father. If Rose had been pleased by his appearance, she was struck so much more by the courtly elegance of the young nobleman; his easy, graceful replies to the bluntness of Mr. Spencer, who measured him from head to foot. When Lord St. John stooped to please, it was impossible to resist the charm of his manners and conversation-his ready wit and sparkling humour. Mr. Spencer knew him by report as being a gambler, frequenter of clubs, and leader in dissipation: he would as soon have permitted a serpent's entrance into his family. Yet he spoke of his early friendship for Lord Belvidare, asked after his mother, and introduced him to Mrs. Spencer and his daughters.

Lord St. John's beautiful lip curled into a sneer-acknowledgment in itself that he had seen through Mr. Spencer's motives, and his thorough contempt for them. Rose's painful blush as she bowed her head had not escaped his observation. A glance at Miss Spencer satisfied him that she had no eyes for any, so he sat down to rouse Mrs. Spencer from her torpidity. He spoke of London, and she immediately remembered a number of by-gone beauties who had now ceded to their daughters. "And Lady Belvidare," continued Mrs. Spencer, "she was a great friend of mine, and very lovely too-she married the season I came out."

"Oh! yes, certainly," whispered Lord St. John, in his most dulcet tones, for he perceived she, in common with the whole family, feared her husband; "my mother is quite a has been; remember I am twenty-five. If she could boast one-third of the Honourable Mrs. Spencer's charms, she might with no trouble rival my sister Lucy."

There was a levity in this speech, a disregard for even the appearance of truth, which displeased Rose; she could pardon anything but ridicule, under the semblance of complimenting her mother; she raised all the fire of her large eyes on Lord St. John, while her haughty,

searching gaze astonished him; he almost thought that the same person could not blush with bashfulness and stare with pointed reproof.

"Are your sisters very beautiful?" inquired Mrs. Spencer, without making any comment on his last display.

"No, not beautiful; Lucy is certainly prettyan humble likeness of Miss Spencer, your eldest daughter. Mildred, I wish I might say resembled your younger; but a comparison would be a stretch of imagination-a falsehood. Mildred is very plain; but gay and agreeable."

There was a pause for a few minutes; during which Lord St. John viewed the varying hues of the young girl near him. That short study convinced him she was not an every-day character; her dark flashing eye spoke volumes to the dissipated man of the world; her ardent, sudden excitement of temper breathed through the scorn which rested a moment on her lip; then the drooping lid and modest blush. "She is a beautiful creature, and rare too," he said internally; "but formed rather to adorn for a season than to love tamely during a life, she would be a dangerous treasure to one like me; she could fancy a slight where none was intended, and revenge it too. Her love will be her destiny, and make her either a tyrant or to be tyranized over."

Rose also had her thoughts. She did not like his sentiments quite; but she had never felt so timid in the presence even of her father. There was even a spell in the manner he raised the bouquet which lay idly before her, and admired without pretension the choice flowers of which it was composed.

"This one simple flower, Miss Spencer," he said, "is my favourite among the group so tastefully arranged. How I do love a moss-rose bud! I think the brilliant bud bears a likeness to you. Give it me!" he murmured in her ear.

Rose laughed like a bird. "It is my name too," she said,; with naïveté, "so I love all that bear it." But she seemed not to have heard his request; for the flower was not drawn from the bouquet.

"Rose," interrupted her father, "it was unnecessary your informing Lord St. John of your name, which I dare say he never had the slightest curiosity concerning."

His lordship seemed perfectly distressed at such severity; but Rose laughed at him with inconceivable drollery, and shook the curls over her bright cheek. "True, papa," she answered, "and the only apology with truth I can urge is, that I forgot you were listening."

Soon after the performance concluded, and the Spencers sought their carriage. Mr. Spencer always led out his wife, Mr. Montague took care of Miss Spencer, and Hubert was generally Rose's escort; but this time Lord St. John was before him. "It is delightful to have a few minutes with you," he said, "unwatched by your stern father. May I call at your hotel to morrow-or shall I wait for you in the gardens? At what hour? How often have I seen you with your father the last week; but I heard

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