that ball."

you did not attend any public place or

"By all means, come to our hotel; but do not be astonished to find us departed. We leave Paris for Italy in the morning."

"How unfortunate," cried Lord St. John; "I shall return to London then, or else die! But will you not give me that rose-bud? Do; you, beautiful Rose, can spare one flower which borrows a shade of loveliness from yourself. There! Your mother's carriage is announced! I must have the rose; and I swear, when next we shall meet, to present you with that very flower, or one bright as your lip."

"No-I can't; I won't," said Rose, pettishly covering the flower with her ungloved hand; "I am so fond of flowers-and you can have

them from some other."

"The Honourable Mrs. Spencer's carriage," was again proclaimed. Rose saw her mother handed in. "Your sister is just taking her place; your turn will be soon. The rose, I entreat, or we part for ever as enemies! Be quick-give it to me!" said Lord St. John, as Mr. Spencer desired his daughter to follow quickly. The rose was detached from the group, and held with the glove in her hand, she prepared to ascend the steps, and gave her little fingers to Lord St. John for the necessary assistance; he closed his with a grasp over them a second, and on opening it, felt she had left flower and glove in his possession. The door shut, the carriage moved on, a head looked from the window. Lord St. John kissed his hand eagerly; and it was very long ere those two, who had become so suddenly intimate, met again.

As Lord St. John turned to seek his party, he saw the two friends on each side of him. "Ha! De Valmont; you here?" he said, caressingly. "Yes, St. John," answered the Frenchman addressed, with a peculiar twinkling of his eyes, and sarcastic tone, "I have just been a witness to your success with that English girl, who looks as though love and revenge were striving for mastery within her. You are a fortunate fellow. Ha! ha! every one in love with you! Of course you will never again smile on Julie-poor forsaken Julie !" "Nonsense, my dear De Valmont; the young girl is off for the south, by sun-rise. Your sister, Mademoiselle Julie, is very different from her." Lord St. John thought of all the money he owed this friend, so he did not dare to put any slight on his sister. After a moment's pause he said again--" Mademoiselle is too charming to be forgotten for a stranger."

The morning's sun saw the Spencers en route for Italy, all anxiously wishing for variety and change of scene; even the gentle Mary, who disliked the publicity of a residence in one of the most fashionable hotels of Paris; while a few hours of reflection on her return from the theatre convinced Rose that she had, on too slight an acquaintance with Lord St. John, given him a token of her admiration. To regret it now was useless, yet she did regret it longer

than usual; however, the next morning Rose was bright with smiles. "I am going," she whispered to her conscience, "so the handsome nobleman and I can not meet for three years, before which time he will either have married or forgotten the moss-rose. And I need not tell Mary, for a lecture would be the result."

A year and a-half of the allotted time had passed; the Spencers were wintering at Rome, when an event occurred which caused no little disturbance in the family. Mr. Spencer having occasion to visit his daughters' private sittingroom, where they studied without interruption, or amused themselves in seclusion, a voice of some one pleading earnestly in impassioned accents struck him; and as he lingered outside the glass-door in amazement, he became conscious that the young clergyman, Edward Montague (he who had been his son's tutor) was making a declaration of love to his daughter. One glance convinced him that Mary was no unwilling listener. She sat, her hands clasped over her eyes; while the young man stood, half leaning over the agitated girl. Mr. Spencer's first notion was to enter and to separate them eternally; but Mary raised her tear-stained face, and the stern man melted into the parent. Mr. Montague drew the sorrowing Mary fondly to him; "Yes, Mary-my long-loved, dearly-prized," he said aloud, "we must part, and trust to time for the future. It is on this account that I have so delayed my confession to you; for how shall we live under the same roof and love only in secret? Yet we were happy, dearest! each felt secure in the other. Oh! what are words that a tale you have so long known must separate us? Mary, I dare not tell your father our secret; I could not endure mockery on your account, and I am not rich enough, or in any way competent to possess myself of what could render me so happy. Lord Belvidare has promised me his interest and patronage. I have not yet despaired of brighter days!"

Mr. Spencer heard thus far-then turned away, and met Rose; who, without noticing her father's gloom, detained him to relate some gallantry of her admirer, the Compte de Vavie.

"And are you also, Rose, whom I considered so noble-minded, wooing another protector without my knowledge? Speak the truth, and fear not," he said, in an accent Rose knew meant reproach.

Wooing! loving! Oh! no, papa. I refused the whiskered Prince Henri last week, without even telling you; and I am only talking to the poor Count. I would not marry a foreigner! I think I shall reserve myself for some Englishman, though I never could love any-and I have tried often. But for whom do you fear? Is it Hubert? He was writing poetry this morning, so I looked over his shoulder and saw at the head-A portrait of Aurora,' which, sans doute, refers to the lovely Madame Duval, whose name is Aurora. This Italy is a sad place! Love is

the business of their lives. I hate being obliged to do anything; so I won't love them, if they died for me!"

Mr. Spencer was cheated into a smile; but he answered" Remember, Rose, you have made a promise; I shall expect you to keep it. Send Mary to my study; I have a few words to say with her."

"Mary's secret is discovered, I think," said Rose, as she turned to obey her father; "I knew it long since, but it could not be helped. And Edward Montague I could love myself, if he were not so grave."

Rose sighed; but she smiled the next minute. A large mirror reflected her radiant figure. "That stupid Count," she continued, “told me I was too beautiful by half for an English girl; I wish I could try the effect of those 'peerless charms' as he says-on the Londoners! But I am not vain. Why should I be?"

Meanwhile Mary attended her father's summons, with an anxiety to be traced in the slow motion and deeply-coloured cheek. A few words told her all was known to him; and the ingenuous girl-who longed to confide in some one--with tears and entreaties that he would forgive her, confessed, without reserve, her cherished affection for Mr. Montague.

"I might have guessed this," said Mr. Spencer; but I thought the close acquaintance of childhood had banished all chance of the teacher merging into the lover. He is worthy, and I could with pleasure call him son, if he possessed sufficient to maintain you as you have been accustomed to be maintained. I overlook, Mary-though many would not-your secret acceptance of his vows, because I have been equally at fault; but such is a bad precedent in the family. Let not your sister know of this folly, as I expect Mr. Montague will fulfil his promise of returning to England."

there depicted, then withering scorn usurped its place. "Ha! I loved like thee, Mary," he cried aloud, "one, fair, simple-looking, lovely-a very angel! as you seem on ivory, Emily Harcourt; but it was only seeming! And not one remnant of the girl I worshipped ever dwelt in the woman who married me, because I had a small independence which could ensure her dearly. prized vanities. I was scarcely wedded ere I learnt that your tongue had never spoken from your heart. Then the beauty which had won me faded! I could have seen it all perish for one glance of affection! How differently Mary looked when she spoke of him whose love is her all! And yet, my child is so like this fair girl."

A step outside caused Mr. Spencer hurriedly to conceal the picture, and to turn with his usual solemn manner to meet Mr. Montague.

It was not long ere the whole family were made acquainted with the engagement of Miss Spencer and Mr. Montague; but certain restric tions were laid on the young people, which they pledged themselves to keep inviolate. No correspondence of any kind was to pass between them for the remainder of the time they resided abroad, and it was to form no subject for conversation with either party-matters still continuing in doubt of realization. The former restriction was given as a test to their affection, and thereby offering a reasonable time to Lord Belvidare for fulfilling his promise of patronage to the young clergyman. Within a few days the betrothed husband set out for England, after exchanging the usual quantity of vows with his beloved Mary, who acquiesced sorrowfully to the mandate; for a separation uncheered by letters-those records so full of hope and terms of endearment-would have shortened a year and a-half of probation, but Mr. Spencer was immoveable.

Mary," answered her father, with more softness than he generally spoke, "you are indulging in vivid hopes about the future; it is my duty to tell you that I never can consent to a marriage with any one who has not some prospect of comfort. Of course you have my example, and think, as I did once, that an elopement seals your happiness for ever. Did you know the misery which mine entailed! the doubts which sprang up! the truth which slowly came to light-but has ever since been held in my memory-you would curse, bitterly as I might, a rash marriage! Yet, now the world has ceased either to vex or please me, and I pardon many things for your sakes. Go, now; send Mr. Montague here."

Mary silently kissed her father's hand and left the room. Mr. Spencer was alone! He stood up and unlocked a desk, drew from a recess therein a small, exquisitely painted miniature, one look of agony he cast on the beauty

declared "He never again should look at an Englishwoman." Shortly afterwards the Spencers arrived in England, just three years having passed since they had departed for the Continent. (To be continued.)

THE BANDIT'S LOVE.
(A Sketch.)

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

The sun was sinking tow'rds the brilliant west,
Stream'd on the clouds that hung around his orb,
Effulgent with his glory; lambent light
And form'd his evening court; half veiling him
With sable mantle canopied by fire,

And half disclosing to the lovely earth
His parting radiance. On the mountain's side
Fruit-laden vines disclosed their clusters large.
Ting'd with the rich reflection, ruby drops
Hung in profusion amid emerald bowers;

White orange-flowers shed perfume on the air,
And each breeze-sigh that stirr'd the red rose-leaves
Wafted mild fragrance from far myrtle groves.

'Twas a fair scene. Retir'd in pleasant shade,
An ancient temple stood, defaced and grey:
Its pillars all were broken; the high friere,
Erewhile adorn'd with sculpture unsurpass'd,
Was worn to nothing; and the climbing plant,
That amid desolation always thrives,
Curl'd wantonly about the mouldering shrine,
Mocking with verdant beauty mournful marks,
Deeply indented by Time's fingers there.
Perchance, in other days, the laughing god,

To whom its leaves were sacred, claim'd those courts,
And haply there the pean shouts arose

Of vine-crown'd bacchanals, when, mad with wine,
And fired with mystic frenzy, in strange dance
They join'd by moonlight, while the sombre woods
Gave echo to their fear-inspiring songs.
But now no longer in that roofless fane

Such frantic throng was seen: green mosses spread
O'er altars where for years no flames had burnt;
And the shy lizard found a resting-place
Among dark weeds and columns overthrown :
The sun's slant rays diffus'd a mellow light
O'er those majestic shafts which Time had spar'd,
And deck'd the ruin with a thousand hues,
More chaste than it had worn beneath high noon.

'Tis a sweet hour, when cooling zephyrs sing
A requiem for the fading day, and light,
The dazzling sunlight leaves the tranquil sky,
Where the queen-moon assumes her pale mild reign;
Or one by one in the blue vault appear,
Unnumber'd stars amid pure ether hung.
Lone hour of beauty! yielding to thy sway,
Man's heart turns eagerly from scenes of woe-
Earth's dark realities-to seek awhile
In Fancy's glorious regions holiest joy;
And the rapt spirit pictures to herself
Scenes shadowy as fair; whilst empty hopes,
Not less intoxicating because vain,
In swift succession greet her-to her dreams
Lur'd by the magic power that caus'd her rest.

O peaceful time! Still will I welcome thee,
Congenial as thou art unto my soul !
How soft thy chasten'd light sinks on the vale,
Where all is hush'd except some tinkling stream,
And the dull droning of the dusky fly,
That on mail-shielded wing in drowsy course
Sweeps past me through the gloom.
glare,

Upon a shelter'd column. Pensiveness
Mark'd her demeanour, and the heavy sighs
She vainly strove to stifle, told a tale
Of secret suffering and a broken heart.
She had devoutly, truly lov'd: her soul
Concentrated every hope of future joy
In one dear object; to which love was given
Return'd affection, fervent as her own.
Ah! love must always meet tempestuous hours,
That close too oft in darkness, unillum'd;
And flowers that spring beneath his earliest steps,
In his continued presence fade away.

Hapless IANTHE's maiden heart was given,
With the confiding trust of innocence,
To one who shortly fell beneath the ban
Of ruling powers-an outlawed mountain chief-
A bandit! Start not, reader, at the name;
Nor with unthinking haste deem every one
Whom tyrant sway-curse of our genial life-
Compels to such worst course, is evil all.
Pride of his village had young GUIDO been-
The joy of every eye that gazed on him;
Noble his form, cast in the choicest mould-
Mighty his intellect, albeit unlearn'd,
Save in the simple lore by Nature taught.
He knew high feelings: in his secret soul
Nourishing thoughts and hopes, that well became
A true descendant of the gallant race,
Once monarchs of the world, though vassals now.
With these were blended milder passions, too:
Beauteous IANTHE waken'd in his breast
Visions of love; and they were blest awhile,
Mutual affection linking their young hearts
Till happiness grew perfect. Oft they met
Beneath Italian sunset's matchless light,
Near a forsaken fane, and truer vows
Than e'er were breathed to Pagan Deity
Beside its desolated shrine exchanged;
Together, when the vintage season shone,
Gather'd the blushing clusters of the vine,
Or stripp'd the golden orange from its tree.

This was not long to last. There rang a voice
Proclaiming freedom through that pleasant land--
A mighty flood of war career'd along
That swept down all before it.

Many thought

Her countless insects and incessant hum,
The noise of never-resting multitudes,
Yield aught of pleasure like the quiet eve?

On that sweet evening, by the crumbling shrine, A maiden leant, so pale and motionless : Save for her bosom's rapid rise and fall, You might have fancied her a noble work Of olden art, spared 'mid the general wreck. Beauteous she was; yet in her lineaments Appear'd a sorrow that seem'd most unmeet To mar so soon surpassing loveliness. Luxuriant tresses, like the raven's wing In hue, but richer far, in braids profuse, Hung down her neck, with silken ribands bound. Her lustrous eyes were fixed upon the sky, As if it sooth'd her grief to contemplate Its tranquil glory. One white hand was press'd Close to her pallid lips; the other lay

Nor stoop to the oppressor; so he fled

To those high mountains, where, in unknown caves,
The rude banditti held a desert home.
They found him moody and disconsolate,
As one who sorrow'd for his country's wrongs;
But brave of soul, fitted for enterprise;
And in short space their leader he became.

Yet did he ne'er amid distress forget Gentle IANTHE: memories of her provedThe sweetest solace of distracting hoursAll that remained to him of happiness. Often, when twilight shadows veiled the world, He left his dreary haunts, and sought the plain Where dwelt his love; there, in that lonely spot Which heard their earliest vows, they secret met, And fresh ones interchanged of endless faith,

Mingled with tears, and hopes of future bliss--
Hopes like the pale merereon's lovely flowers,
That blossom on an almost leafless bough.
Then, long ere sunbeams tinged the eastern sky,
He left the temple, with elastic steps
Scaling the mountains to the Bandit's cave.
Some months passed so; in which IANTHE felt
All that uncertainty of heart, those hours
Alternate cloud and sunshine, that soon pale
The rosiest cheeks, and blanch the darkest hair.

She sought one evening the accustom'd spot
With a sick heart, and all the tedious night
Waited his coming-oh, how anxiously!
But GUIDO came not: still she linger'd there
Till the last star had quench'd its twinkling rays;
Then faint and drooping hasten'd to her home.
A day of misery succeeded. Eve
Mantled the earth; again IANTHE stood
Within the ruin'd temple; but, alone!
And deep despair possess'd her anguish'd soul.

With the first light of morning tidings came
Of desperate conflict in the mountain wilds;
The bandit's lone retreat had been surprised!
Long was the struggle dubious;-bravely fought
Those gallant outlaws and their youthful chief;
Until a random bullet stretch'd him dead,
And then, dispirited, o'erpower'd, they fell.
The news spread widely round, and all rejoiced
Except IANTHE; yet she grieved not loud;
Her breast had been too sharply agonized
To give its sorrows utterance; so conceal'd
The rankling wound which heaven alone could heal.
In solitude she brooded o'er her loss,
Embalming with true tears his memory
On whom her life reposed. But life for her
Had lost all sweetness; she desired to die-
To die was to rejoin her GUIDO. Health
Soon fled, and her cheeks lost their damask hue,
While grief sate heavily upon her brow;
And nightly, when the moon uprose in heaven,
She sought the ruin where her vows were pledged
When first she listen'd to love's fatal words;
That spot evoked soothing remembrances.
Strange, that in careless woe we haunt those scenes
Which best remind us of departed joy.

All saw that she was dying; though none knew
Or guess'd the cause. As a young lily droops
Upon its stem, smote by a hidden worm,
So droop'd, so died she. Just before her death
The secret was reveal'd.

The morning gazed upon his suffering,

And night is closing o'er his tortured form;
The carrion-birds, that hover'd with black wing
Above his fearful couch, with life-blood warm,
Have left him, and the shadows of the night
Hang like a living pall above the scaffold's height.
And as the wild glare of the torches throw
A gleam upon its outline-at its base,
Kneeling with clasping hands, and head bent low,
And dark hair streaming o'er her marble face,
A woman's form; alas! what doth she there,
Girt round with blood-stained men, dark night, and
wild despair?

With a high purpose, and a heart whose might
Is not of earthly giving, hath she come
Beneath the shelter of the awful night,

When desolation only hath no home,

To raise-oh, bitter task!-high hopes within
Another's heart, when hers lie withering.

God she hath climb'd the scaffold, and sinks down
Beside that broken form. Is there no wreath
Wherewith "fidelity to death" to crown?

No bright immortal, which the dulling breath
Of earth's decay-the ashes, and the tomb-
May leave to coming years in their first bloom?

Not since the stars looked down on Mizpah's head,
Keeping her watch upon the rock alone
Beside those heavy sleepers, her loved dead,

They, in their thousand years, have never shone
Upon so sad a sight-woe, woe for love!—
The rose blooms at its feet, but cypress waves above.

There, kneeling by his side, with fearless heart
She pour'd the music of her voice in prayer,
Keeping her bridal vow till death should part

In his life's anguish-as its joys to share
Her sweet reward-his latest whisper'd breath,
"This is-oh, loved and true-fidelity to death!"
CAROLINE A. WHITE.

He leaves his home at the early dawn,
With a step of stealthy lightness;
The sunbeams smile upon tower and lawn,
And the lake reflects their brightness:
In the field the cheerful milkmaid sings

While the lowing kine surround her,
And my first spreads forth her sheltering wings,
And gathers her young around her.

O'er the wanderer's road the wild-rose bends,
But his path seems sad and dreary-
He is shunned and scorned by his former friends,
And his soul of life is weary;

He strayed in youth from the path of right,
By the hand of Pleasure beckoned-
Then sin assailed him with withering blight,
And she proved to him my second.

He gathers my whole-he grasps it fast;
Oh! fearful infatuation!

Support him Heaven-give him strength to cast
On the earth the vile temptation!
Its power may his future welfare mar,
It may bid dark fetters bind him-
And hurl him to woes more bitter far

Than the worst he leaves behind him!

GÖTHE.

It was in Nantes. At the window of a small white house that mirrored itself in the bright waters of the Loire, sat a young maiden writing. It was yet early in the morning; the streets were silent and empty, but such was the excitement of the young scribe that the loudest uproar would scarcely have attracted her attention. Lost in the ecstatic mists of her inspiration, her very soul seemed pouring itself out in the rapid motions of her pen. The bloom of youth was on that fair face, contrasting strangely its freshness with the wrapt enthusiasm painted on each feature; rich dark tresses, too luxuriant to bear the restraint of the comb, flowed around her countenance, and half veiled her ivory shoulders and bosom; her lips were bright as the pomegranate blossom, and, as a smile parted them, two rows of small pearl-like teeth were disclosed. The maiden's dress was very simple, and the furniture of the room in which she sat, although scrupulously neat and clean, bespoke almost poverty; but there were flowers in the windows, and a canary-bird springing from perch to perch in his little cage, so that perfume and song, nature's choicest luxuries, were not wanting in that small mean abode.

Eliza wrote on; pausing, however, occasionally, and leaning back in her chair with halfclosed eyes, as if to shut out the external world and confine her gaze to the bright realms of imagination; then her countenance would light up, her bosom heave, her lips part with an almost triumphant smile, and her pen again fly over the paper as if impatient to outstrip the rapid thoughts. The door was gently opened, and a neatly dressed, middle-aged woman entered. Eliza heard her not until that well known voice called her by name; then she looked quickly up, and the inspired Muse became in an instant a gentle, affectionate, obedient child. She coloured like a child caught doing something wrong, and hastily endeavoured to conceal the still wet paper.

"What is it thou art writing, Eliza ?" said Madame Mercœur gently, yet gravely. The young maiden replied only by a look of deprecating entreaty.

"Hast thou forgotten how often I have entreated thee to give up this occupation, which is so utterly profitless? Whither can poetry lead

you?"

"Whither?" replied Eliza, her girlish features beaming. "Perchance to fame, chere mamma!”

"Fame was never intended for us women!" said Madame Mercœur, while in secret her mother's heart beat high with pride.

"And why not, mamma? We are often destined to fame."

"And dost thou think that thou art, Eliza? Fie! I had not believed thee so vain."

"Nor am I indeed! But can I help it if thousands of thoughts, scenes, and pictures will crowd my spirit, until I feel as if I could scarcely breathe if I might not pour them out in poetry. Oh, if thou couldst only know how elevated, how happy I feel while writing, thou wouldst not grudge me those joyous moments. Thou askest whither poetry will lead me; to happiness, perhaps to fame; if the latter is bestowed on me I will receive it modestly, kneeling as a king to receive his crown: should it never be my portion, I shall not miss it; therefore be not anxious about me, but let me go on. Thou knowest, mamma dear, that I never allow fancy and poetry to make me forget the duties of reality. However full my head may be with beautiful visions, they never make me forget to explain a dry rule in grammar, lecture on Greek or Roman history; detect a false note or an erroneous calculation. And surely when I have been fagging all day with my pupils, trying to drive learning into their little heads, thou wilt not refuse me permission in my short leisure to amuse myself my own way?"

My dear child!" exclaimed her mother. "My good and dutiful Eliza, who although so young art my support, my comfort, my blessing. Were it not for thine industry what would become of me? I am a sad burden to thee, my poor Eliza !”

Say rather my happy Eliza," replied the maiden, throwing her arms affectionately around her mother. "Dost thou think that it is not as delightful to work for thee as to "

"As to write poetry, thou wouldst say. Listen, Eliza, and I will tell thee whence arise my fears. At thine age all over-tasking, either of mind or body, is to be avoided; for it is only too likely to impair the health, perhaps throughout life. Thou hast, in thy daily routine of duty, already sufficient to task thy strength to the utmost: