showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up; and though sullen clouds still hung over head, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and early friends,-on those who were distant and those who were dead, and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it something sweeter than even pleasure. Every now and then the stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower fell on my ear: its tones were in unison with the scene, and instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings, and it was some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb.

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green: it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and re-appeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers,-a token that the deceased was a young and unmarried female.

The corpse was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in the centre aisle; and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied.

The village was one of those sequestered spots which still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These indeed had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the maypole stood from year to year in the centre of the village green. On May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers, and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fêtes would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded the village pageant, but above all with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favourite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance: he gradually won his way into her intimacy, and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are apt to trifle with rustic simplicity.

There was nothing in his advance to startle or alarm. He never even talked of love; but there are modes of making it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action,-these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never described. Can we wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the fune- unconsciously: she scarcely inquired what was the growral service; for who is so fortunate as never to have ing passion that was absorbing every thought and feelfollowed some one he has loved to the tomb? but when ing, or what were to be its consequences. She indeed performed over the remains of innocence and beauty, looked not to the future. When present, his looks and thus laid low in the bloom of existence, what can be words occupied her whole attention; when absent, she more affecting? At that simple but most solemn con- thought but of what had passed at their recent interview. signment of the body to the grave, "Earth to earth-She would wander with him through the green lanes and ashes to ashes-dust to dust!" the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the field, cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness: she was like Rachael, "mourning over her children, and would not be comforted."

rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature. He talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry.

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendour of his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye; but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and village; her father had once been an opulent farmer, poetical, and now first awakened to a keen perception of but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinction of child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity rank and fortune, she thought nothing, it was the differof rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pas-ence of intellect, of demeanour, of manners, from those tor, the favourite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her education with paternal care: it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields.

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and willing kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her,

"This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

Ran on the green sward; nothing she does or seems
Bat smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place."

of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight; and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm; or if ever she ventured a sly glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness.

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connexion with levity; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervour. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life; it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the nature of his situation, he became really in love.

What was he to do? there were the old obstacles which

so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His |
rank in life-the prejudices of titled connections-his de-
pendance on a proud and unyielding father-all forbade
him to think of matrimony; but when he looked down
upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding, there
was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her life,
and a beseeching modesty in her looks, that awed down
every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify
himself by a thousand heartless examples of men of
fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment,
with that cold derisive levity with which he had heard
them talk of female virtue; whenever he came into her
presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious, but
impassive charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed
sphere no guilty thought can live. The sudden arrival
of orders for the regiment to repair to the continent coin-
pleted the confusion of his mind. He remained a short
time in a state of the most painful irresolution; he
hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for
marching was at hand; when he gave her the intelli-
gence in the course of an evening ramble.

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek; nor did he meet with a repulse; for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness which hallow the caresses of affection. He was natually impetuous; and the sight of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms; the confidence of his power over her; and the dread of losing her for ever: all conspired to overwhelm his better feelingshe ventured to propose that she should leave her home, and be the companion of his fortunes.

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed, and faltered at his own baseness; but so innocent of mind was his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning; and why should she leave her native village, and the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep she did not break forth into reproach-she said not a word -but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his very soul; and clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father s cottage.

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated and repentant. It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasure, and new companions soon dissipated his self-reproach and stifled his tenderness; yet, amid the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and simplicity-the white cottage the footpath along the silver brook, and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection.

The shock which the poor girl had received in the destruction of all her ideal world had indeed been cruel. Fainting and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the march of departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover born off as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about his figure, and his plume waved in the breeze; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and left her all

in darkness.

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. It was like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the striken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late in the evening sitting in the porch of the village church; and the milkmaids

returning from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at church; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for her, as for something spiritual, and looking after her would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding.

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord which had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she penned him a farewel letter. It was couched in the simplest language; but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his conduct had been the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which she had experienced; but concluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and blessing.

By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly bloom, which sometimes flushed her cheek, might be the promise of returning health.

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in, brought with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own hands had trained round the window.

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of the joys of heaven; it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church; the bell had tolled for the evening service; the last villager was lagging into the porch, and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness, peculiar to the day of rest.

Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had given to her's the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye.-Was she thinking of her faithless lover?-or were her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered?

Suddenly the clang of troops were heard-a horseman galloped to the cottage-he dismounted before the window-the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair. It was her repentant lover! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form-her death-like countenance-so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation,-smote him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony to her feet. She was too faint to rise-she attempted to extend her trembling hand-her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articulate; she looked down upon him with a smile of unutterable tenderness,—and closed her eyes for ever!

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the time; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a ore striking nature. I have passed through the place since and visited the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening;

the trees were stripped of their foliage; the churchyard | looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about the grave of the village favourite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured.

The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves as on the day of the funeral; the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil | their whiteness. I have seen many monuments where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the spectator; but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but delicate monument of departed innocence.

THE FAREWEL.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

moment through her devoted heart, and a sigh was the only answer. "Tis his well-known knock, and the steps of the drowsy porter echoed through the lofty hall, as, with a murmur on his lip, he undrew the massy bolts, and admitted his thoughtless master. "Four o'clock, Willis, is it not?" and he sprang up the staircaseanother moment he is in her chamber, in her arms!

No reproaches met the truant husband; none, save those she could not spare him in her heavy eye and faded cheek-yet these spoke to his heart. Julia, I have been a wandering husband."-- But you are come now, Charles, and all is well.' And all was well; for, from that hour, Charles Danvers became an altered man. Had his wife met him with frowns and sullen tears, he had become a hardened libertine; but her affectionate caresses, the joy that danced in her sunken eye, the hectic flush that lit up her pallid cheek at his approach, were arguments he could not withstand. Married in early life, while he felt all the ardour, but not the esteem of love-possessed of a splendid fortune, and having hitherto had the entire command of his own pleasuresDanvers fell into that common error, of newly married men, the dread of being controuled. In vain did his parents, who beheld with sorrow the reproaches and misery he was heaping up for himself in after life, remonstrate. Charles Danvers turned a deaf ear to advice, and pursued, with companions every way unworthy of his society, the path of folly, if not absolute guilt. The tavern, the club-room, the race-course, too often left his wife a solitary mourner, or a midnight watcher. Thus the first three years of their wedded life had passed, to him in fevered and restless pleasure, to her in blighted hope or unmurmuring regret. But this night crowned the patient forbearance of the neglected Julia with its Should, more than all, love me! | just reward, and gave the death blow to folly in the bo

Thou'lt not remember me when we are parted,
Through every moment of the sunny day;
Thou art too young, too careless, too light-hearted,
To let sad thoughts within thy bosom stray.
Thou'rt like a fountain which for ever strayeth
In sparkling changes 'neath the greenwood tree;
Within thy heart eternal music playeth,
And while no bitter thought thy spirit weigheth,
Thou'lt not remember me!

But thou wilt think of me at times, my dearest,
With yearning hope and wild impassioned love;
When in the star-lit heaven the moon shines clearest,
And angels watch thy musings from above:
And patiently my heart its exile beareth;
And all the prouder shall my triumph be,
That thou, whose eager soul each pleasure weareth,
Who lovest all so well thy spirit shareth,-

Thou'lt not remember me when, gaily dancing,
Those fairy steps fly thro' the lighted hall;
Nor when a thousand merry eyes are glancing,
Bright with the laughter of their festival.
But when the sweet and silent evening bringeth
A holy quiet over land and lea,

When the young violet in the darkness springeth,
And the lone night bird in the dim wood singeth,
Then, thou wilt think of me!
Thou'lt not remember me when, crowding round thee,
The coxcomb flatterers bid thee touch thy lute,
And those red restless lips whose promise bound thee,
With mocking smile command them to be mute;
But when some lover (while the cold moon winketh)
Whispers his vows, unwelcome though they be;
When through his eyes his soul thy beauty drinketh,
And from his burning hand thine own hand shrinketh,
Then, thou wilt think of me!

And not for all the palest shadows stealing
O'er maiden's brow whom love hath taught to pine,
Would I give up the sudden gush of feeling
That swells to tears that merry heart of thine!
Bright proofs that still thy memory is keeping,
(Careless and glad although thy manner be),

The imaged form of one who watched thy sleeping-
Smile when thou smiledst-wept when thou wert weeping,
And ever sighs for thee!

THE TRUANT HUSBAND.

A SKETCH FROM LA NINON.

It was past midnight, and she sat leaning her pale cheek on her hand, counting the dull ticking of the French clock that stood on the marble chimney piece, and ever and anon lifting her weary eye to its dial to mark the lapse of another hour. It was past midnight, and yet he returned not. She arose, and taking up the lamp, whose pale rays alone illumined the solitary chamber, proceeded with noiseless step to a small inner apartment; the curtains of his little bed were drawn aside, and the young mother gazed on her sleeping child! What a livid contrast did that glowing cheek and smiling brow present, as he lay in rosy slumber, to the faded, yet beautiful face that hung over him in tears! "Will he resemble his father?" was the thought that passed for a

som of Danvers. Returning with disgust from the losses of the hazard table, her meekness and long suffering touched him to the soul; the film fell from his eyes, and vice, in her own hideous deformity, stood unmasked before him. *****

Ten years have passed since that solitary midnight, when the young matron bent in tears over her lovely sleeping boy. Behold her now! still in the pride of womanhood, surrounded by other cherub faces, who are listening ere they go to rest to her sweet voice, as it pours forth, to the accompaniment of her harp, an evening song of joy and melody; while a manly form is bending over the music page to hide the tear of happiness and triumph that springs from a swelling bosom, as he contemplates the interesting group.

Youthful matrons! ye who watch over a wandering, perhaps an erring heart, when a reproach trembles on your lips towards a truant husband, imitate Julia Danvers; and remember, though Hymen has chains like the sword of Armodius, they may be covered with flowers that unkindness and irritability do but harden, if not wholly estrange the heart, while on the contrary, patience and gentleness of manner (as water dropping on fail to reclaim to happiness and virtue "The Truant the flinty rock will in time wear it into softness) seldom Husband."

LITERATURE.

FORGET ME Nor; a Christmas, New Year's, and Birthday Present for 1833. London: R. Ackerman.

This charming Annual may be considered as a gem of the first water, procured from the inexhaustible mine of Literature and Art, whether we consider the excellence of its embellishments, the variety of its interesting and instructive reading, or the richness of its covering. It contains clever splendid plates, in which the skill of the engraver is particularly conspicuous, in each variety of style. For admirable sketches of character we may notice "Count Egmont's Jewels," "Uncle Anthony's Blunder," and the "China Mender." For the more sweet and striking delineations of female grace and loveliness, we may refer to the beautiful representation of

in a spirit of refinement not common to modern English songs. We were much struck by the grace and beauty of My Light Canoe, an exquisite ballad in E; and the arch playfulness of the song called A Sprightly Youth and Maiden heard of Thee!) we hesitate not to say will become popular. Gay is equally winning. Another of the airs (Oft have I The volume, indeed, altogether, is calculated to give its author no mean place among the vocal composers of the day. We shall be glad to see more of the works of Mr. Philpot.

sors.

The MUSICAL GEM for 1833. London: Mori & Lavenu. The present volume is fully equal to any of its predecesThe music is well selected, comprising compositions by Beethoven, Hummel. Moscheles, Czerny, Herz, Mendelsohn, Auber, Lee, Horn, Neukomm, Vaccaj, Mad. Cinti Damoreau, Mad. Malibran, &c. The vocal pieces, with which we have been pleased, are The Confiding Heart, by Mendelsohn, and The Forget-Me-Not, by Schubert. The embellishments consist of well-executed lithographic portraits (with memoirs) of Mad. Schroeder Devrient, Mad. Cinti Damoreau, Mad. Stockhausen, and Henri Herz. The volume is altogether very handsomely got up, and will be a most acceptable present to any young musical friend.

Written by Charles Jeffreys, Music by N. J. Sporle; published at
E. Dale and Co.'s Music Warehouse, London.

Do you ever think of me, love,
Do you ever think of me,
When I'm far away from thee, love,
With my barque upon the sea?
My thoughts are ever turning

To thee, where'er I roam,
And my heart is ever yearning
For the quiet scenes of home!
Then tell me, do you ever,

When my barque is on the sea,
Give a thought to him, who never
Can cease to think of thee?
When I'm toss'd upon the billow,
Do you think I once forget
The streamlet and the willow

Beneath whose shade we met.
No! I fancy thou art near me,
And I often breathe a sigh,
When the waves alone can hear me,
And the winds alone reply!
Then tell me, do you ever,

When my barque is on the sea,
Give a thought of him, who never
Can cease to think of thee?

A farce, called The Clutterbucks, or the Rail-Road of Love, was played here for the first time on Wednesday night. Like the Liverpool Rail-Road, a view of which its first scene presented, it was hard, rattling, noisy, and long; but like it again, it was exciting, rapid, busy, and smooth. It was the first rail-road we ever saw without sleepers; the awake to their merits. There is no occasion to occupy space and time with the details of a plot which is as like the plots of fifty other farces as one part of Chat-Moss is to the other. The acting on all hands was good; but that of Mr. JONES and Mr. and Mrs. KEELEY was such as to raise the value of the shares in this rail-road at least. 75 per cent. Upon the whole, we recommend theatrical travellers to take one journey upon it, and try a sample.

actors were awake to their business, and the audience was

Mr. Sheridan Knowles's Masque in honour of Sir Walter Scott followed, and was, as usual, loudly and deservedly applauded. It is in truth a charming and a touching production.

K or Cure, a one-act farce, by Mr. Charles Dance, in which Mr. LISTON, Mrs. ORGER, and Mr. WEBSTER have the principal characters, was produced, and proved highly successful, here on Monday night.

THEATRICAL ILLUMINATION.-It was observed that a certain Theatre, though well attended, was very ill lighted in fact, that there were scarcely any lights at all. "I beg pardon, "replied a bye-stander," I have seen a rush at the entrance every evening."

PAINTING versus ACTING.-To an attractive young actor, who used to lose his time in attempting to execute landscape in the scene-room, his manager observed, "it was silly in the extreme for a man to paint trees, when he could draw houses,"