and like every other false thing, they punished | might not interfere with your happiness! I now their possessor. I must bear the punishment, feel poor, in that I can do nothing for you." because I doubt not my former folly deserved it. "You can do much for me!" returned Ada. For you a better lot is in store, because you have" A time will come when I, perhaps, may not be deserved it. Do not interrupt me, Agnes," said so strong as I now am; a time when I may say, she, seeing her cousin about to speak. I am in even as Christ did, Let this cup pass from me! no humor, I assure you, for bandying about com- then, be you the angel that will stand by me and pliments; and I say nothing but the barest truth strengthen me!" to-night. Let me speak, and do not interrupt me, for I have as much upon my heart as it will bear! "I have for some time suspected," continued she, "that I had no longer any hold upon Mr. | Latimer's heart; but that which we hold dear as life, we part with reluctantly. To-day has set the question at rest. Mr. Latimer has declared his love to you; do not deny it!"

"I do not deny it!" said Agnes.

"And you love him; neither can you deny that!"

Agnes folded her cousin in her arms, and wept on her bosom.

Ada,

"I have formed plans, as I told you,” continued "which will require strength to carry out. I shall go to India to my brother; he loves me tenderly; we shall be dear to each other as husband and wife. The preparations for this long journey, a journey which has many attractions for me, and which, under happier circumstances, would be very seductive to my imagination, will be very useful to me--will take me out of myself

Both remained silent; anguish oppressed the-will, in fact, be my salvation. I shall now, hearts of both; but for the one there was hope, for the other none; and yet, at that moment, it would have been hard to say which suffered the most. "I could almost wish," said Agnes, at length, "that I had never come to Lawford; I have been like a dark cloud between you and your happiness. I feel as if it were almost an insult to say even that I love you, and yet I would give up all for you!"

"You must love me still," said Ada; " deprived of your affection I should be very forlorn. You must love me still! you must not desert me, for my heart has suffered shipwreck! But I am not going to make a spectacle of myself,” said she, speaking in her natural tone; "I want no one's pity. You have proved to me how well you deserve my confidence, and therefore I place still more, still greater confidence in you. Do not regret that you came amongst us. I have found in you the realization of that high principle, and that single-hearted goodness which your father's works teach, and I have learned more from you even than from them."

These words seemed to humble Agnes; she felt as if she must sink down at Ada's feet; but, feeling that words and actions at that time expressed so little, she answered her only by silence, which is often so expressive.

"I have gone through a great deal," continued Ada, 66 as you may believe; a great deal in a very short time. This day-what has it not revealed to me, what has it not taught me! And Agnes, in the same way as my heart feels warmly, my mind decides rapidly. My plans are all formed; the line of conduct which I must pursue is already marked out, and I have already entered upon it. Late as it was, I had just returned from an interview with my father when I came to you."

"With your father," repeated Agnes, both

amazed and alarmed.

"I told him," continued Ada, "what I had discovered of Mr. Latimer's sentiments towards you; and I have won from him his entire approbation." The generosity of this conduct, knowing what self-sacrifice it involved, overpowered Agnes. She covered her face with her hands, and wept; inwardly beseeching God to bless, and strengthen, and comfort one who had acted so unselfishly, so nobly. "Ah, Ada!" said Agnes, "how much more noble, how much more admirable are you than I! and yet, I will not deny it," said she, "I, too, was capable of making a sacrifice for you. Let me confess also, I wished to leave Lawford that I

from this time, look to India as to my home, and centre the true love of my heart upon my brother. I will have no one's pity, Agnes-the world is to know nothing but that it is my pleasure or my whim to go abroad. I will see you married before I leave, and I myself will be your bridesmaid. And now, one thing more, and I have doneKeep in the innermost recesses of your heart the knowledge of that which I did for Mr. Latimer's sake. It is enough that the benefit of that discipline of mind, the blessing of your father's teaching, through his works, will be my reward, and will support me, by the blessing of God, through every trial and every sorrow! And now, goodnight!"

"I shall not leave you," said Agnes, "until I have seen your head upon your pillow.

Ada consented. Agnes smoothed for her the pillow, and laid her throbbing temples upon it; and then, drawing the curtains, sat down beside her till she slept.

It was a feverish and disturbed sleep, and was the precursor of a long and sad sickness. We, however, will not dwell upon it. The most untiring love and devotion watched by her and tended her; and youth, and youth's strength, bore her through it.

Three months afterwards, in the month of September, she sat for the first time, once more in the little library at tea with her father. Poor old gentleman! how glad he was to see her again beside him! Neither he nor the world knew exactly what was the cause of her great illness. Many people supposed that she had taken cold at the flower-show. Mrs. Colville strenuously supported this idea: Ada, she said, was delicate; the ground was damp after the great rains that there had been. and that dear Ada's illness was no more than she expected. Some people have such certain foreknowledge of everything!

It was not known, beyond the immediate members of the Lawford and Latimer families, for some months, that Mr. Latimer was the betrothed lover of the niece instead of the daughter of the old squire. People were very much astonished when this knowledge first began to circulate among them; but it was singular how very soon everybody was satisfied that it was quite in the proper order of things; and this was only the more strengthened, because the whole family, and even Ada herself, seemed well pleased. But greater still was their astonishment, when the news went abroad that Ada was going out to India, although

not until after the two marriages, that of her brother | think Mr. Latimer at all improved by his two Tom and of her cousin Agnes, were celebrated.

years' absence from England: he has been in the West Indies among the slaves, and in America among the democrats, and he has brought home some extraordinary notions; and he is, with all his great abilities, a dogged, determined man, whom

And what said Mrs. Colville and her coadjutor, Mrs. Sam, all this time? They said enough for everybody else, had they all been silent; but then they had sense enough to express very little dissat-there is no turning. I have very much altered my isfaction to the world, seeing that they whom it most concerned had settled all so resolutely before they were consulted.

opinion about Mr. Latimer! However, that is neither here nor there; and I am told that new furniture is ordered for the drawing room. He has had a London upholsterer and decorator down, and is laying out a deal of money; and yet he gets not a penny with his wife! Poor Ada's picture, that she leaves Agnes as her parting present, is to hang there: they have all been and chosen the place. It seemed to me-God knows why!—as if they were going to choose the place where she was to be buried! A beautiful picture she makes! We have had Pickersgill down for a whole month : he paints one for her father, too, and I must have

"When my sweet Ada is gone," Mrs. Colville, however, said to her acquaintance, "and my nephew has brought home his new wife, I shall leave the hall. I do not know what will become of my poor brother when I am gone," said she; "but, new men, new measures; and my brother is not what he used to be. Poor man! he has taken strange crotchets into his head. He talks of sending for that preaching fellow, Jeffkins, to the hall-I hope by the by, that he is no relation to that creature who lived with Mrs. Sam!-and a handsome miniature. A beautiful creature she he has actually had that child there that Mrs. Marchmont took out of the workhouse, and has been sending Mrs. Marchmont jellies and such things! Poor man! his mind is certainly sadly impaired; it is my opinion that he hardly knows what he does; however, I leave all that-for there will be a change, I know, when the new mistress comes !

is-only a little paler than she was; and so cheerful-it's quite wonderful! But she's a real angel; and it's a pity that she must leave old England!

"And then I hear, too, that Mr. Frank Lawford's widow is to come out of Scotland to see her daughter married. Bless me! who would have thought of Frank's daughter being Mrs. Latimer of the Hays!"

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

A FOREST-HOME IN SUMMER.

My next personal recollection of James Montgomery, is connected with a visit which I paid to Olney, the sometime residence of the poet Cowper. In the summer of 1838, I was on a fly-fishing excursion in the neighborhood of that place, and hearing from the postman, who brought letters to our party, from the post-office to our country quarters, that the poet Montgomery was there, myself and a friend, who had never seen him, took a walk to Olney the next day, to call on him. We inquired for Mr. M., but no one seemed to be aware of his whereabout; and, as a last resource, we went to the post-office, where we were informed that he would most likely be found at Squire Cow-How, hour by hour, the soft round buds unclose per's school. To this place we proceeded. It was a dwelling which Cowper had once tenanted, and ever since it had been used as a village school, and called by his name. There we found Montgomery, surrounded by the children, who were singing that beautiful hymn of the bard of Olney, commencing with

WOULD I might breathe the spirit of this hour
Into a sweet, glad song! Would that my voice
Were gifted for a while with blessed power
To move all them that heard it to rejoice!
Oh! if cold words were not, alas! all vain
To picture forth a scene so gay, so fair,
How many a loving lip should bless my strain,
How many a kindling heart my rapture share!
Around me is a bower of light-green leaves,
And almond-scented blossoms, white as snow;
What wondrous fragrance the warm air receives
From those light branches, waving to and fro!

"God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform."

I had heard this beautiful hymn sung hundreds of times, but never with such effect as in that room, the very place in which, we are told, and there is every reason to suppose with truth, Cowper composed it.

Montgomery received us very kindly, and we visited together some of Cowper's favorite spots. It was highly gratifying to repair to such hallowed retreats, in the company of one who has been not unaptly called the Cowper of our time. On leaving, Montgomery kindly invited me to call on him, should I ever visit Sheffield, which I gladly promised to do.

About two years afterwards, I was in that busy mart, and, remembering the poet's invitation, I determined to avail myself of it. I had no difficulty in finding my way to The Mount, the name of his residence, and was fortunate enough to find him at home. We had a pleasant talk together, and, after dinner he accompanied me to the literary institutions of the neighborhood, and it was quite delightful to observe with what marked attention and respect he was everywhere received. I noticed this to him, and said he must feel highly gratified by it. "I am, of course," he replied, but I have enemies. Not long since, some rascals broke into my house, one Sunday, while I was delivering an address at a chapel in Sheffield, (Mr. Montgomery sometimes preaches among his own people-the Moravians,) and stole, among other things, a silver inkstand, which had been given me by the ladies of Sheffield. However," he added, “the loss was but for a time, and proved to be the occasion of the greatest compliment, which, in my opinion, I ever had paid me. A few days after my loss, a box came directed to me, and, on opening it, lo! there was, uninjured, the missing inkstand, and a note, in which the writer expressed his regret that he had entered my house and abstracted it. The thief said his mother had taught him some of my verses when he was a boy, and, on seeing my name on the inkstand, he first became aware whose house he had robbed, and was so stung with remorse, that he could not rest until he had restored my property, hoping God would forgive him."-Boston Atlas.

And shine in star-like beauty! how the bee,

Embowered in these sweets, forsakes the rose,
And here, the live-long day, hums merrily!
And those fair roses with their clustered bloom,-
The opening buds wearing their ruddy light
Of youth, that fadeth as they near their doom,
Till e'en the inmost leaf is marble-white;
The jessamine, sweet parasite! is near;
The lavender breathes out its spicy scent:
Sweetly the varied odors mingle here,
Like many sounds in richest concord blent.
Yonder the lime-tree, like a temple green,

Stands in its summer verdure; who could say
With what a glorious light the sun, at e'en,
Enwraps that tree, when every yellow ray
Has left in gloom the neighb'ring oaks?—who tell
How gracefully its branches wave, whene'er
The all-awakening wind, with deepened swell,
Calls forth the marvellous beauty sleeping there?
Far, far away, how calm and beautiful

The sunny distance seems!-a land of hope,
And promise, and delight, wherein to cull
All lovely flow'rs of thought, and give free scope
To the soul's wandering fancies; for it lies

Half-hidden, half-revealed, and I can gaze
Upon its purple tints with gladdened eyes,
Catching soft glimpses through the floating haze.
Those nearer beechen woods, the sunshine loves
To vary their glad beauty, lingering
At eventide to flood the highest groves

With ruddy splendor. Many a busy wing
Throws a light passing shadow, many a sound
Of joyful music bursts upon the breeze,
The while those deer to yonder heathy mound

Glide softly from the shadow of the trees.
Near me the dial, with a wreath of flowers

Twining about its foot, all silently
Marketh the passage of the silent hours:

Calm monitor, that 'neath this summer sky,
Amid this woodland gladness, witness bears
Of things that here we else might oft forget,-
Of time, aud change, and all the human cares
That, even here, have power to reach us yet!
I had not meant to breathe of aught but joy
In this my summer song; but now a thought.
Of care has come to dim, yet not destroy,
The bliss my soul from God's own works had
caught.

To them I turn again, and o'er my mind

Their influence steals: all shades of sadness flee,
All earthly cares their galling chains unbind,
And my glad spirit as a child's is free!

Fraser's Magazine.

LITTELL'S LIVING AGE.-No. 77.-1 NOVEMBER, 1845.

SCRAPS.-Paris Academy of Sciences, 202-Trade of England, 211–The Press at Copenhagen; Royal Visiting; Piracy, 216-Sciasconset; Copper in Australia; Disease amongst Fish, 229-Leeches, 244.

POETRY.-Edith Brathwaithe, 201-The Lost Child, 202-The Lonely Tree, 213-Pimlico Pavilion, 215.