that day was destined, in some way or other, to be fatal to me.

A few days after this I was engaged to dine at a gentleman's house a few miles distant from town. Arriving there too soon, I resolved to while away the time, by rambling among the adjacent pleasure-grounds. It was a bright and beautiful day in June; the lilacs which embowered the walks had put forth their gayest blossoms,-the golden flowers of the laburnum were drooping in rich clusters from their green branches, -and the perfume of a thousand flowers was wafted gently on by the sleepy breeze. As I sauntered along, sadly musing on the past, I beheld Ellen walking quietly a little way before me. We came upon each other so abruptly, that it was impossible to avoid each other.

Poor Ellen! how dejected did she look, and how sadly was she altered from what she was, when, like a bright vision, she first crossed my path in her mother's house! then she was all life and smiles, and as lovely as a seraph; now, her eyes were dim, but their sweet expression still remained, and the delicate colour which used to flit about her cheeks had given place to a care-looking and melancholy paleness. In a word, she exhibited the appearance of one on whom Consumption had fixed his withering and remorseless hands.

When she perceived me, her cheeks for a moment were faintly flushed, and she hurriedly turned aside her head; recovering herself, however, she accosted me with the air of one who was too proud to shew that she had ever been offended. But though there was no pique exhibited in her behaviour, I could see that insulted love, and womanly pride, and tenderness of heart, were all struggling for -the mastery in her agitated bosom. For a time, embarrassed by our feelings and situation, we walked to gether in silence, or, what conversation we did attempt only shewed how incapable we were of supporting it. I felt my bosom warming to the poor girl. I could have wept to see how sadly misery had altered her whom I once loved, and I was filled with remorse, when I thought that that misery had been caused by me. After a struggle, I could assume in

difference no longer, and, turning to her, I said, with an agonized heart, "Ellen, you have been very ill; you are so pale, so sadly changed, since-" I could not finish the sentence I had so inadvertently begun. "Since what?" said she, turning steadily round, with a reproachful yet sorrowful look, "since what, Gerald ?" "Since I was a villain, Ellen, a base, dishonoured wretch, detested by myself as I am by thee." She said nothing, but a tear which filled her eye was a more affecting commentary than the most eloquent words. "But you are revenged, Ellen. Oh! I carry in my breast a fiend which goads me to madness. Ellen, Ellen, the curse of a broken vow is upon me, and here or hereafter I can never again expect to be at rest!"

As I spoke thus, Ellen turned even more pale than before, and looking timidly at me, she said, "Gerald, if my forgiveness can make you happy, take it, you have long had it. Though my hopes, (and here her words faltered,) though my hopes have been withered, yet I could never feel resentment against one whom I confess I once loved. 'Tis no matter what now becomes of me, but if, hereafter, you should ever think of Ellen, think kindly." As she spoke these last words, the tears began to flow down her pale cheeks. Feeble, and exhausted by her agitation, she in vain tried to support the firmness she had at first assumed. She sobbed, and sobbed with such bitter grief, that I thought her little heart would have burst; mine, too, was near the breaking. I forgot Florence; I forgot the whole world except Ellen, and my first love rushed upon me with overpowering violence. I renewed my vows to her; I told her, that, looking on the past as a troubled dream, we would yet be happy; and I painted the future happiness we might enjoy in the most impassioned and glowing language. As I spoke, her eye brightened, and her whole face was overspread with a blush. "Answer me one question," and she seemed almost breathless,- answer me one question: Are you not engaged to another?" She looked at me as if her life depended on my words. I could not speak, but she read my answer in my face, and

slowly and mournfully withdrew her gaze. The hope which had lighted up her eyes was extinguished; the revulsion of her feelings was too strong for her weak frame, and, clasping her hands across her bosom, she fell senseless at my feet. For a moment I felt stupified, but, instantly recovering, I flew to her, and raised her in my arms;-I kissed her blanched lips, I pressed her to my heart, and gladly would I have purchased her life at the ransom of my own. At that moment I saw Florence standing beside ;-how she happened to be there I know not,but there she stood, and my distress was complete. I said nothing, but, laying Ellen gently down, I went off to procure assistance.

When I returned, neither Florence nor Ellen was to be seen. Ellen must have recovered so as to leave the place with her friend. As for me, I was weighed down by that fatality which seemed to hang about me; I could stay no longer; so, calling my horse, I instantly galloped home.

I must now be brief in what remains of my story. The passion I had shewn for Ellen was but the outrageous violence of pity. It passed away with the occasion which had excited my feelings, and my love for Florence revived with all its former strength. But, alas! the presentiments of misery which had long hung over my mind were now to be realised, and Ellen was indeed avenged for my weakness and perfidy. She had told Florence the story of her woes, and that high-minded girl, disdaining a connection with one who had so injured her friend, tore me from her heart, for I believe she did love me, and cast me off for ever. I submitted in silence; it was vain to strive against fate, and, with a sorrowful heart, I bade her an eternal farewell.

Her brother, however, was not so easily to be satisfied. He saw my engagement to his sister broken off without any apparent reason, (Florence, through pity to me, had concealed the cause of our separation,) and he naturally concluded-for man is generally the aggressor-that I had been trifling with the affections of his sister, and the honour of his

family. I might easily have avoided a duel, but I cared not for life; I was tired of this world, and I believed I could not be more miserable in a future. The moment we were to fire I threw my pistol from me, and I remember nothing farther till I found myself lying in a bed in this little cottage from which I write. I had been wounded, but I believe not desperately; severely enough, however, to prevent me being conveyed to my own home.

Here, then, on a lonesome sickbed, have I had time to meditate on my past life. My chamber is as gloomy as my thoughts; for the jes samine and honeysuckle, falling in clusters over the window, darken even the small light which they admit, and beyond that I can see nothing but the waving branches of a dark forest. But this gloom is in unison with my own melancholy prospects; I am lying wounded in a lonely cottage. Ellen, I cannot bear to think of her,-Florence hath forsaken me, -no one cares whether I live or die. I am an isolated being, and I sometimes wish that my antagonist had taken a surer aim. But reflection and religion have come to my aid, and to them do I owe the comparative tranquillity which, like a soft garment, wraps round my long harrassed soul. Ô, religion! thou friend of the mourner! In the hour of prosperity we may reject thy gentle advances, but when the storm beats round us, and human assistance is vain, then does the soul turn trembling to thee as its only solace, then does it look to Heaven as its only friend. I now see my errors, and mourn for them; I pity poor Ellen, for I once loved her, and the vow which I broke must ever stand in sorrowful reproach before me; I still love Florence, and I feel, that, rejected by her, I can never again love another. When I recover from my wound, I shall leave my native land for some far distant clime; and a life of toil in the service of my country shall make some small atonement for the misery which the errors of my youth have occasioned. Forgotten by all I loved, my last prayer shall be for Ellen,-my last thought shall be of Florence. I shall give this little MS. to my kind old

When I received the foregoing MS. from my dear nephew, I had no intention of adding to it a single line; but events have since happened, which I think it my duty to record, as forming a kind of sequel to his history.

After unburthening his mind by what he had written, he seemed rather exhausted, but his spirits were better than they had been for some days. Still there was a melancholy quietness about him, an apathy to what was passing, which formed a strong contrast to his former impetuosity and warmth of feeling. The place in which he was was by no means calculated to raise his spirits. It was a small thatched cottage, which skirted a deep wood; nothing was to be seen but the dark waving branches, nothing was to be heard but the wind moaning among the trees-I dare say, however, this gloom pleased poor Gerald.

The next day was the brightest and loveliest I had seen for a long time, and even the cottage seemed to participate in the liveliness of the weather. The sun shot its glittering rays through the veil of jessamine which half-closed the little window, the swallows were seen darting to and fro about their mud dwellings, a solitary chirp was sometimes heard from the drowsy birds as they sat half-sleeping among the branches; but all this could not enliven poor Gerald. His spirits were not gloomy, but he was very gentle and quiet, and seemed oppressed by some internal foreboding of woe.

As we sat alone, a gentle tap was heard at the door, which was instantly followed by the silvery tones of a female asking for admittance. Gerald started up when he heard the soft voice, and in an agitated manner I heard him exclaim, "Florence !" When I opened the door, a young lady entered, dressed in deep mourning. She was, I think, the most beautiful girl I ever beheld, and there was an expression of pensiveness in her face, which heightened the interest her dark eyes immediately inspired. She bowed to me as she entered, and then cast her eyes ea

poor Gerald!" she said, as she saw the pale countenance of him she had loved. "Poor, poor Gerald! is it thus I see you?" As she spoke, the tears burst from her black eyes, and she flung herself on his bosom, and imprinted a kiss on his white brow; at that moment I was called out of the room. When I returned, Gerald was sitting with his arm round Florence's slender waist; affection was beaming in both their eyes; pale as he was, I never saw him looking more handsome than in that bright but fleeting moment; and Florence seemed so happy in her love, that, old as I was, I almost envied the warmhearted girl. Poor things! alas! alas! it was perhaps the last moment of happiness they were to enjoy; like the sun, which, long struggling through stormy clouds, shines brightly for an instant in the glowing west, and then sinks for the night into the dark depths of the ocean.

As I drew near them, I heard Florence reminding Gerald that this very day was to have been their marriage-day. For a time he was silent, and then he slowly said, as if to himself, "Poor Ellen, and this day too I was to have been wedded to thee." A deep cloud instantly passed over Florence's countenance, and her cheerfulness vanished !— "Poor Ellen!" she mournfully said,

poor Ellen! Do you hear that dull bell, Gerald, which so heavily sounds through the trees? that bell tolls for poor Ellen's funeral: at this very moment they will be bearing her coffin to the grave." The murder was out; the unguarded sorrow of Florence had revealed the sad tidings of Ellen's death, which, fearful of the consequences, I had anxiously concealed from Gerald. I was greatly relieved, however, for at first he did not seem to betray much emotion, but gradually his eyes became fixed, and a blueness overspread his temples. "Is Ellen indeed dead?" said he, in a hollow voice; then the dark whispers of fate, which have long sounded in my ears, are indeed come to pass; one more scene, and the play is at an end." He paused, and we stood beside him for some minutes in silence. All at once the

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bell ceased tolling; Gerald started up, and looking wildly around, he exclaimed-" Haste, haste, the bell has rung out the bride is waiting in the damp church-yard, and you would not keep the bridegroom here. Come near me, come near me, sweet bird, and say Good-bye; for the road is very cold, and no one must go with me." As he thus raved, poor Florence looked at him with a sorrowful look and tearful eye, "Gerald," she tenderly said, "Gerald."

Protected by a thorn's embrace,

A rose, in early bloom array'd,
Unfolded safe her virgin grace.

So close the thorn, its shelter drew
The tender flower's fine hues around,
That scarce that leafy cover through
Day's faintest beam an entrance found.

And only when the verdant screen

Might chance a narrow chink to yield, The rose's crimson breast was seen

Fairer that thorns her beauty shield.

Thus hid within her dark retreat,

The changeful hours no danger bring; And low'ring sky, or scorching heat,

Hurt not the lovely child of spring.

But now with perfect beauty came
The wish in broad free light to shine,
The praises of her peers to claim,

And in their sunny pleasures join.

And reckless of ensuing woes,

For safety paying, too, with scorn, In plainful words, the simple rose

Began to blame her guardian thorn. "Cruel! that thus my days of bloom,

In horrid prison spent, should pine Inglorious lost my sweet perfume

No joy for the bright season mine." "Peace!"- -so the rugged thorn replied, With kind intent, though stern in tone; "To thee all safety were denied,

If these my prickly arms were gone;

"For, if the sultry noontide ray

Harmless to thee its fury pours; Or if the hail-storm's with'ring sway Pow'rless to wound thy leaflets roars;

"Who o'er thee spreads the mantling shade,

Serving, at once, to save from blight,

And nibbling flock's keen appetite?

"Learn, fool, to prize thy friendly bower, Nor wish its spines and gloom away; Heedful of peril's certain hour, If left expos'd in open day." Still wrathful thoughts her breast annoy, Though the young rose to silence shrunk :

"Oh might some whirlwind's rage destroy,

Or lightning rend that envious trunk!" Not wholly vain th' ungrateful pray'r; For now the flow'ry lawn to clear Of cumb'ring wood, the hinds prepare, And lo! with eager steel appear. And griev'd th' impatient rose to see

Her faithful guardian thorn o'erthrown? Or smil'd she when the sunbeam free And full upon her bosom shone? High o'er encircling rivals now, In conscious joy of liberty; Bidding each lowlier flow'ret bow, She lifts her head in vanity. And her the amorous zephyrs greet,

Her praise each feather'd chorist sings; While morn, her partial smile to meet, O'er her bright leaves his dew-drops

flings.

But like the transient meteor gleam,

That breaks athwart the wintry sky, Does Pleasure's short uncertain beam, Ev'n ere we note its radiance, die.

A hungry grub afar had seen

The imprudent rose so fresh and gay; And soon her stem's inviting green, And greener leaves become its prey. And speedily a snail's vile length

Presumes her lofty front to climb, Wasting with greedy teeth her strength, And tracing all its path in slime.