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Meliora quitted the dinner parlour; but quickly returned, attired in her shawl and bonnet; when her stern companion seized her arm, and drawing it under his own, they walked away together, in almost unbroken silence, till they reached Chapel Street, and Mrs. Jerningham's.

In vain did Meliora request that she might be permitted to prepare her mother for the interview, by announcing the name of her visitor; he assured her, that the surprise would not be unpleasant to Mrs. Jerningham, and Meliora was reluctantly compelled to acquiesce in his intention.

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On being ushered into Mrs. Jerningham's presence, the stranger said to Meliora, in a whisper, Is that your mother?" but immediately added, "Yes, yes, I see; the eyes,- the same,—the same:" then advancing, and taking her hand with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, he cried, “It is eight-and-thirty years, my dear lady, since you took me by the hand; can you call to mind the occasion? Do you know me, Lady?”

"I have not the least recollection of your person, sir," replied Mrs. Jerningham, distantly, and withdrawing her hand.

"Look at me again," said the Incognito, his rugged features relaxing into a smile at the look of unfeigned astonishment with which Mrs. Jerningham regarded him. “What won't you know me?" continued he: "don't you remember the little ragged boy who had lost his money,-poor Godfrey Howard?

"What, the weaver's boy of Cringleford, in Norfolk?" demanded the lady. "I am he!" said Howard, erecting his figure; "Long have I prayed to

Ian.

see this day,-it is come at last, as I wished it to come. I am pleased to find you as you are,-I have been carrying a heavy weight upon my shoulders for these many years past,— perhaps I may disburden myself now. Fortune has been a fickle jade to you, I hear."

"We have experienced, indeed, a great reverse in our condition."

"So have I,-you knew me as I was,-you see me as I am; who do you think worked the change? You ! I was ignorant, you gave me learning; I was degraded, you ennobled me; I was despised, you made me respected; I was in rags, and you drest me in jewels; I was a beggar, and now I'm a banker; I had nothing, and you gave me every thing," exclaimed Howard, with vehemence, but instantly recalling his last words, he added in a choaked voice, no, not every thing; no, not every thing;" and, pressing his hands tightly on his forehead, remained silent for the space of a minute; then, recovering himself, said, in his usual voice, in reply to Mrs Jerningham's exclamation of wonder and delight,

"You may perhaps feel interested to hear my story; I'll spend the evening with you, and relate it: 'twill somewhat hurt me,--but never mind that."

Mrs. Jerningham expressed her sense of the favour, and her anxiety to learn the adventures of so many years. Meliora sent to Hamilton Place to make excuses for the length of her stay; and after tea had been served, the mother and daughter composed themselves to listen with attention to Mr. Howard's narrative.

IANTHE.

(To be continued.)

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

SCENE I. A Saloon in the Palazzo di Rossarno.

Enter IANTHE.

O DAY of many hours!-O endless night!
My heart is swoln with sighs, and faint with grief,
Worn out and weary with this bosom-warfare ;-
This torturous strife betwixt my love and reason.
Yet though right reason doth rebuke my love,
"Tis Nature's pride should answer to my fault,
In having shaped an angel specimen,

To shew how once she would have made us all.
His spirit drawn from heaven's pure fount of life,
His flesh spun out from some refined material,--

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Not the soul-clothing common mortals wear ;-
And his transparent blood, a tide distinct
From that doth irrigate our breathing soil.
Have I then blame, to such sublime creation,
That I lift up the worship of my heart?—
Yet must I toil to hide my bosom's daring;
My rigid lids

Strict sentry keep o'er my rebellious eyes,
Lest they be windows whence my captive soul
Look forth, and publish all her tenderness.
For out, alas! I have no friendly breast,
Whereon to lean my weight of misery ;

And when 'mongst maidens, each confides her story
Of prosperous or perplexing love, then I,
Cut off from all congeniality, am forced

With silence to dam up my heart's o'erflowings.-
While some do pity me, and some congratulate,
That I know nothing of their pains and pleasures.
Oh! never,-

I'll not instruct Discretion's tongue to chide me,
Myself alone shall be my counsellor,

And Heaven my sole accuser, witness, judge.-
Yet may I make my plaint to thee, dumb Night!
Disclose my sorrows to the passing breeze,
And 'list the seraph host in sympathy;
While for each tear I shed, some pitying star
Shall weep her crystal grief in unison;
And the pale moon,

Serenely smile t'encourage my revealings.
Ah! changeful Cynthia! fickle still as fair,
E'en now thou veil'st thy face, seeming to cry,
"Forbear, fond maid! I may not hear thy tale.”—
Vainly I bathe my temples in thy beam,

The dew is hot,-the zephyr's breath is withering;
Oh! that I had been found

Some frigid daughter of the polar north,

With bosom frozen as her ice-bound seas.

A sickly feebleness creeps through my frame;

My foot hath lost it's light alacrity;

My tongue grows mute, my nimble hand, forgetting
It's divers cunning works, hangs slothful down,
Only my restless mind doth busy itself

In bringing forth from Memory's treasure house
A look, a tone, a smile, a little word,

Love's slender, treasured heard of bliss, which I
Eke out by rumination to a banquet,

And like th'artificer's hand on ductile ore,
Beat out a golden hour to gild a week.
Anon, my fancy crowning me a queen,
I frolic in my brain-built palaces;
Create a world, Lord Ardingford the sun,
For he is my sun,-my world !—

While I to him am even less than nothing;
Alas! on me,-the handmaid of his Mother,
He never stoop'd his haughty glance, nor e'er
In brief command sent forth his silvery voice.
Unhappy chance, that threw my lot so low.-
Yet will I rouse me from this phantasy,
Dreams, visions, idle vain temptations, hence!
No more I'll yield me to this frantic passion;
Faith, gratitude, and filial love, conspire
To hurl this Lord from his usurped throne;

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Desperate resolve! but I will tear me hence.→→→
Absence and time,

'Tis said, are potent charms for love sores:
I'll put my wounded heart to th'experiment,
And if it fail,-

Death self-inflicted, and a felon's grave,

Shall remedy and revenge me on myself.
Hark!-'twas the summons of the Marchioness.

Enter the MARCHIONESS.

March. How wears the night, Ianthe?

Jan.

One hour is lacking yet of midnight, madam.

March. Lacking yet, say'st thou ?

I'faith, I counted not an hour so late;

Thy drowsy eyes would have inform'd me better.

Why, wench, what makes thee lose so much complexion ?
Hast thou been weeping at thy mother's grave?

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Seventeen should not acquaint herself with sorrow;
Take more respect into thy looks, Ianthe,
Beauty and care should swear an enmity;
Thy sable stars will weep away their lustre,
Eyes, that I ween were rather destined to
Cause tears, than have a cause to shed them;
And thou dost not strait make an end of grief,
Thy grief will even make an end of thee.
Loose my tiara, and release my tresses ;-
Thy hand doth strangely tremble, girl;
If thou be sick, give me to know thy ailment;
What is it matters thee, poor damsel? Say.
A painful affection of the heart, Lady.
March, I see, a throbbing and strange palpitation,
With sudden fits of heat and cold;

Ian.

Ian.

Lay thy right hand on thy left side, thus,-and say,
"Dear Paulo!"-there's the seat of thy complaint.
Is't that thy wooer, for his whim, doth flout thee?
Truth, Love's unkindness is a cruel pain.
Nay, Lady, 'tis not Love's unkindliness.
March. Indeed !—the emulous crimson on thy cheek
Seems wrestling to gainsay thy lips' assertion.
You must e'en put your face to school, Ianthe,
To learn more reconcilement in it's language.
Why, what a wayward blush burns on thy check,
Offspring of truth and shame!

Yet truth in nought should have to do with shame,
Love's soft interpreter, and falsehood's foe.-—
It's rosy eloquence remaineth yet';

Thou art wanting in the coquette's artillery;
Her sigh is ever ready, and her smile;

Her eye, lit up, or languishing by turns;
And she can frown, nay even weep, at will;
Still, though the lip and brow act at command,
Her cheek, like thine, resists her tutoring.-
Unclasp my cestus, and unlink this chain;
Divest my arms, too, of these glittering baubles.
Ha!-have a care,-thy shaking hand,—that bracelet,
For more than India's wealth I'd not deface it;
"Twas love's first gift, the gift of my first love,
My matchless Ardingford, my noble husband!—
Sure I'm the happiest wife in all the world,
So wise, so brave, so beautiful, to win him;
Competitor with royalty:-

Successful,, where a princess sigh'd in vain.

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Ian.

Ianthe.

A princess sigh'd in vain?

March. E'en as I say.

Ian.

From other lips than his, my Lord's, I learn'd it;
His high magnanimous soul would scorn to spread
Shame's crimson ensign on a maiden's cheek
By a conceitful boast of unsought tenderness.
Full many a rival hates his excellence;
For not the chivalry of olive Spain,

The bright hair'd youth of fair Germania's courts,
Nor the young gallantry of gallant France,
Could peer them with the lofty Englishman;
My own proud Lord, and well may he be proud.
What dost thou say, Ianthe?-out on thee;

Thy silence speaks unto my Lord's disparagement.
Oh! no, not so; he is indeed most peerless.

March. Thy thoughts are link'd unto thine own true love.
O happy Paulo !

Ian.

Paulo is nought to me, madam; a peasant.

March. Well, what says that? thy father was no prince, girl :
The youth is comely, generous, and thy troth-plight,
The jocund vintage over, comes the day

When the sun rising on thy virgin fears,

Goes down in haste to hide thy bridal blushes.

Ian. No, madam, never, never !—

Sooner I'd wed the foul unfeeling grave;

Sooner, this hand shall wither, shrink, decay,
Crumble to dust, from off my living arm,,
Than now be join'd with his.

March. Ha! so; what quarter is the moon in now?
Ianthe, thou art marvellous changed of late,
Thy temper froward, and thy tasks neglected:
Bestir thee, maid, to tend thy duty better.

Ian.

In truth, I have much blame;

I do implore you, Lady, pardon me.

March. It needeth not thy offence be wash'd with tears;
Leave ye to be thus ever passionate,

Ian.

SCENE II.

Lest thou inoculate

My merry humour with thy melancholy.
Hence for my lute, I'll serenade the moon;
Thou'lt find it in the tapestried chamber,
Where my tired boy reposes from the chase:
And enter softly, girl, lest thou disturb him.
Enter where I am gone, madam!

EXEUNT.

The Tapestry Chamber: LORD HENRY ARDING FORD discovere asleep on a Couch.

Enter IANTHE.

Great Heaven! and is it he?-Lord Henry sleeping.
O love! O joy!-hush, hush, tumultuous heart,
Nor with your noisy throbbing mar his slumbers.
Sweet sleep! what might is in thy helplessness,
What eloquence is in thy quiet breathing;-
In thee, the strong are weak, the guilty pure;
And whilst thou robb'st the conqueror of his power,
Endowest beauty with new power to conquer.
Life of my life, my idolatry, my saint,

Is't true thou'rt kin to mere mortality?

His hand reposes on his heaveless breast,

His brow, as infant's, calm, save the slight frown
Scarce mark'd, but as in beautiful concordance

With the rich pouting of his nether lip;
The bright intelligence of his eye is hid;

But see the graceful sweep of his pale cheek,
And all his witching symmetry of feature.
Oh! that this world and time apart, I might
Consume eternity in standing here.

Not so; I must be brief; for as I gaze,

I feel my wistful lips do blush and kindle,

In forethought of the bliss my bold heart prompts to,―
Wer't but his vestment's hem:-He sleeps profoundly.-
As she bends forward, LORD HENRY awakes.
-Now Heaven forgive and save me!-

'Tis past, 'tis

Falls, and dies.

RAYMOND THE ROMANTIC, AND HIS FIVE WISHES.
No. I.

THAT delightful old pastoral writer,
Izaak Walton, the Virgil of Anglers,
has recorded it of St. Jerome, that he
formed three grand wishes; namely,
"to have seen Christ in the flesh,
to have heard St. Paul preach,— and
to have beheld Rome in her glory."
My own desires were never suffici-
ently magnificent to match with these
splendid conceptions, but still they
possessed enough of singularity, to
be in perfect consonance with my
title of Raymond the Romantic. They
were then, five in number, and of the
following character. To descend to
the bottom of the Sea in a Diving-
Bell: to ascend into the Air in a Bal-
loon: to go down into the Earth in
one of the deepest Mines: to pass
into the Crater of a Burning Moun-
tain and to behold an Apparition!
He who hath seen these, thought I,
may boast of having seen somewhat;
little imagining that it would ever be
my fate to look upon them all, and
still less that I should have to record
the sight of them. Fifty years since,
when my hair was black and my locks
crisp, my form strong and handsome,
and my heart as fearless as it was
ardent, I was ever on the search for
romantic adventures, in which any
degree of danger was never worth
consideration, provided it were coun-
terbalanced with adventures suffici-
ently wild, heroic, and out of the
common course of daring enterprize.
It is not to be doubted, that in these
expeditions I was frequently involved
in the most imminent hazards; which
however little they affected me at the
time, never failed, in the moments of
cool reflection, to make my very soul
shudder even at the remembrance of
the past danger. After ascending the
rugged and perpendicular face of a

rock with old Rosensköld, of Rona's Hill, in the Zetland Islands, I have lain the live-long night, bathed in perspiration, at the thoughts of what, when it existed in all it's terrors, did not even awaken alarm. After rushing out to a wreck, when the waves frequently enveloped me in a glassy green shroud, and sometimes threw me back three feet for every one that I swam forward; when I have pierced down even to the hold of the sinking vessel, the very danger suspended both fear and feeling, but in a subsequent moment of rest, I have felt all the horrors of my former situation, and have passed hours in a terror of mind, that was worse than drowning. In like manner, did all my romantic adventures, and all the most awful tales to which I have listened with such delight, haunt me when they concluded; like spirits of a former age appearing to the men of the present. In many of my wild achievements, my early friend George Harvey was my most fearless companion; a similarity of disposition had united us, until the more serious employ ́ment of life, which breaks hearts, dissolves friendships, deadens the affections, destroys love, and entirely changes the whole soul, by it's separations, called him to the Northern Regions, in the Fire-Drake of Lerwick, and detained me an inhabitant of the Zetland Isles. It will not be wondered at, as there was so strong a bond of unity between George Harvey and myself, that we jointly vowed at parting, not only to keep faith and friendship inviolate, to gaze on the heavenly bodies at the same hours, and exchanged charmed tokens to keep the magician Time from altering the heart; but also that we made

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