honourable profession, and have some reason to hope by patient perseverance and ingenuity it may eventually afford me the means of an honest and honourable livelihood."

"But to what end does this lead?"

"I am come here to-night for the express purpose of laying one half of my mother's fortune at your feet. You must go back to the world, mix with society, and forget, in the sunshine of the future, the darkness of the past. Come, promise me, my father, you will not refuse my offer. 'Tis freely, very freely, made: my best reward will be to find that it is as freely accepted."

"Leicester Melville, I have suffered much from poverty and privation; but, mark you, I will drain the cup to the very dregs ere I will submit to live on the alms of my own child. No, no, Leicester, I will not do that. Your offer is kindly meant: 'tis a proof of affection I shall not soon forget; but-but-it is an offer of which I can never avail myself. To go back again to the world would only be to expose myself to its sneers and its contempt; to mix with society would only be to draw down disgrace and punishment on my own head."

"Surely, surely, my dear father," replied Melville, "you attach too much weight to your errors; more, far more, indeed, than either the world or justice can demand."

"So you may think; but I must tell you it is not so," said the old man, gloomily, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"But why, my dear father," continued Melville, moved, and at the same time emboldened, by his parent's repentant manner, "why seclude yourself in this sad neighbourhood? why throw off your own name, and adopt another, commoner, it may be, yet not more honourable? why should Adolphus Melville mask himself under the title of Mark Lonsdale?"

For a few moments a death-like silence pervaded the apartment. The bolt bad fallen on the heart of the wicked one; from the lips of the noble and high-minded son the abandoned and erring father heard, as it were, the fearful proclamation of his guilt. His cheeks became pale; his lips livid and quivering; and his whole frame seemed suddenly shaken by the fierce agony of an overwhelming fear.

'Leicester," gasped he, hoarsely, seizing him firmly by the arm, "Leicester, know you the full measure of my guilt? know you that I p3,

"I know nothing, father," replied Melville, stricken with horror and dismay, "nothing that can call forth or justify this strange

emotion."

"'Tis well; may heaven grant you never live to curse me. One word, Leicester, and I have done. Tell me, heard you the names of Melville and Lonsdale coupled together, in Manchester?"

"Not until I coupled them myself. On inquiring for Mr.

Adolphus Melville at the house to which you had given your address, I received a description of one, Mark Lonsdale; and that description was sufficient to raise a strong suspicion in my mind that you had, from some cause or other, assumed that name." "And-and breathed you this suspicion to any one?"

"I did. But pray, pray tell me, my father, why this agitation, -why

"Oh! 'tis a bitter doom!" groaned the old man; "my own child has been my destroyer!" Then fixing his eyes on Melville with a look of intense agony and suffering, he continued:"Leicester! Leicester! I must instantly away: to stay here is to throw myself at once into the hands of justice. Every moment I remain may fence my flight with fresh difficulty and danger,— nay, shrink not from me, I am a bad man, yet I would not harm you; you are my own child, my first-born, but-but you will live to curse my very memory.'

"No! no! my dear father, though all the world should forsake you, I will not ;" and Melville pressed his father's hand with wild and frenzied earnestness.

Quick, Leicester, away! or they may entangle you in the plot !" and the old man was rushing from the house, when Melville, seizing him by the hand, exclaimed, in a tone of deep and heartreading agony,

Oh, father! father! your wife, your children,—do not desert them."

A cloud darkened the brow of the old man, and with a voice of deadly anger and resentment, he replied,—

"Wife! she is a bad, abandoned woman. My faults and follies were my own: my crime was hers. Leicester, farewell; God bless you. God bless you!-the words blister my lips. What has a sinner, a devil, to do with blessings? Yet--yet, I am a father!"

The old man rushed from the house. The heart-stricken boy, overpowered by his feelings, sank almost senseless on his chair. A flood of tears at length came to his relief, and then was it that, gazing on the scene of gloomy desolation by which he was surrounded, he felt, perhaps more bitterly than ever, the dread calamity which had just befallen him.

He staggered into the little garden. All was still, calm, and beautiful. The moon was just rising from the distant horizon, and her first faint beams were stealing slowly over the dark canopy of heaven. Not a voice, not a murmur, disturbed the gravelike silence; even Smirk, worn out with watching, had thrown himself upon the ground, and, with his head pillowed on a stone, had fallen into a deep sleep.

THE LANGUAGE OF ROSES.

BY MRS. ABDY.

SONNET I.

WITH A ROSEBUD.

LADY, receive my simple offering. See
How the faint beauties of this budding rose
Seem bashfully and slowly to unclose;
Even such appears my timid love to be.
From the keen glances of the world I flee,
My secret passion in seclusion grows,
To thee alone its fragile life it owes,
And now it seeks preserving warmth from thee.
Grant me thy leave to woo; I do not dare
To ask thy lips in kind assent to ope;
Place but this rosebud in thy bosom fair.-
Then with my eager rivals shall I cope,

And my fond heart spring forth from blighting care,
And glow beneath the first young ray of hope.

SONNET II.

WITH A HALF BLOWN ROSE.

WELL hath my wooing sped. Oh! mystic art
Of floral speech, beyond all learned lore!
Dear one, relieved by thee from sorrow's smart,
Behold, I bring to thee a second flower.
This rose, whose blooming leaves are blown in part,
Hath known the ardent sun, the cooling shower,

Its infancy hath passed; the hopeful heart
May fondly image its maturer hour.
Oh! wear it! I would fain my lot foresee
In the bright freshness of its blushing dyes;
My prisoned words seem struggling to be free,
And if, in guarded converse, we disguise
Our fond communion, I can hold with thee

The mute, though speaking, intercourse of eyes.

SONNET [11.

WITH A FULL BLOWN ROSE.

My last best offering gladly I display:

This crimson rose, in full and rich perfection,
Expands its leaves, and wafts in each direction
Ambrosial odours. Wear it, love, to-day,
And I will guide to yon cool bower thy way,

Whose thick and clustering foliage yields protection
From the warm sun, and tell thee my affection,
Undimmed by doubt, undaunted by dismay.
Feebly the lover oft his passion pours,

Who in weak faltering words his suit discloses ; But I have wooed thee by the speech of flowers : My heart in happy confidence reposes

On thy firm faith, and through our future hours Still may love's chains to us be chains of roses!

THE MINSTREL QUEEN.

"No morning sun lasts a whole day."-Eastern Proverb.

"Sing them forth-songs of the past away,

To mingle with the woe and mirth and music of to-day—
Legends of other hours-stray leaves of faded flowers-
Sing them forth!

"Hush! breathe ye low-the quaint love words-
The whisper voice of long ago—fond, old records
Of dreamy hopes and fears, and hearts of other years,—
Hush! breathe them low!

"The honours and rewards lavished upon the minstrels, were not confined to the continent; our own countryman Johannes Sarisburiensis (in the time of Henry the Second) declaims no less than the monks abroad, against the extravagant favour shewn to these men.

"There was no improbable fiction in those ancient songs and romances, which are founded on the story of minstrels being beloved by king's daughters, &c., and discovering themselves to be the sons of some foreign prince.

"In the reign of Edward the Second, such extensive privileges were claimed by the minstrels, and by dissolute persons assuming their character, that it became a matter of public grievance, and was obliged to be reformed by an express regulation in A.D. 1315. Notwithstanding which, an incident is recorded in the ensuing year, which shows that minstrels still retained the liberty of entering at will into the royal presence, and had something peculiarly splendid in their dress. It is thus related by Stow :

"In the year 1316, Edward the Second did solemnize, at Westminster, feast of Pentecost, in the great hall; where sitting royally at the table with his peers about him, there entered a woman adorned like a minstrel, sitting on a great horse, trapped as minstrels then used: who rode round about the tables, showing pastime; and at length came up to the king's table, and laid before him a letter, and forthwith turning her horse, saluted every one and departed!' The subject of this letter was a remonstrance to the king, on the favours heaped by him on his minions, to the neglect of his knights and faithful servants.

"The privileged character of a minstrel was employed on this occasion, as sure of gaining easy admittance; and a female the rather deputed to assume it, that, in case of detection, her sex might disarm the king's resentment. This is offered on the supposition that she was not a real minstrel; for there should seem to have been women of this profession, as well as of the other' sex: and no accomplishment is so constantly attributed to females, by our ancient bards, as their singing to, and playing on, the harp.

"In the reign of King Edward the Fourth (in his ninth year, 1469), upon a complaint that certain rude husbandmen and artificers, of various trades, had