and that fire-works are to be let off from the summer-house. Really, a habit of exaggeration is an unpardonable vice!" bonnet: I confine myself to the quiet and unobtrusive colours of brown, grey, and slate. She is continually ornamented with artificial flowers: I have discarded them since I was five-andtwenty. She is devoted to light reading, and has all the Waverley novels by heart: I am also partial to a little occasional relaxation in my literary pursuits-the bow cannot always re-briel; "very ungrateful and inexcusable. Pray main bent-but I confine myself to the Spectator and Tatler." Many more such illustrations did Miss Judith draw: she evidently did not think that "comparisons were odious.' At last, however, her harangue came to a close: she leisurely deposited her netting in its case, and took her leave. Scarcely, however, had she made her exit, when the entrance of Mr. Gabriel Crosby suspended the speech on Elmslie's lips concerning his wish for a ramble in the fresh air. 66 Mr. Gabriel was a neat, dapper, accurately powdered, soft-spoken, sweetly-smiling little man. "No, doubt, sir," he remarked to Elmslie, immediately after his introduction to him, you must enjoy the peace and quiet of our friend's delightful retreat. I am sure it is quite a refreshment to me to escape hither from the bustle, confusion, and discord of Hartington. The inhabitants of Hartington, sir, are the most gossiping, scandalous set of people in the universe. I am sure it cuts me to the heart to hear | the vile reports that they continually set about respecting our own relations. If you wish to see mole-hills converted into mountains, Mr. Elmslie, come to Hartington and you will have an immediate exemplification of the process." Elmslie, however, had heard so many denizens of country towns give similar accounts of their own localities, that he did not appear remarkably horrified at this general account of the vices of Hartington, and Mr. Gabriel was forced to descend into particulars. "That dear, foolish woman, Mrs. Walter Crosby," he proceeded, "is going to give a dance next Wednesday three weeks to about fifty people; of course Mr. Singleton she lets you know nothing about it; but I had the particulars from one of her favourite friends. She means to have the two Hartington violins, and a harp and violoncello from the neighbouring town of Highfield. There is to be a stand-up supper supplied by the Highfield confectioner; and as she has no sweep to her house, there is to be a temporary covered way from the gate to the door, ornamented with branches of trees and coloured lamps. This, I do assure you, is the worst of the case, the very worst. I am not going to defend her folly, but what irritates me is, that the Hartington people, whom she is making such exertions to entertain, all unite in ridiculing her extravagance, and maintain that she has issued cards to seventyfive people in London, besides her country acquaintance that the Londoners will all come in fancy dresses-that Weippert's band is engaged, and that an eminent confectioner in Regentstreet is to send down a superb supper at fifteen shillings a-head! They also declare that the garden is to be a perfect Vauxhall in miniature, "So it is," said Singleton; "but I must say I am surprised that Mrs. Walter should give a dance at all without consulting me about it." "Very true, my dear cousin," said Mr. Gado not imagine that, because I reprobate scandal, I am inclined to defend that which is really wrong. Now for instance, our respected cousin Mrs. Simon Crosby, I know she starves her servant Sally, and leads her the life of a dog, and I wonder at the poor girl's patience in staying with her. But it is too bad of the Hartington people to assert that last Thursday afternoon, because the cat had the misfortune to run away with the drum-stick of a chicken, Mrs. Simon struck Sally a blow which stunned her for a minute or two-that, when she recovered, she put on her bonnet and set out to the house of Mr. Crump, the magistrate, and that Mr. Simon Crosby followed her, and gave her a sovereign to come back again, and make matters up with her mistress." "Dear me !" said the bewildered Singleton, I am sure I always thought that Mrs. Simon was quite a mother to Sally." "I suppose she told you so herself," said Mr. Gabriel, blandly smiling. "I dare say, however, she will not tell you that Peter was at the White Rose Tea Garden last night. I am afraid I must allow that he made himself very ridiculous, and in fact decidedly degraded himself; but I can never believe what the scandalous Hartington people say that he stood upon the platform, and delivered what he called a lecture to young men,' in a tone and manner which halfconvulsed his hearers with laughter, and which they all agreed in saying was a capital, although rather a caricatured imitation of you." "Shocking! I can't believe it," said Single ton. "Don't believe it, my good sir!" replied Mr. Gabriel, in a coaxing tone of voice. "I dare say it had not much foundation; all the Hartington stories have a little, however. I am reminded by this of an old report they have lately revived about my own dear sister Judith. Her formal, and perhaps rather prudish manners, have created some dislike towards her, and they actually say that her propriety is all put on, and that ten years ago she eloped with a dancingmaster's assistant, thirty years younger than herself, and was brought back by me. Now, sir, this is a falsehood, an infamous calumny excuse a brother's warmth of expression; but my family feelings, I confess, are apt to run away with me. The person in question was not an assistant, but a most respectable dancing-master in his own right. He was only fifteen years younger than my sister; and although a clandestine marriage was certainly contemplated, he voluntarily and very properly relinquished all thoughts of it the moment I assured him that the whole of Judith's property was derived from a small life annuity." "Upon my word!" gasped Singleton, quite overcome at this exposé of the peccadilloes of all his favourite connexions. "One person, however," said Mr. Gabriel, "the Hartington people do justly in speaking ill of; no one can speak too ill of her. I allude to Miss Grace Stavely; she is a dreadful vixen; her poor sister never enjoys a peaceful day with her. I am credibly informed that her mother died of a broken heart in consequence of her undutiful behaviour to her; and you know I never take up reports upon light grounds; I get myself into a thousand scrapes at Hartington by constantly defending and standing up for people." 66 Hartington must be a dangerous place to live in or near," remarked Elmslie quietly; "I think, sir, by your account, the inhabitants seem to speak well of nobody." "Pardon me," answered Mr. Gabriel, "your worthy friend and my good cousin affords an exception to that rule. I never heard anybody in Hartington speak otherwise than well of Mr. Singleton; the only fault ever pointed out in him is one from which even I cannot venture to defend him-the exceeding urbanity of disposition and kindness of heart, which render him but too ready to be a dupe to apparent disinterestedness and goodness; for this, however, I am of opinion he ought not to be too severely blamed; he follows a natural and amiable impulse in his conduct, and in fact his charity proceeds from the same source as the want of it in his neighbours-the habit of judging other people by himself.” Here Mr. Gabriel, having made what he considered "a point" in conversation, rapidly took his departure, that he might leave the favourable impression which he had made on his auditors blooming in its first freshness. "A most excellent man," said Singleton, with a complacent smile; "I have a great regard for him." to guests who came self-invited; neither does my wife ever think of inviting company to the house till she has first mentioned the subject to me. "Well," said Singleton, "I am sure you will be delighted with Mrs. Walter Crosby: she is the flower of my connexions, quite the woman of fashion, and her daughters are highly-accomplished girls." Dinner-time came, and brought with it the fourth edition of the Crosby family. Mr. Walter Crosby was a drowsy, stupid-looking man, who managed to keep half awake during dinner, but fell asleep the moment he had swallowed his first glass of wine; by some inexplicable process, however, he contrived to raise himself up without being spoken to whenever the decanters passed round, filled his glass, drank it off, and sank back again in slumber till the next tour was made. Mrs. Walter Crosby was very much over dressed for a sociable visit, and for the season of summer; she wore an amber satin gown, a black velvet dress hat with feathers, and a quantity of cheap, mock jewellery. Her daughters had faces almost concealed by their sandy ringlets, waists tightened to dimensions at which humanity shuddered, backs and shoulders exposed with lavish prodigality, and white shoes and gloves, which, having been worn at several dances, did not quite stand the searching ordeal of a July sun. Elmslie did not think the ladies well dressed, but he had no doubt the dinner would be so; he remembered the deep consultation of Mrs. Simon and the housekeeper in the morning, and the boasts made by the former of her culinary skill. In reality, however, the dinner was far from good. Mrs. Simon piqued herself on having everything concocted with about twothirds of the materials employed by people in general; and as she was just as thrifty and exacting for Singleton as for herself, his banquets were seldom on a par with those of his acquaintance, and his visitors all voted the trenchment system," as it exhibited its effects in his second course, to be anything but a wise and popular measure. Mrs. Walter was rede-markably attentive to Elmslie; she knew him to be a rich man, and she had once met his son, who was very lively and very handsome, at a party in London, and overwhelmed him with civilities on the subject. Elmslie now renewed his request for a walk; but it only wanted an hour of dinner, and their ramble was necessarily circunscribed. "Never mind," said Elmslie, as they returned to the house, "the summer evenings are lightful for exercise, and I am sure you will indulge me with a long stroll after tea.' "Why to tell you the truth," said Singleton, looking rather aghast, "Mr. and Mrs. Walter Crosby and their two daughters dine here; and ladies, you know, do not come out into company dressed fit for an evening walk." "Company," repeated Elmslie, "I really had hoped, Singleton, that you could have found sufficient entertainment for one day in the society of an old friend like myself, without inviting visitors to meet him." "I did not invite them, my good fellow," interrupted Singleton, they invited themselves." "And is this a bachelor's freedom and liberty?" asked Elmslie. "I can assure you, Singleton, that although I am fettered by matrimonial chains, I should give but a cool reception 66 re My dear girls," she said, are so shy that I can seldom prevail on them even to give an opinion relative to a young man, but they were delighted with your son, Mr. Elmslie. Margaretta, who is very studious, says she never met with a young man of such extensive reading; and Clara, whose musical abilities you will, I hope, soon judge of, was enchanted when he sang The Ivy Green' to her accompaniment. I must say she accompanies in a most scientific style." Elmslie bowed coolly; he was quite hardened to compliments about his son, both from old and young ladies. In the evening, after the dahlia-screens, pasteboard figures, paper hya cinths, wax lilies of the valley, and butterfly pen-wipers of the Misses Crosby had been exhibited, they were ordered by their mother to the piano. Miss Margaretta played a dashing noisy accompaniment to a very soft die-away song of her sister's; the latter Elmslie could not hear, the former he did not want to hear; and they afterwards alternately executed, "I met her on the Moonlit Beach,' ""She sat within the Myrtle Bower," and many more of those songs of the day, which might not improperly be termed Songs of the Pronoun," since their great purpose seems to be the exaltation of that humble part of speech to a station of importance which Lindley Murray and his fraternity never intended it to occupy. How fashions vary in phrases as well as in dresses! I remember, in my days of juvenile unsophistication, if I ever thoughtlessly ventured to designate any individual by the irreverent appellation of "She," I was immediately checked by an admonitory inquiry, "Of whom are you speaking? pray designate every lady by her proper name." In the present age, however, "She" is the most approved and elegant appellation which a poetical lover can bestow on his fair one. I have often been entertained with tracing the names of lyrical heroines. Lord Lyttleton and his contemporaries celebrated Miras and Flavias; Moore and his imitators panygerized Rosas and Fannys; the celebrated song, 66 Jessy of Dumblain," obtained a fleeting popularity in many of the succeeding songs of the season, for the sweet and simple appellation of its heroine; at length Lord Byron publicly declared, "I have a passion for the name of Mary," and forthwith about fifty of the song-writers of the day immediately imbibed a similar passion; the name was convenient, it" came trippingly off the tongue," and it had the advantage of applying to a great many of the song-writers' female acquaintance in every rank. All improvements, however, are capable of undergoing still further improvement, (as a pamphlet which I have just been reading on the March of Intellect observes); and one of the master geniuses of the day, I believe Haynes Bayly, struck the bold and decisive stroke of denominating his beloved by the mysterious yet familiar appellation of "She!" This union of sublimity and simplicity took wonderfully well with the literary and musical world-every lady flattered herself that she might be "the bright, the chaste, the inexpressive she" of the poet; and in a little while the heroine of a song would have appeared as absurd and conspicuous with a name, as a heroine of real life without one. Mrs. Walter Crosby loudly applauded the efforts of her progeny, only alloying her commendation by an expression of regret that "her poor girls were so very timid ;" and Singleton concurred in both her observations. The young ladies next played a duet; and under the protection of its most powerful thundering, Singleton ventured to interrogate Mrs. Walter respecting the report of the dance. She did not quail, or change colour, but most amply cleared herself, in Singleton's opinion, by candidly acknowledging that she had invited a dozen intimate friends for the ensuing Wednesday; that several of them being young people, they intended to dance a few quadrilles; and that she had engaged young Mr. Bateman, of the Hartington music-warehouse, to play the piano, at the cost of half-aguinea. She contemplated no refreshments beyond fruit and cakes, wine and lemonade; and as for the Vauxhall embellishments and coloured lamps, she could not think what could have given rise to such a report, except that she had mentioned to one or two friends that her daughters had just completed a very large and beautiful transparency, which would make its first appearance on the night in question. Whether the statement of Mrs. Walter Crosby, of Mr. Gabriel, or of the inhabitants of Hartington, were the true one, it is not for me to decide; but Singleton gave unhesitating belief to the former version, warmly shook the lady's hand, and magnanimously said that he could never have expected to have such a trifle confided to him, as a sociable invitation to a dozen intimate friends. A short pause ensued; it was broken by Miss Clara Crosby singing, "I remember, I remember, how my childhood flitted by." How delightfully Clara sings that song!" observed Mrs. Walter; "but to value it properly, you should have heard it murdered, as I did, last week, by Miss Grace Stavely; poor thing! I wonder she fixed on it: the words must have been somewhat embarrassing to her; the period of her own childhood must have flitted by' for so many years, that I think her remembrance of it must be rather weakened; besides, her voice is so cracked and discordant, that she should not attempt to sing in company. I should pity her more, however, if she were not so jealous of those who possess greater advantages than herself; the other night, when Clara was singing My ain fireside' with great feeling and pathos, she tried everything in her power to take off the attention of Captain Jefferson, but without effect. I believe, indeed, poor Miss Grace Stavely's time for engrossing the attention of gentlemen has pretty well passed away." "I cannot think," said Singleton with unsuspecting simplicity, "what can make all my friends dislike Miss Grace Stavely so much; she has always seemed to me to be a very pretty looking, pretty spoken woman.", "Pretty looking! repeated Mrs. Walter, while the feathers in her dress-hat waved indignantly at the supposition. "I conclude, Mr. Singleton, you are not aware that a red and white complexion and a fine head of hair can be bought for money; and as to her demureness, it is like that of a cat, a very slight degree of intimacy would entitle you to a scratch." "I suppose," said Singleton, "there must be something very much against her, for Mr. Gabriel Crosby, who never speaks ill of anybody, and always stands up for the absent, quite launched out in censure of her this morning. "Mr. Gabriel Crosby, indeed!" said Mrs. Walter, with a toss of her head, "I would not give much for his opinion; I do not mean to say that he is not right in his present sentiments; but whatever Miss Grace Stavely might be, she would be sure to meet with no mercy from him; she refused him last Friday!" "Refused him! impossible! he would never have proposed to her," exclaimed Singleton. "Oh! I am quite ready to give up my authority," said Mrs. Walter. "Miss Layton, the young lady who has given my daughters some lessons in painting on velvet, has also been instructing the Misses Stavely; she was waiting for them in their inner drawing-room, when the letter was delivered to Miss Grace in the outer one. She heard them both laughing over it; Miss Grace declared her resolution of immediately writing a refusal, and Miss Stavely walked in, and took her lesson by herself. In fact, I used to be quite provoked and worried with Gabriel's expressions of admiration for Miss Grace Stavely, till she refused him; and since then he has been abusive and bitter, I may say to an ungentlemanly degree, in his strictures of her." "Well," said Singleton, with a deep sigh, "I could not have believed that Gabriel could have acted so double a part.” "Could you not?" said Mrs. Walter, in a tone of such marked emphasis, that even to Singleton it conveyed an unequivocal assurance that she could. Nothing more was said on the subject, and the evening concluded with the duet of the "Minute Gun at Sea," by the Misses Crosby, in which a decided "hit" was made by a peculiarly loud elongated snore from their father, which happened to chime in exactly as the report of the gun was expected to occur in the accompaniment." (To be continued.) A STORY IN VERSE. BY CHARLOTTE GUBBINS. 'Twas on the radiant afternoon Of a delicious Autumn day, Well-suited also was the scene For hearts attuned to peace and love. A garden, skirted by a skreen Of underwood, and circling groveAn old grass-garden, where the flowers Seem'd nurtured from their very birth, Where roses nestled in the bowers, And violets clasped their native earth, With something of a loving air, As if they knew their home was there. And in its sheltered bounds there stood The jessamine grew thick and tall. The curling smoke in steady line; Around, within it reigned repose, Of happiness it seemed the shrine— Remote from tumult and from noise, And sacred to domestic joys. Within the "Vale of Lune" it lay Oh sweetest spot of Lancashire!Nor was it lonely. The highway Ran near it, and the village spire Might from its windows well be seen To rise above a neighbouring hill. Yet, pleasant though the scene and hour, Like a new Eden blooming fair, She was of Irish birth, though now Her happy home was chosen here: Again elastic it arose : Or if, at times, a fleeting shade Pass'd lightly o'er that lovely face, Seemed it that this but brighter made The radiant smile that took its place. Tall was her form (perhaps not yet It had its destined height attained), To every graceful movement trained; And if her skin less dazzling white Than English maiden's might appear, What matter, when the blushes bright Burned in their glowing tints so clear ? 'Twas that the blood in readier play Rushed from fair Lucy's Irish heart, Up to her pure brow found its way And of pale hues usurped the part. And oh ! what pen could justly speak, The damask beauties of her cheek? How beautiful her lustrous eyes, So large, so deep, so full of soul ! Whether in gladness, or surprise, In startling brightness seen to roll, Or with the ready tear-drop wet, Of grief, or tender sympathy! And though their fringe was black as jet, Yet, when she raised them to the sky, They seemed to borrow of its hue; Her faultless features have pourtrayed. Such pretty rows of pearls displayedThe polished brow, so pure, so high, And with such mixed expression fraughtSo meek in maiden modesty, And yet so eloquent in thought! Her brother's manly features, too, Like hers, had beauty; they, too, glow'd With feeling; but their pallid hue Consumption's fatal progress showed : Long had they thus in silence stood, Raised with quick glance her speaking eye; "Come, brother, say what pleasant thought Had power to charm your mind so long. Methinks some magic it hath wrought, And spell-bound both your heart and tongue; While I, for very sympathy, As silent was content to be!" The sunny smile that lit her face He drew her more caressingly, Even in thy cradle, when these eyes Gazed on thee wondering: 'tis enshrined With my heart's dearest memories: It is the only earthly thing In which my soul can pleasure seek: It clogs my heavenward mounting wing. When I behold thee, Faith grows weak With doubting fears; oh, blame me not! I tremble for thy future lot !" He paused, for on her upturned face Already spread a fleeting shade; Tears half of smiles usurped the place; But, struggling with herself, she said, "Nay, brother mine, this is unkind. I fancied, in my vanity, "'Tis that I love thee, sweet, so well, I would not have thee be deceived Thou must give up thy brother tooThy love with my life's thread is twined; 'Twill part, and thou be left behind! "Be left! oh God-and where? no tongue To show to thee the world aright; And thou, so lovely and so young, To wander without guiding light! 'Tis true that Heaven will guard the shrine Of innocence and purity; But oh! what trials may be thine, Sweet flower! Even now methinks I see Fortune's rude storm, which often blows To erush so exquisite a Rose !" She would have answered, but she deemed Some vexing thought within his breast Still lurked unspoken, and it seemed Struggling for utterance. He pressed Her closer to his heart, and said, "You love, and are beloved againNay, start not! think you I have read A woman's heart so long in vain! Ah, tell-tale blush! even it doth speak Whole volumes on my Lucy's cheek! "It is for this love that I mourn: Thy thousand opening charms unmoved)→→ But yet, oh Lucy, thine may be What many a woman's lot has proved— Hearts, by each other's love requited, Hands, that may never be united!" The tumult of her beating heart Was calmed; and Lucy answered mild :"Dear Henry, you have borne the part To me of parent to a child : I thought-oh, brother, do not chidej!My heart's fond secret was unknown'; Rather, I think, would I have died, Than of myself have made it known." She paused, brushed off the falling tear, Then spoke in tones distinct and clear: "But since I find you know so well Each movement of your Lucy's heart, Henry, I do not fear to tell That with its love it will not part! Contented upon it to feed, To draw, as 'twere, from love its life, No other solace will it need To gladden it through care and strife. Heaven will the orphan's guardian prove, But bids her not forsake her love!" She loved as only those can do Who never loved before-too deep Such bliss for utterance! As the hue Of dawn embraces in its sweep The distance dim and prospect near, So o'er the sorrows of the past This love doth, when first felt, appear Its own reflected light to cast, |