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fathers, in the forlorn hope of recovering from a distant kinsman the amount of a pecuniary loan, lent, in the generous confidence of unsuspicious youth, without further security than the word of a friend, which sacred pledge had not however been redeemed, on Colonel Aboyne's written application, on his first establishment in England, and, high-spirited as he was, no personal consideration could have compelled a second remonstrance. But for his child!-his child!—what sacrifice would he not make! what difficulties would he not encounter! His resolve was made, declared, and speedily acted upon, in spite of the tender dissuasions of Millicent, and the frantic opposition of Vernon. New vigor seemed granted to him for the prosecution of his arduous undertaking; and cheerfully reassuring his anxious and drooping child, he firmly negatived her tender petition to accompany him to Ireland, on the reasonable grounds that it would not only increase their embarrassments if he failed in the object of his expedition, but at all events protract his absence from Sea Vale.

The day was fixed for Colonel Aboyne's departure, and the preceding evening was the saddest ever spent together by the father and daughter in that dear cottage, which had been so long the scene of their domestic happiness. Autumn was somewhat advanced, but the glorious light of a cloudless harvest-moon shone full into the little parlor casement, near which sat together the parent and the child side by side her hand within her father's, and they were both silent. Only, when Colonel Aboyne fondly kissed the pale soft cheek which rested on his shoulder, and the full closed eyelids, with their long lashes trembling into tears in the moonbeam, poor Millicent turned her face inward on her father's bosom, and the suppressed grief half-vented itself in deep short sobs.

"Be of good comfort, dearest!" said her father, mastering his own emotion -"Cheer up, my Milly! Remember

I am going to leave you but for a short -a very short time. You and I have spoiled each other, Milly! We have been too much together; I should have sent my darling sometimes away from me, to have accustomed her to live without her old father—and there is one, Milly! who, if I were gone". but poor Milly's thick-coming sobs told him those were not words of comfort

and after a minute's silence, to calm the tremor in his own voice, he resumed in freer accents. "Look up, Milly! at that bright full moon-before it is dwindled to a silver thread you may hear that I am on my way home again, and—look up, Milly! and see how gloriously it shines upon us— we will for once believe in omens, and take its bright promise for" Millicent looked up just as her father stopt so abruptly-a huge black bar was drawn across the star of promise, and in a few seconds, while father and daughter were still gazing earnestly upwards, the beautiful luminary was totally eclipsed.

The next morning found Millicent and her faithful Nora sole inhabitants of Sea Vale Cottage. Vernon had accompanied Colonel Aboyne to the place of embarkation-an opportunity of confidential intercourse with his future son-in-law gladly embraced by the anxious traveller. To Vernon he spoke unreservedly of his own internal conviction, that in spite of that present renovation, which he gratefully acknowledged as providentially granted for the prosecution of his immediate purpose, the termination of his earthly sojourn was at no great distance. spoke of her, who would then be a destitute orphan, and he accepted, as solemnly as it was offered, Horace Vernon's voluntary promise, in case of an unfavorable issue to his present undertaking, and of life not being spared him to return to Sea Vale, then to take to himself his affianced wife so soon as he could win her consent to accompany him to the altar,-and taking up his abode with her under that lowly roof, which would be well nigh all the poor Millicent's portion,

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resolve for her sake cheerfully to contend with present-even protracted difficulties, and so await (patiently trusting in Providence) those better days they were reasonably encouraged to look forward to. It was also settled between the friends, that with Millicent's consent the same arrangement should take place soon after Colonel Aboyne's return from Ireland, were that return permitted, though unblessed by a favorable result to the business which impelled him thither.

So having spoken, and confided to each other their mutual wishes and anxieties, the old man and the young one-the almost father and son, parted at the place of embarkation, with a fervent blessing and a short farewell -and from Colonel Aboyne, as he stept into the boat, a look to Vernon, and an emphatic pressure of the hand, which, more touchingly than language, commended the absent Millicent to her lover's protection.

If soberizing time, and protracted expectation, had abated somewhat of Vernon's first enthusiastic passion, his feelings for Millicent were still those of sincere and tender interest; and with all the affecting circumstances of his late parting with her father fresh in his recollection, it was with a revival of even more than former tenderness that he met her on his return, at the little garden gate before the cottage, of which she was now the sole, sad occupant. Deep and fervent was at that moment his unuttered vow to be indeed friend, father, protector, husband-everything to the dear and gentle being who might so soon be dependent on him for her all of earthly comfort. Few words passed between them at their first greeting. Vernon hastened to answer Millicent's inquiring look with an assurance, that all was well with her dear father when they parted at the place of embarkation; and then they entered the cottage together, and seated themselves in the small bay window, neither however occupying the large arm-chair, which stood with its cushioned footstool in the accustomed place. Both looked

towards it; and Vernon perceiving the direction of Millicent's tearful glance, and well comprehending the subject of her fond solicitude, exerted himself to comfort and reassure her, till by degrees he lured her into the indulgence of more cheerful thoughts and happier expectations. But as he looked earnestly in her mild fair face, he was struck with the increased transparency of a complexion, always peculiarly delicate, but now beautiful with an almost fearful beauty; for the naturally pale, though clear and healthful cheek, now bloomed with a spot of the brightest carnation, and quickly glancing at the hand he held within his own, he almost started at observing its sickly hue and evident attenuation.

"Are you well, Milly?" he asked abruptly; "quite well, dearest Millicent? This little hand tells a feverish tale,—and those cheeks!--fie! fie! Milly! You have been a self-tormenter of late." And he was but half satisfied with her assurance that she was not ill-had nothing to complain of, only a little occasional languor—and now that he had brought her such consoling tidings of her dear father's progress, she would rouse herself to hope and cheerfulness, and the resumption of all their favorite pursuits and occupations. When Nora opened the cottage gate to let out Vernon that evening, he lingered a moment to speak a kind word or two to the faithful old servant, and then, suddenly reverting to his late startling observations, he said, "Millicent has been worrying herself to death, Nora, with anxiety about her father. We must take better care of her and prevent this, or she will fret herself into a fever; I was quite struck this evening with her altered looks." "And was you indeed ?—and time you should, maybe,” answered Nora, in her driest and least cordial tone,-for she had long discerned a change in her darling's health and spirits, which had escaped even the parental eye and all the shrewd quickness of doating affection; she had not failed to remark, that though the affianced lovers were together as

much as formerly, and though they met and parted, to all appearance, as affectionately as ever, their separation was too often followed by a cloud on Millicent's brow, which had not been used to hang there during such brief absences, and more than once Nora had surprised her weeping in her own little chamber, after her return from a walk with Vernon. It was therefore, that she replied to his questions with almost reproachful coldness; but her slight and vague displeasure was soon appeased by the unaffected warmth, with which he now poured forth the apprehensions she had succeeded in rousing so effectually; and he slept not that night for thinking of Millicent's burning hand and crimsoned cheek, and for wishing it were day that he might revisit the cottage, and urge her to see their good friend the village apothecary, and consult him respecting those symptoms of feverish debility, which he was now persuaded had been long hanging about her, though his own perceptions of the evil had been so tardily awakened. Full of these anxious thoughts and intentions, he presented himself at Millicent's breakfast-table just as she had descended from her own chamber; but felt almost immediately reassured by a first glance at the now natural hue of her fair complexion—the calm smile with which she greeted his appearance and the soft coolness of the hand extended to meet his with affectionate welcome. His previous anxiety, and his earnest wish that she should consult Mr. were not left unmentioned, however, but, by the time breakfast was over, Millicent had so well succeeded in talking and sniling him out of his fears, that, when Nora came in to remove the tea equipage, he could not forbear casting towards her one glance of almost reproachful exultation, which, however, obtained no other return than a look of discouraging seriousness.

But after a little time, even Nora's fond apprehensiveness began to yield to the comforting evidences of her darling's daily renovation. Long, and

frequent, and satisfactory letters arrived from Ireland,-satisfactory at least as to the point she had most at heart, the welfare of her beloved father. Colonel Aboyne gave her the most positive assurances, that he had received unexpected and extraordinary benefit, from the stimulating effects of his voyage and journey, and the influence of his native air; and in his first letter he expressed sanguine hope of a favorable result to the business he was engaged in. Succeeding accounts, however, became on that head more discouraging. Colonel Aboyne's flattering expectations were soon overclouded-at last totally relinquished, but still he wrote cheerfully, consolingly; spoke of himself as returning as poor a man, indeed, as when he left his Milly and their dear cottage, but a renewed one in health and vigor, and again looking forward with tranquil hope, not only to the union of his children, (for so he called both Horace and Millicent,) but, with God's blessing, to see them assured of that moderate competence, which had already been withheld so far beyond the term of human calculation. And then Vernon breathed into Millicent's ear the arrangements which had been entered into by her father and himself, respecting their almost immediate union on Colonel Aboyne's return from Ireland, whatever might be the result of his visit to that country; and Millicent, though she listened with surprise and agitation, did not refuse to ratify a compact so tenderly and sacredly hallowed.

Colonel Aboyne's last brief letter was merely to mention the day of his embarkation, and that on which, to an almost certainty, he might be expected at Sea Vale; "and even now," he wrote-" while I trace these few last lines, methinks I see our own dear cottage, my Milly looking anxiously out for me from the garden gate, and Horace advancing down the green lane, in readiness to receive the old cripple, and help him carefully down the ladder-steps of the stupendous High-flyer. Be there both of you,

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ONE draught, kind Fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
And lone affections which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;

And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave—
One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal, pause !-within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine :
-Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by Memory's pride amass'd,
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace,
And fill the hollow channels of the past!
And from the bosom's inmost-folded leaf

Raze the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more!-All, all thy soul hath known,
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade!
-Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made?
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall?
-Think-wouldst thou part with all?

Fill with forgetfulness!-there are, there are,
Voices whose music I have loved too well;
Eyes of deep gentleness-but they are far,
Never, oh! never in my home to dwell!

Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul—
Fill high the oblivious bowl!

Yet pause again!-with Memory wilt thou cast
The undying Hope away, of Memory born?
Hope of re-union, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight,

That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!-yet stay-
-Tis from the past we shadow forth the land,
Where smiles long lost, again shall light our way,

And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band:

-Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill,
I must remember still!

For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought
May dim within the temple of my breast,
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit-yet
I ask not to forget!

THE CHOICE OF A RESIDENCE.

THE caution often inculcated, and occasionally practised, with respect to the choice of a wife or a profession, might with equal prudence be exercised in the selection of a residence. There are not many of us, indeed, to whom much deliberation on the subject is permitted; one is tied down by the fetters of business, another by the more agreeable bands of hereditary property; prudential or family reasons decide the habitat of a third; and the few who might enjoy the privilege of free selection, " to whom the world is all before them, where to choose their place of rest," are too often swayed by whim, accident, or habit, and forfeit, by injudicious decision, half the happiness and selfcomplacency they might have enjoyed.

London is a desirable residence for many and various descriptions of persons. A country life, however, appears to be the general taste; and for one "Fuscus," who owns himself a lover of cities, we may reckon ten vehement" lovers of the country," who mourn over the necessity, real or imaginary, which makes London their home, and grieve that it is their fixed determination to seek wealth, luxury and pleasure, far from the cheap and calm delights of nature and retirement. But some there are who are really bound by duty to a residence in town while their taste and judgment would lead them to rural scenes and pleasures, and who, as they hurry through the crowded noisy streets to their daily routine of business, when reminded by their almanacs and the dust, that it is spring, yearn for its bursting buds, its flowers and verdure, with an intensity of longing which sheds for a

time a feeling of uneasiness and discontent over the best-disciplined minds, and makes them derive but trifling consolation from the sentiment

"What matter where, if I be still the same?" Yet even here that compensating principle which so wonderfully pervades the whole system of physical and moral nature, and so often levels the apparently immense disparities of life, comes to our relief; for where shall we find words to express with sufficient energy the rapture which the country bestows on these exiles, when permitted to return for a time to its beauties and delights? Matthisson has some sweet lines on "escaping from town to country," but although poetry may give force and grace to the expression of his sentiments, they have suggested themselves to thousands, with a strength and fervor incommunicable to words, though arranged at the bidding of taste and genius like his.

"Here, Freedom, is thy maternal home,
Here thine abode,
Here dwells Content, here peace of mind
Breathes on the soul!

"Here an unceasing dew of joy distils
O'er grove and field;

Oh Nature, Nature! while I live, no power
Parts us again."

There are no pleasures, indeed, which retain their freshness like those resulting from the admiration of Nature; and he who has a real taste for its beauties will scarcely allow that his enjoyment of them is diminished by the most uninterrupted and familiar intimacy. Still, who that is permitted by a kind fate to open his eyes daily on the same waving fields, rich woods, and bright meadows, can ima

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