The New Monthly Belle Assemblée

had once tasted the fascinating lure of feverish excitement, called forth by large sums hanging on a shake of the hand or turn of a card, he was incapable of relinquishing the pleasure or depressing the stake. There ever were, and doubtless ever will be, enough of the designing ready to take advantage of error in the inexperienced, to lead them irretrievably deeper into the vortex of vice; that such should step forward to entice Mr. Elgood onward, and seek to exterminate every sentiment that might counsel him to retrograde, is an occurrence but too common. He thought such to be his friends, for they cured, or rather lulled the only evil he had known-ennui; and they failed not to make large professions of zeal in his behalf, which were too grateful to his own heart to suffer him to doubt their truth, till they who had made them had stripped him of all, and then, when about to test the sincerity of these self-styled friends, they spared him the trouble by declaring their true nature, by commanding instant payment of their honourable demands. With them he had not the means to comply, and a consciousness of this had caused the irregular movement complained of by his lady. To return to their conversation. After a pause, Mr. Elgood, briefly as possible, made known his embarrassments to his wife, whom before he had scarcely consulted on the smallest trifle. She, more touched by this first proof of his consideration, than dismayed by the position in which he stood, besought him to let her escape with him to the continent, where, by economy and frugality, they might in time reimburse the amount of his liabilities.

"You know not what you propose," cried the distressed man. "You could not exist with such parsimony as it would be incumbent on us to practice; you know not what it is."

"I could, I do! and for your sake I would! Do not leave me! that would be much worse,' and the wife wept with excess of apprehension lest she should lose him she now for the first time, even amidst his errors, saw and felt was worthy of her regard.

Amazed at the emotion of one whom he had deemed totally without feeling, and delighted with this display of affection where he had not hoped to find even sympathy, Mr. Elgood had some difficulty in persuading himself to hazard this newly-gained treasure by a full disclosure of his unworthy conduct, and the consequent hopeless state of his affairs, which he doubted not would deprive him not only of her wish to share his compulsory wanderings, but far worse, of that regard his own neglect had rendered him unconscious of possessing. But at length her tender entreaties drew forth his last sad secret; which was, that to answer present necessities, he had drawn a bill on a pretended friend to a heavy amount, and was now threatened with proceedings unless it was immediately honoured, and an enormous sum paid for forbearance; "and that," said he, mournfully, "my previous mad extravagance has put out of my power."

"Do not say so, when my handsome jointure is at our disposal,"

"Do you think_me a villain?" cried he, hastily, "that you deem me capable of depriving you of the only means of existence left you, to escape the effects of my own follies?"

No, surely not; but hear me-enough may be left of that after these affairs are settled, which, with the proceeds of our plate, furniture, and my jewels, will enable us to live in comfort, if not in splendour. Nay, do not refuse me, or I shall fear you think me worse than villanous, to be able to exist in luxury while my husband's name is defamed, and himself wandering in loneliness and penury, for lack of a portion of my superfluity. Let us not waste the precious moments in argument, when there is so much to be done. I feel impatient to quit these scenes of dangerous enjoyment; how much happier shall we be when living but for each other, and without these gorgeous trappings, which do but gild our servitude to appearance."

"Ah! dearest, you little imagine the bitter sarcasm poverty is called upon to endure. You paint mediocrity with smiling cottage, pretty and elegant without, every comfort within, and respect awaiting you abroad. Alas! you do not understand that by following your plan, necessaries themselves may be to us unattainable, while the finger of scorn, poverty's constant attendant, shall not fail to be pointed at us."

"That is of no moment to me when I must choose between you or them, my dear Frederic," cried the excited wife; "do not throw me from you! I beseech you do not! What is the scorn you threaten, with my husband's love? I laugh

at it."

Why have I been so long blind to your worth, my own wife!" exclaimed Mr. Elgood, tenderly embracing her; "why unconscious of the gem I possessed till now? The knowledge comes embittered by the reflection that I have robbed, degraded you, and stained our name with disgrace, if not with ignominy, when all, all, would have been spared had I earlier appreciated your worth, or given you that attention so justly your due. O! my execrable folly, that sees no good but in things I cannot have or must resign.'

"Calm these transports, my husband; not yours alone the blind infatuation, for had I studied you as was my duty, I had not been the listless inanimate being conscience tells me I have been; it is I that should suffer, for had I made myself the barrier I ought, evil companions could not have usurped your heart, or turned your better nature against yourself, as they have done. I have failed in the duty of a wife; then deny me not the privilege of sharing the effects of my conduct, and we may, we shall yet live to bless the time that revealed to each the other's character, even though the knowledge be preluded by circumstances so dark and unfortunate: we are criminal not in intent, but negligence. And what are these trifling gewgaws we lose? if we be but spared to each other, poverty will not be so hard to support as your imaginings have pictured. If it be but gilded with your love I care not; would that mine

might suffice for you. At least let us rejoice | quently became useful and efficient members of that in our future walk lies no temptation to the besetting sin of either, for henceforth with us all must be activity; we can spare no time even to regret the past, in our busy careful improvement of the future."

Penetrated by the generosity of his wife, Mr. Elgood listened, and was at length persuaded to assist Mrs. Elgood, who entered with spirit and energy upon her self-imposed task of assorting and superintending the arrangement of their effects for sale, and as she resigned one by one those superfluities she had hitherto considered and her habits had rendered necessary, none could have guessed her the same spiritless being that a few days before had lived surrounded by numberless delights, a prey to the consuming misery of disappointment. Her partner, to whom her wish was now a law, so much did he admire and bless the generous mind that his erroneous conduct had roused from torpidity to well-directed exertion, yielded to her desire of retiring to a small cottage in Hampshire, bequeathed them by her mother, and aided by her affectionate assiduity and truthful representations, in some measure overcame his aversion to chance the encountering the acquaintance of former prosperity, now that adversity had laid its heavy hand upon them.

society. Their only daughter was early initiated in the practice of every domestic virtue, taught and encouraged to place her enjoyment not so much in the possessions of self as in the happiness of those around her. This greatly alleviated and assuaged those unavoidable evils inseparable from mortality, while it secured to her much extraneous pleasure, and induced in her an amiable suavity of disposition and cheerfulness of temper, which, like a bright halo, diffused itself over the feelings of the most waspish when in her company; and though she lives unmarried, she has never lost the charm which endeared her to her friends, and in youth made her society sought for by all who had once experienced its refined delights. Nor is the character of Miss Ellen Elgood so rare as many at the first glimpse might be tempted to suppose. Let each one look round her own circle and say does it not afford such an one, nay, it may be more than one, who seem as if designed to make us comprehend how we may mix in this strange world, and preserve regard for the virtuous, pity for the erring, benevolence for all, possessing a mind uncontaminated by vice, unbowed by selfish care, nor ruled by folly's

sway.

THE TWO BRIDALS.
(A Sketch from French History.)

BY GRACE AGUILAR.

She sate alone; though round her beauty gleam'd,
And chivalry in all its nobleness was there;

And thousand lamps their varied lustre stream'd,
And fairy forms now passing to and fro,
And gems flash'd up amidst the gorgeous glare;

And silvery tones lay floating on the air;
Young cheeks now blushing 'neath love's earliest
glow,

As Mrs. Elgood had foretold, her jointure, jewels, &c., paid every demand, leaving a small surplus, with which they purchased an annuity, and which, though in former days it would have scarcely sufficed for inconsiderable trifles, was now made to supply their food and raiment. They had frequently to bear the bitter pang of finding they had heretofore been flattered for their wealth and position; yet they, like the humble plant which yields no perfume till bruised and trodden, rose superior to their former selves, and achieved more real excellence than even their parasites had imputed to them, Roused by the increasing wants of his family, stimulated to exertion by the patient uncomplaining tenderness of her who had borne so much for him, he taxed his mind, drew upon his educational resources, and was surprised at the result. Those stores, so long accumulating unregarded, were given to an admiring world, whose gold eventually repaid the loan of talent; and while caressing his helpless babes, he felt that stern necessity and a wife's regards had rescued from oblivion powers that would other-Daughter of France, to break such stagnant rest? wise have perished, or at most have been de- Alas, alas! that face has no bright smile, voted to the gamester's calculations, while both No loving charm to fetter hearts awhile; would have incurred the sin of neglecting or Nature hath marr'd her work, and left no trace misusing abilities given for a higher purpose. Of beauty's beaming look and gentle grace. The sons of Mr. and Mrs. Elgood were educated And none would heed those meek and loving eyes, to serve their country at the bar, in the field, or Nor the sweet music in her voice that lies; the senate, and were thus furnished with a Nor care to read, beneath that cold control,

their

legitimate object on which to expend their energies; and though after years gave parents a fortune larger than they had before expended, their father's counsel-“by no means to relax their efforts unless they descried a more desirable and equally laudable object," was religiously observed by each, and they conse

And smiling eyes, and brows so freshly fair,
Touch'd with new beauty, as the soul was stirr'd
'Neath the soft magic of one whisper'd word.
These are around, and song's soft luscious note
In dreamy distance ling'ringly doth float,
As aerial music midst the lighter strain,
And midst such scenes of joyance, is she lone?
That wakes the dance, and revelry again.
Hath that one heart no fondly answering tone?
Hath it no quiver 'neath its jewell'd vest,

The fire-throbs of the full passion'd soul!

The quiv'ring chords with which her heart was
strung:
Yet one was there to whom it wildly clung,
Wildly and vainly; though their names were twined,
And France's monarch sought in chains to bind
His kinsman to his child. And he was there,

Her young heart's idol!-seeking those more fair,

With smiles for them, and many a beaming look;
For her a shuddering glance, his frame that shook:
For them the joyous laugh, the gleesome tone;
For her the echo of despair alone!

How may she sit so calm, and gaze on him?
He sees not that soft eye grow dark and dim ;
That cheek blanch white, where woe was never cast;
That bent frame shiver, though there came no blast;
That shudd'ring chill, that bids all strength depart-
He sees not, knows not-who shall read her heart?

She has turn'd away from that glittering hall
For the lonely path, where pale moonbeams fall,
Gemming the flowers with diamond light,
Flinging such beauty o'er still solemn night,
Sporting in brilliance, where cool waters play,
Sending up gems in the glittering spray;

And no sound was there, save their trickling gush,
And the quivering leaves in the wind's low rush,
And the night-bird's song, whose soft-thrilling tone
So plaintively whisper'd her love too was lone!
But vain was that beauty, of sight and sound
The soul with a circlet of fire was bound;
And she saw but the depths of its dark despair,
And heard but the sobs that were stifling there!

She has reach'd a shrine, a holy shrine,
Where giant trees dark branches twine,
And wreathed with buds of the passion flower
Hung low the jasmine's starry shower,
And where not a voice or sound of life
Can stir the spirit's woe and strife;

And oh! is there peace for the worn one there?
LOVE, art thou still'd with the voice of prayer?

She knelt; her long hair swept the marble ground; Her pale brow touch'd the virgin's sainted feet; Yet from those quivering lips there pass'd no sound, No word of supplication, offering meet

Unto the holy mother. Oft there came

As suddenly it pass'd, and falling low,

A rush of tears, a quick and burning flow: "Spare him, spare him," the only words that fell On the still air, that woman heart to tell ;

Spare him the doom he loathes!

Let him be free To love, to wed-to give no thought to meSeek for the beautiful to be his bride, The fairest, noblest, best-a world beside! Not such as I, form, spirit, mind o'erthrown, Feeling but love, till life is love alone! Mother! meek Mother! spare him this dark doom; Let not the canker feed on his bright bloom, Leave me to die, to suffer. I can bearBut Louis, my own Louis, spare, oh spare!"

And was that prayer, that passion'd prayer unheard,
And vain the strife which that lone spirit stirr'd?
Changed was the scene, changed all but that one
heart,

Which then, as erst, but anguish could impart;
And Joan is robed with more than usual state,
Though she has shrunk beneath the gorgeous weight,
And hated e'en the gems, that seem'd to glare
Like scorching gems, upon her brow and hair:
And they have led her to the altar rail,
Where Louis stands, his brown cheek cold and pale;
His bright eye turn'd away, his lip compress'd;
His arms still folded on his haughty breast.
And France's monarch stood all smiling there,
A demon smile, which revell'd in despair;
Joying to feel authority had won,

And all dark policy had will'd was done.
What matter'd that his kinsman's haughty soul
Spurn'd the pale gift that would his will control?
Or that his hapless child had knelt and pray'd
That this sad bridal might awhile be stay'd?
Darkly he scann'd the richly banner'd aisles,
To read approval in his courtiers' smiles,
And mark if one hath dared, with knitted brow,
To whisper scorn of this strange marriage vow.

Convulsive shudd'rings through that shrunken frame, Had there been such in that well chosen train,

As if the raging tempest in the soul

All vainly struggled to attain control;
Then with low gasping breath, as seeking air,
She raised her head, flung back her wavy hair,
Clasp'd her thin hands with movement strange and
wild,

And fiercely flash'd those eyes-th' expression mild
Lost in their burning ray-while words of woe
Fell quiv'ring from those lips, quick, broken, low;
The soul reflected in those words were spoken,
As shiver'd fragments of a mirror broken :

"Mother of Mercy, Saint, and Virgin mild,
Canst thou have pity on thy wretched child?
Wilt thou soft healing o'er my sear'd heart throw?
No, no its bitterness thou canst not know!
For thou wert lovely, aye, and loved and bless'd,
E'en when earth's weary desert was thy rest.
Thou canst not aid me! Heaven has stamp'd my
brow

With its deep wrath through ling'ring years, and now
Torn from my lonely grief, to anguish give,
And as his bride in loneliness to live.
Why doth this form, this shrunk and shapeless form,
Contain a soul, thus open to the storm

Of passion, and its woes? Why this sharp strife,
Bereft of all that makes a woman's life,
Beauty and love? Oh, bid my love away,
Or turn it to a demon's hate-and stay.'
Shrill was that tone, a sudden madness woke
In the wild wrath her lips on her invoke;

Perchance he ne'er had told such tale again.

The rites are o'er, the bridal blessing said,
In solemn mockery on each youthful head;
And hands united in one sacred bond,
Which did but close one heart that had been fond.
Weep for that pale, cold bride! the soft blue eye
Her hands have veil'd, lest to her heart reply
Its light might speak. And she is kneeling there,
Forgetting all save him, whose dull despair
She would have died to save! Her father's voice,
She heard its grating accents bid rejoice
The prince in his fair prize, and pray him take
Her to his heart and hearth, and ne'er forsake.
But answer there was none; and then she raised
Her drooping head, and on her husband gazed;
And scorn, dark scorn and hate, like scorching blast,
Their searing lines on his bold brow had cast-
Hate, and of her. There burst a stifled cry,
Wild, thrilling, in its whelming agony,
A struggling gasp-to hush the uncall'd sound,
A shiv'ring sob-and prostrate on the ground
Senseless she lay !

Years past-a score of yearsAnd once again the olden church appears, Deck'd with its golden lamps, its garlands bright Of flowrets form'd of gems of burning light; And the rich organ peals forth swelling sound, And noble forms are thickly thronging round;

And the same bridegroom kneeleth close beside
The altar rail; but 'tis a lovelier bride!
The regal robes bedeck a form of grace,
The wreath of gems smiles on a fair sweet face;
The nuptial veil but heighten'd charms displays,
As the young morn looks forth from silv'ry haze.
And king anointed, Louis kneeleth there;
The crown of France rests on his clust'ring hair;
And he is free from chains his soul that spurn'd,
Free! free to love, to wed, where'er his spirit turn'd.

And she, his wedded wife these twenty years,
Hath she departed from this vale of tears?
Hath that lone, aching heart at length found rest,
And pillow'd on earth's lap her weary breast?
She lives to know he will'd that they should part,
And sever bonds that ne'er had bound his heart.
To give him to another! aye, a bride
Beloved and lovely, fitted for his side-
One that would grace his throne, and joys restore
And love-no, no-she could not love him more.

The crowd hath gone, the solemn rites are o'er,
The royal train departed, and once more
The olden church is lone, save the dim train
Of holy nuns, who ling'ring, yet remain
The midnight mass to chaunt; soft, thrilling, deep,
Their silv'ry voices through the dark aisles sweep;
As white-robed angels, Hope and Faith were near,
Or flung sweet echoes from their distant sphere;
Soft, and more soft, as fading all away,
Then swelling forth in lingering delay;
And one by one, with solemn step and slow,
The holy sisters to their grating go;

But one remains. She kneels, where knelt the bride
In all the pomp of royalty and pride;

Her brow is leaning 'gainst the cold damp rail ;-
Hath the white moonbeams made her cheek so pale?
She hath besought permission there to keep
A solemn vigil, while her sisters sleep.
And she is lone amid the sculptured dead,
Lone, where one lamp a fitful radiance shed;
Lone, in that lonely church; yet did she feel
No shudd'ring awe upon her spirit steal.
Her soul is wrapp'd in one all-mighty prayer,
Which nought of earth, or earthly fears could share;
Prayer for the loved, for joy for him, and peace ;-
And for herself, oh grant that soul release!
And moveless knelt she in the shivery light
Of quiv'ring moonbeams through the long cold night.
And morning came, and the low matin hymn
Stole soft and silv'ry through the cloisters dim;
And came again, the holy sisters there,
And gently call'd the lone one from her prayer,
And marvell'd greatly that she join'd them not,
Nor movement made to leave the hallow'd spot.
They crowded round; they raised that stiffen'd form
That never more shall tremble 'neath the storm;
They whisper'd words of kindliness and love :
But all in vain-the soul had pass'd above;
It had burst the chain which had bound it there,
And sprung up to heaven in love's last prayer!
Oh, Love! thou art mightier than all beside;
For grief hath its glory, and death its pride;
But thou, springing up from the barren rock,
With nought to uphold thee, sustains the shock
Of tempest and whirlwind, in scorn and neglect.
Of hopes rudely wither'd, and feelings wreck'd
Oh, hast thou not dearer and lovelier rest,
More lasting, more changeless than earth's cold
breast?

Oh yes! far away, in the regions above,

The home of th' IMMORTAL is the dwelling of Love

LINES.

(From "Literary Leaves," by A. M. Wicks.)

"The children of the earth," says Miss Bremer, in one of her admirable novels, "struggle against the sharp sword of suffering for many, many years; they live, they suffer, they struggle. The sword is broken, and they fall powerlessly down; success reaches to them the goblet, they touch their lips to the purple edge, and die!"

Sad thought it is! some picture brighter things,
But these too quickly fly on eagles' wings;
Ah! then it is too late, they cannot bless
What they so fondly sought for Happiness.
Go, child of Fortune! think not life is fair,
That Merit will receive what is its share;
Some would bestow a wreath on Tasso's head-
The crown was offered late, and found him dead!
Just so Mozart, and all lament his fate;
Good fortune came, but he exclaim'd "too late!"
And thus it is with gifts when freely sent,
They are not given, being only lent.
Chelmsford.

We shall commence our little history where most writers close theirs, with the marriage of its heroine the first event of any real importance in her hitherto careless, and, for the most part, happy existence. Gertrude Wilford was an only child; very beautiful, and not yet eighteen; fond of gaiety, warm-hearted, and affectionate, somewhat wayward and self-willed from early indulgence, but easily guided by those she loved. Tracy Cunningham, to whom she was about to be united, was many years her senior; of a naturally kind, although grave disposition, and remarkably domestic in his tastes and pursuits; so that his love for Gertrude and he did love her passionately-was one of those strange anomalies in human nature which we occasionally meet with in the world. He was attracted at first, no doubt, by her rare beauty; beside which, there was something irresistibly sweet and fascinating in her manners; and he thought, perhaps, that one so simple and child-like could soon be made everything he wished.

Gertrude enjoyed the consequence derived from her new position-anticipated the idea of becoming the mistress of a brilliant establishment with a true girlish triumph, that forgot not in its exultation to plan out all the good she meant to do-would not allow that Mr. Cunningham was a day too old, declaring that she liked a husband whom she could reverence and look up to, and was quite sure that she should soon learn to love him very much! A slight shade of disappointment fell upon some of her schemes when he proposed that his sister Winifred, who had hitherto resided with him, should remain a few weeks in order to initiate the young bride into her household duties. But the reasonableness of the request, together with a sense of her own deficiencies, prevented her from showing it; and the first opportunity that occurred, the whole conversation was repeated to her dear friend, Alicia Villiers.

to her brother every single thing that happens. Old maids are always so prim and disagreeable !"

"Well, it cannot be helped now. And Tracy looked so pleased when I made no objection to his sister's staying, that I could not have said anything to vex him for all the world! But I am sure I shall not like her."

Alicia Villiers was a year older than our heroine, between whom and herself there existed one of those romantic friendships in which most young ladies love to indulge. They had no secrets, scarcely a thought from each other, and were miserable if anything happened to separate them for a single day. Of course this could not last for ever; Alicia was not so selfish as to wish it; but she made her darling Gertrude promise again and again never to forget, or cease to love her, and be sure and write once a week at least, so that they might still tell each other everything as of old, which the young bride not only willingly agreed to, but insisted, in her turn, that Alicia should hold herself engaged to spend the following Christmas with her in her new home; and both anticipated the delight they should feel in each other's society after so long an absence. Gertrude wept long and bitterly at leaving those she loved so much; until Tracy Cunningham began at length to suspect that there must be some deeper cause for those uncontrollable tears than the mere home-sickness, which was only natural to one so young. Fortunately, however, the bride recollected in time how foolish and ungrateful she must appear, after all his soothing kindness. You must think me very childish," said she, looking up into his face with a rainbow smile; but I was never separated from them before for a single day."

My poor little Gertrude!" exclaimed her husband, drawing her fondly towards him; "but you will soon love your new home quite as well; and dear, kind Winifred! every one loves Winifred."

The young bride was silent; she felt sure that she never should. It was late when they arrived: a tall, slight form stood on the hall steps, ready to welcome them. Gertrude was con

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