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lessen the remainder. The Indian had proposed for Belinda, and been accepted, while Mrs. Martin, on his non-appearance for some days, wrote him a quiet and polite note, explaining fully the circumstances of her position, and declining all future intercourse, and stating her intention to leave London for some more quiet residence in the country. There was no answer for many weeks, just what Mrs. Martin expected, and Belinda had given up all hopes, although, the truth to tell, she had a lingering latent feeling in the man's favour, since he had proved himself, on more than one occasion, generous and sincere. They were doomed to an agreeable disappointment. He had been out of town when her letter came, and never saw it until his return, when he hastened to make all the atonement in his power, by immediately visiting them, and renewing his proposals at the same time, also stating that he had received a trifling appointment in India, and would immediately set sail for that country, after his marriage, since England was too cold for him. Mrs. Martin could not refuse, they were privately married, and quitted England in a few days, never to return to it.

The next instance was Hazleton. He could not succeed at the English bar. Like many other men of talent and abilities, he wanted what was essential to his progress, patronage. His relations were mostly in the United States; he might do better there, and they had frequently advised him to come to them and try. As soon as he heard of Martin's indiscretion, he waited upon the family, offered his unsolicited services, and acted in a manner that won Mrs. Martin's good will; for misfortune had made her more humble than when she denounced the penny-a-liner. He had been for more than a month going daily to the house. Belinda married, had quitted London, when he stated his own intention of going to America, in accordance with the wishes of friends resident there. Mrs. Martin saw his affection for Catherine, and found on questioning her, that it was returned, so that she was not astonished when, after obtaining the daughter's permission, he applied to the mother for hers. But what was to become of herself? Hazleton soon obviated this difficulty. would quit England, but not without her, declaring, with a smile, that he' would not marry Catherine unless he got her mother into the bargain, and he thought he could support them both, at the same time adding, as an inducement for their consent to his arrangement, that as they had heard nothing of Martin, if he were living, he would be in the United States. Mrs. Martin's thoughts were the same, and after making preparation, and settling their affairs, they left England, now no longer a home for them, to take up their residence in the "New World."

He

I have never been in New York, consequently I cannot describe it, which happens luckily both for myself and my readers. It is said to be a seaport of some importance, and I must presume it has quays; but of their shape or dimensions,-whether they resemble the Glasgow Bromielaw, the London wharfs, or the magnificent ranges that stretch

along both sides of our own Liffey-of all this I am profoundly ignorant, yet I will fancy as much as will suit the purpose of my story.

It was an evening in autumn. The sun shone with the warmth and brilliancy of summer, and a man might be seen walking along the quays of New York, occasionally casting a long and lingering look towards the broad Atlantic. His features were somewhat careworn, his dress rather negligent, and the tout ensemble surmounted by a "shocking bad hat." Several days in succession, had he been noticed taking this evening walk, always alone, and always when he quitted the quay evincing a look of disappointment. This evening, when about to depart from his neighbourhood to the tide, his eye caught the white and distended sails of a large and goodly looking vessel, sweeping across the waters towards the city. The man paused and looked at her, then turned to a sailor, who was regarding the ship as she came more gradually in sight, and addressed him

"Can you tell me any thing about that ship?"

"I take her to be one of the Liverpool packets, the Britannia," replied the sailor.

"The Britannia, eh? How? You're sure?"

"I calculate as much."

The stranger jumped forward as if he would have embraced the sailor, then suddenly restrained himself, and slapping down the old hat upon his head, rushed back to his first position, now considerably crowded with persons waiting the arrival of the vessel.

An hour after the vessel had reached the quay, and the same man was screwing in a grasp of iron the hand of another much younger than himself.

"Ah! Hazleton, I trusted to you—you have not deceived me ?”

"Come and see," said the young barrister, leading the questioner into the cabin of the ship, where Mrs. Martin stood in the centre of a large pile of packages, and her daughter sat on a chair. The former dropped a bandbox, looked first at the old hat, then at the personal appearance of the new comer, and finished by falling into his arms, saying, "Richard, Richard."

"Never mind, Kate senior," replied the other, while Kate junior sprung up from the chair, and followed her mother's example.

"Father, father, dear father."

Old Martin sobbed and kissed his child, and perhaps in that moment of real joy he was amply compensated for the much toil and mental suffering he had endured.

I have almost done. Martin had reached New York, and anxious to know something about his family, he determined to write to Hazleton. He trusted to him, and was not deceived. The barrister returned an immediate answer, stating everything connected with the situation of his family, and his own acceptance by his daughter, adding his intention to

sail immediately for New York. He also wrote again to him the name of the vessel in which they would go, and an account of his marriage. This explains poor Martin's continual watching for a ship from England. Martin had forged to sustain his credit. Like many others, he had committed the crime before he was well aware of its fatal consequences, and with fruitless hopes of timely retracing so dangerous a step; not choosing to be hanged, he was compelled to fly to save himself. Years have rolled over his head since he has exchanged the merchant's life for that of the farmer-while Hazleton has also laid aside the lawyer's gown, and owns many thousands of acres of land, living in the midst of peace and contentment, surrounded by fine children, and blessed with an affectionate wife. He twits the merchant on his old hat; but the forged bills are forgotten, and Kate senior says her eldest grandchild knows more about whist than herself, while Belinda's husband has dropped his appointment in India, to go and live with them.

THE STRANGER IN HIS NATIVE PLACE.
(A SKETCH FROM LIFE.)

FITZADAM left his native place,
Stung by an undeserv'd disgrace,
No art could shun, no worth atone;
The guilt was others'-not his own :
Of years to feel the cruel weight,
Of friend neglect;-too young to hate;
Yet not with gospel spirit born,
To sow of love,-and reap of scorn;
He suddenly resolv'd to roam,

For shame is easier borne from home,
'Tho' ev'ry other blast of woe
Is weaken'd by the path we know:
And not a heart, or eye, grew dim
With thought, or tear, at parting him;
There breath'd but one lone one who spent
A moment's mind on where he went;
And that one journey'd with the boy,
To share his suff'rings, not his joy;
And ceas'd to share his suff'rings, when
The life-beat ceas'd, but not till then:
And then his feelings who can tell?
Save the chain'd captive left alone,
When some long sharer of his cell

Is freed, and fetterless, and gone:
To whom he cannot say, 'Remain,"
And yet must wish him chain'd again?

He had been from his earliest days,
A thing of quenchless thirst for praise;
Had left his fellows far behind,
In feats of manhood, and of mind,
Inspir'd by some vague hope to fill
A niche of fame above them still;
But o'er the bloom a blight now came,
He learn'd his heritage was shame;
Still proud, to one he would not breathe,
Who look'd on him as aught beneath;
And soon, by coursing back his tears,
OCTOBER.1842.

He learn'd to think above his years;
And soon the young, ethereal blue

Of eyes, where it was sweet to trace
Divinity outbeaming through

The crystal of its dwelling place,
Was clouded by so dark a train,
He ne'er could weep it bright again;
And lineaments, where erst the wild,
The vain, and the victorious smil'd,
Took that peculiar tone, when sadness
Has settled on the heart of gladness.

As if he had been strangely link'd
With race remember'd, but extinct,-
Had given them birth, and borne their pall,
The sire and sexton of them all;
A first-and last-whose place of rest
Was not his own, or others' breast:
With solitude to shape his ends,
Where'er was wildness, there were friends.
(No hireling nurse is solitude,

It nurtures but the noble mood :)
There was the rich communion merit
Holds with the universal spirit,
Vouchsaf'd to him, in visions rife
With those strange prophecies of life,
Which seem as falsehoods, since but few
Have energy to make them true;
'Till with the firm resolve that none
Should more support him, and disown,
He left his forest, flood, and glen,
And mingled with the world of men.

His doom was on him. Rank'd among
A few enthusiasts warm and young,
Who wrestled from the angel Fame,
An honour'd, for an humble name,
He look'd around him in fresh light,
2 z

Nor fear'd the mighty in their might;
He saw his own lov'd, native isle,

The greenest in the sunbeam's smile;
But discord, whose rank seeds were cast,
Before the plough of ruin pass'd,

There was a wound, too, in her heart,
With manna flowing from the dart;
And sweet amid the morning dew,
Or evening breeze, their moments flew,
Whether the tree with blossoms fair

Had borne its fruits-blood, guilt, and fear, For wanton summer deck'd its hair;

Alike to peasant and to peer,

From hut to hall the bard might choose
Fit matter for the tragic muse,
With passions, to array the best
Or basest heart in human breast:
The country lay, like oak tree fell'd,-
The nobles lopp'd, the people quell'd,-
While villains sprung amid the dark,
Like poison mushrooms from the bark :
Her harp, with many a sorrow strung,
Tho' few the island minstrel sung,
Was sweet to her triumphant foe,-
The sweeter, when it sang her woe;
Her mighty men,-the firm and bold,
While tyrants bought and traitors sold,
Would make a mountain with their mould;
But worm of clay and tooth of rust
Had laid them and their swords in dust;
Their children, reckless of their fame,
Like curried steeds, sleek, strong and tame,
The wild-wood air of grandeur gone,
Were mightiest rein'd and ridden on.
He saw all this, he heard of all
The mining art that wrought her fall;
And he aspir'd to make of song
A 'burning tongue' to tell her wrong,
And rouse her sons from sleep of slaves,
To chainless hands, or honour'd graves;
Poor youth! their soul's perverted soil
Is barren to the minstrel's toil.

With one more fancy-on his breast
His birthplace ceas'd to be impress'd;
Ah! deem not that the place of birth
Is always dearest spot of earth;
Who roams will find it far beneath
The spot where Love begins to breathe.
He lov'd-upon his young heart's doom
The spell-word had been spoken,
That lasts for ever,-blight or bloom;-
Ev'n tho' the spell be broken.

He lov'd, and deem'd, if man may trace
The spirit thro' the form and face,
"Twere sinful not to place above
All earthly things that woman's love;
Oh! there was not a fate so dark,

But he would brave it for her smile; Yea-bless the storm that wreck'd his bark, To cast him on so sweet an isle.

Her long hair and the raven's feather
Were steep'd in one dark stain together;
Her eye, as when the morning glow
Strikes light into the dewy sloe;
Her sweet lip wedded to the will
Of his fond lip, but modest still;

Her words and voice to his young dream
The murmurings of a spirit stream;

Or berries on the bough became
Like mourning gems, or drops of flame;
Ev'n when the starry eyes of night
Twinkled, as tho' they wept their light,
They held deep converse in the dell,
Where some benighted streamlet fell;
Or wander'd on the lonely shore,
In whispers heard thro' ocean's roar,
While ocean seem'd the heart that hurl'd
Th' eternal life-beat thro' the world.
Alas! alas! that some must change,
Without the will, or wish to range;

She chang'd, ev'n while she saw with shame
The ashes gath'ring round the flame:
The art by which a woman wins,
Is like the web the spider spins,
For ev'ry vagrant insect strown,
It nets their feet, but not her own.
Alas! alas! that some must still
Be true against their wish, or will;
He lov'd, while lone and desolate
He almost pray'd for pow'r to hate;
How few have form'd ev'n friendship yet,
But found some reason for regret!
And love has still a deadlier sting,
Conceal'd beneath the folded wing,
Where harmless to the last it lies,
But must be hurl'd whene'er he flies.
The maid was false-his heart was driv'n
From bliss on earth, perchance in heav'n;
(For woe eternal may have birth,
From early wretchedness on earth,)
And he indulg'd, when she was flown,
The wounded dream to live alone,
Tho' love, where'er his soul would be,
Should share its immortality.

Time roll'd-the lover's hope of joy
Had fled while he was yet a boy;
His heart had melted down in vain,
But harden'd as it cool'd again:
In sooth he wore love's bitterest token,
His trust in woman's love was broken.
The faithful eye that watch'd his way
Now slept beneath a lid of clay;
The circle too, whereof we spoke,
By time's dissolving process broke;
And he the last-alone remain'd,
The weakest wing'd, or firmest chain'd.
Yet haply, did his Isle afford

A strength of air, he might have soar'd;
The eagle wing of genius there
Full oft is furl'd for lack of air:
Far better be an insect, when
The long wide pinion is a chain.

'Tis true, there mov'd in fashion's throng,
Who saw some portions of his song,
And knew they could not be the whole,
But masses of a mountain soul,

So fragment like, they must have lost
Their hold by lightning, or by frost;
And these were kinder than most be,
Of fashion's varying livery:
But oh! it is as safe to roam
O'er ocean in a boat of foam,

As trust to woman on life's sea,
Where woman is the glittering spray.
'Twas woman's tongue first bade him cope
With the Archmighty in his hope;
First promis'd him his fervent lays
Should grapple for a nation's praise;
And there she held him on the wing,-
Her toybird, fetter'd with a string,
That let him soar a space, and when
She list, could tear him down again;
Oh! could she tell how dearly bought
Is bliss itself, with years of thought;
She ne'er would wait the little while
Of seasons to redeem her smile;
For thus it was-and oft, when came
New disappointment o'er his dream,
He felt as if not heaven nor hell
Could make his feelings worse, or well;
Still he possess'd a stream of soul
That ceas'd not-could not cease, to roll;
Till time, that turns deceit to dust,
In woman's words begat distrust; [roam,
There are rough spots, where hearts that
Like rivers, must like rivers foam;
And fain he would such spot have pass'd,
But could not, and he foam'd at last.
His mind had bent like willow mute,
Above the wave that wash'd its root,
But inward woe, or outward blight,
Had made him not a parasite;
No former flatt'ries could arise
To shame him, should he break his ties.

And stung beyond endurance now,
Or pain nor passion burst his brow,
And burst his lip, and burst the thrall,
That bound his hope on woman's faith:
Nay-blame him not-he could not fall,
For there was nothing worse beneath.

'Twere vain to trace him as he went;
His aim was lost, his youth was spent ;
His nature, rooted deep in woe,
Had floated on both ebb and flow;
And thus it grew as strangely brave,
As seaplant woven by the wave,—
A thin, enduring thing, that wore
The hue of neither sea nor shore;
Till careless hearted, cold in mien,
He trod his native ground again.

He stole amid the haunts of youth,
Where he had met, at least, with truth;
And here and there a simple stone
Like old familliar features shone;
The very road a record kept,

Of spots whereon he stood or stepp'd;
And e'en the measure and extent
Of foot and footstep ere he went.

But such memorials unimpaired,
Were all destroying chance had spar'd,
The few rose leaves of life's may morn
Had faded o'er the unfading thorn;
His name was graven like a vow,
On many a young stem, bare of bough;
But growth that roughens bark and brow
Had cast it off' long, long ere now:
The trees, where rooks for ages held
Their high encampment, all were fell'd;-
The warren-dwellers fill'd with dread,
Their subterranean city fled;

A temple on his playground stood,-
Was priest more pure, or man more good?
Alas! the answer-writ in blood!
The rocky heart, by miner's skill,
Was torn out piecemeal from the hill;
And barracks low'r'd, and prison frown'd,
Where met the huntsmen, horn and hound:
The footway by the streamlet side
Was clos'd to all, save steps of pride;
The axe and mattock robb'd of gloom
The masses of deep forest bloom,
And forc'd its wild, lone paths to feel
The haughty upstart's chariot wheel:
E'en on the spot where twilight's close
Curtain'd his cottage in repose,
A castle's gate of grandeur rose;
Great God!-so changed, he scarcely knew
The home his failures drove him to.

When earth, which seems beyond the span
Of years, was chang'd, how chang'd was
How many-young and aged-came,[man!
Of whom he knew not e'en the name!
How many, like young saplings, grew,
Of whom the name was all he knew!
Many he left too old to grow,
A change could only lay them low;
And strange it was, of memory's list,
The youthful were the most he miss'd.
There dwelt in poverty-undone,
The widow, but without the son;
The soldier and the felon went
To warfare, and to banishment;
The duellist forsook his bride,
And with a rival lover died;
The desperate suicide had quaff'd
The river for a sleeping draught;
The hope, the accident, the fray
Had borne them by degrees away;
Seduction darkly had repaid
The hoping heart of many a maid;
One roam'd a maniac-one still worse,
With conscience to bring home her curse;
The paramouring matron left
A babe and husband both bereft ;
The merry widow spent a life
Of laughter, by the mourning wife;
The hoyden maid, whose fancy's flight
Had been like boy's unbalanc'd kite,
Restrain'd by wedlock's holy bond,
And weigh'd by children fair and fond,
Like string to neck, and bobs to tail,
Now soar'd the steadiest on the gale;
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