in her emotion and excitement had caught the eye of the verse-loving girl-"It is on the principle of these beautiful lines:

66

I could not love thee, dear, so well,
Loved I not honour more!'

Tell her this, I entreat of you! Tell her-" I shall not tell her a word of this, Hester," interrupted Mr. Carlton, taking her hand and drawing her kindly towards him," not a single word! But you must tell me one thing, must answer me one question:-You that seem to have a taste for the rough and the crabbed a talent for softening the veriest churls, do you think now in your little heart that you can ever like me half so well as Giles Cousins?"

"Oh, sir!" ejaculated Hester hopefully, yet doubtingly.

"Can you forgive me?" added Mr. Carlton more seriously; "can you pardon the foolish and wicked prejudice for which I can never forgive myself? I believe that you can, and that you will: and instead of setting off to this place of yours to-morrow morning, we must send your good friend Giles to make your excuses; and you must make my peace with Elizabeth, and we must all go together to Cranley Park. And here is Romeo knocking to be let in, and jumping and skipping as if he were conscious that his best friend was come home. I must give you Romeo, Hester; for he has given you the best part of him, that loving heart of his, long ago. And now, my dear little faithful girl, we must go to poor Elizabeth. To think of her having taught you to love the poetry of Richard Lovelace!"

Six weeks after this interview, Hester and Romeo, two of the happiest creatures in existence, were tripping gaily along a pathway which led from the fine mansion of Cranley Hall to a beautiful cottage at the edge of the picturesque and neatly-wooded park. It was the day famous for the ancient sports and customs of England-the lovely May-day; and the green earth and brilliant sky, the light air and the bright sunshine, were such as to realize the most enchanting description of the old poets. The young grass was studded with cowslips, and cuckoo-flowers, and the enamelled wild hyacinth; and the thickets no less richly set with the fragile wood-anemone, the elegant wood-sorrel, the brightly coloured wood-vetch, and the fragrant wood-roof. The bright green beeches with their grey and shining bark, and the rich brown foliage and rugged trunks of the oaks, set off the old magnificent thorns, whose long garlands of pearly blossoms scented the very air; huge horsechestnuts, with their pyramidal flowers, were dispersed amongst the chase-like woodlands; and two or three wild cherries, of the size and growth of forest-trees, flung their snowy blossoms across the deep-blue sky. A magnificent piece of water, almost a lake, reflected the

beautiful scenery by which it was surrounded, the shores broken into woody capes and lawny bays, in which the dappled deer lay basking, listening, as it seemed, to the concert of nightingales, whose clear melody filled the

air.

All spoke of affluence, of taste, of innocent enjoyment. To breathe that fragrant air, to gaze on that lovely landscape, was to Hester unmingled happiness. She bounded on gay as the pretty favourite who frolicked around her, her sweet face radiant with pleasure, and her melodious voice bursting into spontaneous quotations of the thousand exquisite verses which the spring-loving poets, from Chaucer to Milton, have consecrated to the merry month of May.

One chant of the season particularly haunted her, and would not go out of her head, although she repeated it over and over, purely to get rid of it,-the charming little poem from "The Paradise of Dainty Devices," of which this is the burthen :

64

When May is gone, of all the year
The pleasant time is past."

Now it was with this burthen that Hester quarrelled.

"When May is gone, of all the year

The pleasant time is past,"

quoth Hester." But that is a story, is it not, Romeo?" added she: "at least, I am sure it cannot be true at Cranley; for June will have roses and lilies, and strawberries, and haymaking," continued Hester. And then relapsing into her ditty,

May makes the cheerful hue-" "I won't think of that pretty story-telling and lilies; July will have jessamine and song,-shall I, Romeo? June will have roses myrtle," said Hester. And then again the strain came across her—

"May pricketh tender hearts,

Their warbling notes to tune,
Full strange it is-

"There is nothing so strange as the way in which these lines haunt me," pursued poor Hester:

"When May is gone, of all the year
The pleasant time is past."

"One would think," added she to herself, "that I was spell-bound, to go on repeating these verses, which, pretty as they are, have no truth in them; for at Cranley all times and all seasons, spring, summer, autumn, winter, must be pleasant. Oh, what a sweet place it is! and what happiness to live here with dear, dear Mrs. Kinlay, and dear Mr. Carlton! and to see her so well and cheerful, and him so considerate and kind!-so very kind! Oh, how can I ever be sufficiently thankful for such blessings!" thought Hester to herself, pausing and clasping her hands, while the tears ran gently down her fair cheeks in the

energy of her tender gratitude; and the Mayday verses were effectually banished from her mind by the stronger impulse of affectionate feeling."How can I ever be half thankful enough, or take half enough pains to please one who seems to have no wish so much at heart as that of pleasing me? Oh, how happy I am!-how thankful I ought to be!" thought Hester, again walking on towards the beautiful rustic building which she had now nearly reached; "the slightest wish cannot pass through my mind, but somehow or other Mr. Carlton finds it out, and it turns into realityas if I had the slaves of the lamp at command, like Aladdin! This Dairy-house, now! I did but say how much I liked the old one at Belford, and here is one a thousand times prettier than that! But I shall not like this better, beautiful as it is,-no! nor so well," thought the grateful girl; "for here will be no Giles Cousins with his good wife to welcome me as they used to do there and contrive a hundred ways to cheat me into taking the gifts they could ill spare themselves. Dear Giles Cousins!-he, that was called so crabbed, and who was so generous, so delicate, so kind!-Dear, dear Giles Cousins! how glad he would be to see me so happy! I wonder what I can send him, dear old Giles! Oh, how I should like to see him!"

This train of thought had brought Hester to the rustic porch of the Dairy-house, which was, as she had said, an enlarged and improved copy of that at Belford, constructed with the magical speed which wealth (the true lamp of Aladdin) can command, to gratify a fancy which she had expressed on her first arrival at Cranley Park. Filled with grateful recollections of her good old friend, Hester reached the porch, and looking up to admire the excellent taste displayed in its construction, she saw before her could she believe her eyes? the very person of whom she had been thinking, Giles Cousins himself, with a smile of satisfaction softening his rugged countenance, his good wife peeping over his shoulder, and Mr. Carlton and Mrs. Kinlay in the background, delighted witnesses of the joyful meeting. He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her as he would have kissed the daughter whom he fancied she resembled; and then, seized with a sudden recollection of the difference of station, he begged pardon, and

let her go.

"Oh, Master Cousins!" cried Hester, still retaining his hard rough fist, and pressing it between her delicate hands; "dear Master Cousins! how very, very glad I am to see you and your good dame! It was the only wish I had in the world. Oh, I shall be too happy! And you are come to stay ?-I know you are come to stay!"

"To be sure I be, Miss," responded honest Giles: "come to stay till you be tired of me; -come for good."

“Oh, it is too much happiness!" exclaimed Hester. "How strange it is, that as soon as a wish passes through my mind, Mr. Carlton sees it, and makes it come to pass. Oh, I shall be too happy!" cried poor Hester, the tears chasing each other over cheeks glowing like maiden-roses; "I shall be too happy! and I never can be thankful enough! Was ever any one half so happy before ?—did ever any one deserve such happiness!" exclaimed Hester, as, her tears flowing faster and faster, she flung herself into Mr. Carlton's arms.

Note. That that beautiful race of dogs, the Italian greyhound, is susceptible of a personal partiality distinct from the common attachment of a dog to its master-a preference that may almost be called friendship, I have had a very pleasant and convincing proof in my own person. Several years ago I passed some weeks with a highly-valued friend, the wife of an houses in Newman-street-a house so much too large eminent artist, in one of the large, old-fashioned for their small family, that a part of it was let to another, and a very interesting couple, a young artist and his sister, just then rising into the high reputation which they have since so deservedly sustained. The two families lived with their separate establishments in this roomy and commodious mansion on the best possible terms of neighbourhood, but as completely apart as if they had resided in different houses; the only part which they shared in common being the spacious entrance-hall and the wide stone staircase: and on that staircase I had the happiness of forming an acquaintance, which soon ripened into intimacy, with a very beautiful Italian greyhound, belonging to the young painter and his sister.

I, who had from childhood the love of dogs, which is sometimes said to distinguish the future old maid, was enchanted with the playful and graceful creature, who bounded about the house with the elegance and sportiveness of a tame fawn, and omitted no opportunity of paying my court to the pretty and gentle little animal; whilst Romeo (for such was his name also) felt, with the remarkable instinct which dogs and children so often display, the truth of my professions, the reality and sincerity of my regard, and not only returned my caresses with interest, but showed a marked preference for my society; would waylay me in the hall, follow me up stairs and down, accompany me into my friend's drawing-room, steal after me to my own bedchamber, and, if called by his master and mistress, would try to entice me into their part of the domicile, and seem so glad to welcome me to their apartments, that it furnished an additional reason for my frequent visits to those accomplished young people.

In short, it was a regular flirtation; and when I went away, next to the dear and excellent friends whom I was leaving, I lamented the separation from Romeo. Although I had a pet dog at home, (when was I ever without one?) and that dog affectionate and beautiful, I yet missed the beautiful and affectionate Italian greyhound. And Romeo missed me. My friends wrote me word that he wandered up the house and down; visited all my usual haunts; peeped into every room where he had ever seen me; listened to every knock; and was for several days almost as uneasy as if he had lost his own fair mistress.

Two years passed before I again visited Newmanstreet: and then, crossing the hall in conversation with my kind hostess, just as I reached the bottom of the staircase I heard, first a cry of recognition, then a bounding step, and then, almost before I saw him, with the speed of lightning Romeo sprang down a whole flight of stairs,.and threw himself on my bo

The abode of this amiable damsel was a small neat dwelling, somewhat inconveniently situated, at the back of the Holy Brook, between the Abbey Mills on the one side, and a great timber-wharf on the other, with the stream running between the carriage-road and the house, and nothing to unite them but a narrow foot-bridge, which must needs be crossed in all weathers. It had, however, certain recommendations which more than atoned for these defects in the eyes of its romantic mistress: three middle-sized cypresstrees at one end of the court; in the front of her mansion two well-grown weeping-willows; an address to "Holy Brook Cottage," absolutely invaluable to such a correspondent, and standing in most advantageous contrast with the streets, terraces, crescents, and places of which Belford was for the most part composed; and a very fair chance of excellent material for the body of her letters by the abundant casualties and Humane Society cases afforded by the footbridge-no less than one old woman, three small children, and two drunken men having been ducked in the stream in the course of one winter. Drowning would have been too much of a good thing; but of that, from the shallowness of the water, there was happily no chance.

Miss Savage, with two quiet, orderly, lightfooted, and soft-spoken maidens, had been for some years the solitary tenant of the pretty cottage by the Holy Brook. She had lost her father during her early childhood; and the death of her mother, a neat quiet old lady, whose interminable carpet-work is amongst the earliest of my recollections,-I could draw the pattern now,-and the absence of her brother, a married man with a large family and a prosperous business, who resided constantly in London,-left the fair Selina the entire mistress of her fortune, her actions, and her residence. That she remained in Belford, although exclaiming against the place and its society-its gossiping morning visits and its evening card-parties, as well as the general want of refinement amongst its inhabitants might be imputed partly perhaps to habit, and an aversion to the trouble of moving, and partly to a violent friendship between herself and another damsel of the same class, a good deal younger and a great deal sillier, who lived two streets off, and whom she saw every day and wrote to every hour.

Martha, or, as her friend chose to call her, Matilda Marshall, was the fourth or fifth daughter of a spirit-merchant in the town. Frequent meetings at the circulating library introduced the fair ladies to each other, and a congeniality of taste brought about first an acquaintance, and then an intimacy, which difference of station (for Miss Savage was of the highest circle in this provincial society, and poor Martha was of no circle at all,) only seemed to cement the more firmly.

The Marshalls, flattered by Selina's notice of their daughter, and not sorry that that notice had fallen on the least useful and cheerful of the family-the one that amongst all their young people they could the most easily spare, put her time and her actions entirely into her own power, or rather into that of her patroness. Mr. Marshall, a calculating man of business, finding flirtation after flirtation go off without the conclusion matrimonial, and knowing the fortune to be considerable, began to look on Matilda as the probable heiress; and except from her youngest brother William, a clever but unlucky schoolboy, who delighted in plaguing his sister and laughing at sentimental friendships, this intimacy, from which all but one member was sedulously excluded, was cherished and promoted by the whole family.

Very necessary was Miss Matilda at the Holy Brook Cottage. She filled there the important parts of listener, adviser, and confidant; and filled them with an honest and simple-hearted sincerity which the most skilful flatterer that ever lived would have failed to imitate. She read the same books, sang the same songs, talked in the same tone, walked with the same air, and wore the same fashions; which upon her, she being naturally short and stout, and dark-eyed and rosy, had, as her brother William told her, about the same effect that armour similar to Don Quixote's would have produced upon Sancho Panza.

One of her chief services in the character of confidant was of course to listen to the several love passages of which, since she was of the age of Juliet, her friend's history might be said to have consisted. How she had remained so long unmarried might have moved some wonder, since she seemed always immersed in the passion which leads to such a conclusion: but then her love was something like the stream that flowed before her doora shallow brooklet, easy to slip into, and easy to slip out of. From two or three imprudent engagements her brother had extricated her; and from one, the most dangerous of all, she had been saved by her betrothed having been claimed the week before the nuptials by another wife. At the moment of which we write, however, the fair Selina seemed once more in a fair way to change her name.

That she was fond of literature of a certain class, we have already intimated; and, next after Sterne and Rousseau, the classics of her order, and their horde of vile imitators, whether sentimental novelists, or sentimental essayists, or sentimental dramatists, she delighted in the horde of nameless versifiers whom Gifford demolished; in other words, after bad prose her next favourite reading was bad verse; and as this sort of verse is quite as easy to write as to read-I should think of the two rather easier-she soon became no inconsider

able perpetrator of sonnets without rhyme, and songs without reason; and elegies, by an ingenious combination, equally deficient in

both.

After writing this sort of verse, the next step is to put it in print; and in those days, (we speak of above thirty years ago,) when there was no Mrs. Hemans to send grace and beauty, and purity of thought and feeling, into every corner of the kingdom-no Mary Howitt to add the strength and originality of a manly mind to the charm of a womanly fancy-in those days the Poet's Corner of a country newspaper was the refuge of every poetaster in the country. So intolerably bad were the acrostics, the rebuses, the epigrams, and the epitaphs which adorned those asylums for fugitive pieces, that a selection of the worst of them would really be worth printing amongst the Curiosities of Literature. A less vain person than Miss Selina Savage might have thought she did the H-shire Courant honour in sending them an elegy on the death of a favourite bullfinch, with the signature Eugenia.'

It was printed forthwith, read with ecstatic admiration by the authoress and her friend, and with great amusement by William Marshall, who, now the spruce clerk of a spruce attorney, continued to divert himself with worming out of his simple sister all the secrets of herself and her friend, and was then unfair enough to persecute the poor girl with the most unmerciful ridicule. The elegy was printed, and in a fair way of being forgotten by all but the writer, when in the next number of the Courant appeared a complimentary sonnet addressed to the authoress of the elegy, and signed "Orlando."

Imagine the delight of the fair Eugenia! She was not in the least astonished,-a bad and inexperienced writer never is taken by surprise by any quantity of praise; but she was charmed and interested as much as woman could be. She answered his sonnet by another, which, by the by, contained, contrary to Boileau's well-known recipe, and the practice of all nations, a quatrain too many. He replied to her rejoinder; compliments flew thicker and faster; and the poetical correspondence between Orlando and Eugenia became so tender, that the editor of the H-shire Courant thought it only right to hint to the gentleman that the post-office would be a more convenient medium for his future communications.

As this intimation was accompanied by the address of the lady, it was taken in very good part; and before the publication of the next number of the provincial weekly journal, Miss Savage received the accustomed tribute of verse from Orlando, enveloped in a prose epistle, dated from a small town about thirty miles off, and signed'Henry Turner."

An answer had been earnestly requested,

and an answer the lady sent; and by return of post she received a reply, to which she replied with equal alertness; then came a loveletter in full form, and then a petition for an interview; and to the first the lady answered anything but No! and to the latter she assented.

The time fixed for this important visit, it being now the merry month of May, was three' o'clock in the day. He had requested to find her alone; and accordingly by one P. M., she had dismissed her faithful confidant, promising to write to her the moment Mr. Turner was gone-had given orders to admit no one but a young gentleman who sent in his visiting ticket, (such being the plan proposed by the inamorato,) and began to set herself and her apartment in order for his reception; she herself in an elegant dishabille, between sentimental and pastoral, and her room in a confusion equally elegant, of music, books, and flowers; Zimmerman and Lavater on the ta ble; and one of those dramas-those tragé dies bourgeoises, or comédies larmoyantes, which it seems incredible that Beaumarchais, he that' wrote the two matchless plays of Figaro,* could have written in her hand.

It was hardly two o'clock, full an hour before his time, when a double knock was heard at the door; Mr. Turner's card was sent in, and a well-dressed and well-looking young man ushered into the presence of the fair poetess. There is no describing such an interview. My readers must imagine the compliments and the blushes, the fine speeches de part et d'autre, the long words and the fine words, the sighings and the languishments. The lady was satisfied; the gentleman had no reason to complain; and after a short visit he left her, promising to return in the evening to take his coffee with herself and her friend.

She had just sat down to express to that friend in her accustomed high-flown language, the contentment of her heart, when another knock was followed by a second visiting ticket. "Mr. Turner again! Oh! I suppose he has remembered something of consequence. Show him in."

And in came a second and a different Mr. Turner!!

The consternation of the lady was inex pressible! That of the gentleman, when the reason of her astonishment was explained to him, was equally vehement and flattering. He burst into eloquent threats against the impostor who had assumed his name, the wretch who had dared to trifle with such a passion,

*I speak, of course, of the admirably brilliant French comedies, and not of the operas, whether English or Italian, which, retaining the situations, and hardly the situations, have completely sacrificed the ful originals, and have almost as much tended to inwit, the character, and the pleasantry of the delight jure Beaumarchais's reputation as his own dullest dramas.