Fortescue was. Her child's happiness seemingly so well secured, she had only now to prepare for the solemn change that she felt was not far distant.

From this time, however, her health gradually amended, and the day was fixed for the union of Ethelind and Mr. Barclay. He settled that they should, for the present, reside at the Rectory. Ethelind's countenance brightened, for she fancied she had solved part of the mystery, and that Mr. Eardly was not yet coming, and till his arrival they would be permitted to reside there.

The evening before the ceremony was to take place, Mr. Barclay came in with two ladies. One, a benign but august looking personage; the other, a sylph-like, beautiful creature of eighteen, whom he introduced as his mother and younger sister. Ethelind timidly but gracefully received them. Their kind and easy manner soon removed the little restraint there was at first, but she was still bewildered, and could hardly fancy she was not dreaming; their appearance, too, increased rather than diminished her wonder, for they were most elegantly attired. After allowing a short time for conversation, she went out and fetched her mother, and all parties seemed delighted with each other. After sitting some time, Mr. Barclay, looking at his mother, rose, and taking Ethelind's hand, said, "now, my disinterested girl, allow me to introduce myself as Frederic Barclay Eardly!"

"Can it be possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind at once, and with the utmost surprise, while Lady Eardly and her daughter sat smiling and pleased spectators.

"Yes, my dear Ethelind; but the deception has been very unpremeditated on my part, as you shall hear. Arriving in England alone, I came down, merely intending to look round, having had some reason to be dissatisfied with Mr. Jones, the acting curate, by whom, when I got to the inn, I was supposed to be the new curate, and as such, I believe, received very differently to what I should have been as the rector; and anxious to know exactly the state of my parishioners, thought, in the humble capacity, they had taken me, I might better do this. In calling to see your mother, who, I thought, from her previous good deeds in the parish, was likely to be an efficient adviser, I was invited to tea, and from the conversation of both you and her, I found, that while as the curate I should have free intercourse at the cottage, as the Hon. Frederic Eardly the doors would be closed on me; added to this, was a lurking hope that I might, eventually, gain your affections, and know that you loved me for myself alone. Your reserve however, dispelled, for a time, that illusion. Beatrice Trevor came and threw out lures I could not resist, and I was fairly entrapped; however, I will not dwell on what has led to such happy results.

Bennet, alone, knows my secret."

Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave. She had brought a splendid wedding dress for Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing the plain white muslin she had herself prepared.

A union founded on such a basis, could not fail to bring as much real happiness as mortals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, could expect. Frederic Eardly pa.s.sed many years of usefulness in his native place, aided, in many of his good works, by his amiable wife. But though blessed with many earthly comforts, they were not without their trials, they had a promising family, but two or three were early recalled; and in proportion to their affection for these interesting children, was their grief at the severed links in the chain of earthly love. The mother, perhaps, felt more keenly than the father, but both knew they were blessings only lent, and they bowed submissively.

Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wrote repeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or ten years afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on her death-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenth birth-day. She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but the letter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors into which she had fallen, and their sad results. She had, it would seem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone, and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly, and once more had she injured the peace of others. Farther she might have gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a most virulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beauty was gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past. Her affliction was most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had her life been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct.

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, if possible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters'

principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts to direct their steps aright, might be crowned with success. Her prayers were heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellent mother.

LINES, ON SEEING IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, "THE WATERLOO WALTZ."

BY A LADY.

A moment pause, ye British fair While pleasure's phantom ye pursue, And say, if sprightly dance or air, Suit with the name of Waterloo?

Awful was the victory, Chastened should the triumph be; Midst the laurels she has won, Britain mourns for many a son.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose, Nature seemed to mourn the day, Which consigned before its close Thousands to their kindred clay; How unfit for courtly ball, Or the giddy festival, Was the grim and ghastly view, E're evening closed on Waterloo.

See the Highland Warrior rushing Firm in danger on the foe, Till the life blood warmly gushing Lays the plaided hero low.

His native, pipe's accustomed sound, Mid war's infernal concert drowned, Cannot soothe his last adieu, Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuira.s.sier, See the foaming charger flying Trampling in his wild career, On all alike the dead and dying, See the bullet through his side, Answered by the spouting tide, Helmet, horse and rider too, Roll on b.l.o.o.d.y Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire; Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth, Oh shivered be the recreant lyre, That gave the base idea birth; Other sounds I ween were there, Other music rent the air, Other waltz the warriors knew, When they closed on Waterloo.

THE BOY OF EGREMONT.

The founders of Embsay were now dead, and left a daughter, who adopted the mother's name of Romille, and was married to William FitzDuncan.

They had issue a son, commonly called the Boy of Egremont, who surviving an elder brother, became the last hope of the family.

In the deep solitude of the woods, betwixt Bolton and Barden the river suddenly contracts itself into a rocky channel, little more than four feet wide, and pours through the tremendous fissure, with a rapidity equal to its confinement. This place was then, as it now is, called the Strid, from a feat often exercised by persons of more agility than prudence, who stride from brink to brink, regardless of the destruction which awaits a faltering step. Such, according to tradition, was the fate of young Romille, who, inconsiderately, bounding over the chasm with a greyhound in his leash, the animal hung back, and drew his unfortunate master into the torrent. The Forester, who accompanied Romille and beheld his fate, returned to the Lady Aaliza, and with despair in his countenance, enquired, "what is good for bootless Bene," to which the mother, apprehending some great misfortune, had befallen her son, instantly replied, "endless sorrow."

The language of this question is almost unintelligible at present. But bootless bene, is unavailing prayer; and the meaning, though imperfectly expressed, seems to have been, what remains when prayer avails not?

--_Vide. Whitaker's History of Craven_

Lady! what is the fate of those Whose hopes and joys are failing?

Who, brooding over ceaseless woes, Finds prayer is unavailing?

The mother heard his maddening tone, She marked his look of horror; She thought upon her absent son, And answered, "endless sorrow."

How fair that morning star arose!

And bright and cloudless was its ray; Ah! who could think that evening's close, Would mark a frantic mother's woes, And see a father's hopes decay?

Inhuman Chief! a judgment stern Hath stopped thee in thy mad career; And thou, who hast made thousands mourn.

Must shed, thyself, the hopeless tear, And long, in helpless grief, deplore Thy only child is now no more.

Long ere the lark his matin sung, Clad in his hunting garb of green, The brave, the n.o.ble, and the young, The Boy of Egremont was seen!

Who in his fair form could not trace, The youth was born of high degree; He was the last of Duncan's race, The only hope of Romille.

In his bright eye the youthful fire Was glowing with unwonted brightness; Warm in friendship, fierce in ire, Yet spoke of all its bosom's lightness.

His mother marked his brilliant cheek, And blessed him as he onward past; Ah! did no boding feeling speak, To tell that look would be her last.

He held the hound in silken band, The merlin perched upon his hand, And frolic, mirth and wayward glee Glanced in the heart of Romille.

And oft the huntsman by his side, Would warn him from the fatal tide, And whisper in his heedless ear, To think upon his mother's tear, Should aught of ill or harm befall Her child, her hope, her life, her all; And bade him, for more sakes than one, The desperate, dangerous leap to shun.

He smiled, and gave the herdsman's prayer.

And all his counsel to the air, And laughed to see the old man's eye, Fix'd in imploring agony.

Where the wild stream's eternal strife, Wake the dark echoes into life, Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes, Lost in its everlasting foam; And swift the channeled water rushes, With ceaseless roar and endless storm; And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high, Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky; And o'er the dim and shadowy deep, Yawning, presents a deathful leap.

The boy has gained that desperate brink, And not a moment will he think Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears That are entwined in his young years.

The old man stretched his arms in air, And vainly warned him to forbear: Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay, And mark the dread abyss beneath; Destruction wings thee on thy way, And leads thee to an awful death.

He said no more, for on the air Rose the deep murmuring of despair; One shriek of agonizing woe Broke on his ear, and all was o'er; For midst the waves' eternal flow, The boy had sank to rise no more.

When springing from the dizzy steep, He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky, The affrighted hound beheld the deep, And starting back, he shunned the leap, And by this fatal check he drew Death on himself and master too.

But those wild waves of death and strife Flowed deeply, wildly as before, Though he was reft of light and life, And sunk in death to rise no more.

And he was gone! his mother's smile No more shall welcome his return.

Ah! little did she think the while, Her fate through life would be to mourn!

And his stern sire; how will he brook The tale that tells his child is low!

How will the haughty tyrant look, And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!

While conscience, with his vengeance sure, Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.

Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye Shall shed the sympathizing tear; Hopeless and childless shalt thou die, And none shall mourn above thy bier.

Thy race extinct; no more thy name Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.

Thou art the last! with thee shall die Thy proud descent and lineage high; No more on Barden's hills shall swell The mirth inspiring bugle note; No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell, Its well known sounds shall wildly float.

Other sounds shall steal along, Other music swell the song; The deep funeral wail of wo, In solemn cadence, now shall spread Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow, In requiem dirges for the dead.

Why has the Lady left her home, And quitted every earthly care, And sought, in deep monastic gloom, The holy balm that centres there?

Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook On those deserted scenes to look, Where she so oft had marked her child, With all a mother's joy and smiled, For not a shrub, or tree or flower, But brought to mind some happy hour, And called to life some vision fair.