sank, her child's name (coupled with forgive- | “We were anxious for the calm, quiet joys of 66 6 'Mary,' it ran, for I have it now before me, Mary, he has betrayed me! It was all true, the tale they told. Oh God! oh God! that I should live to say it. Yet still I loved him, ay, so loved him, that though I knew him guilty, miserably, unredeemingly guilty, I clung to him, worshipped him still; I would have done so yet; I would have followed him wherever his wild will led; I would have been faithful, loving, to the end; but he has trampled on me, scorned, betrayed, forsaken me, laughed at my mad folly in so loving him; sneered at the weak credulity which believed in his truth and worth; and more, he has dared assert that our marriage was null and void, a mere mockery of form; that I have NO claim on him; that he has done by me as by many others, deceived, betrayed, and left to die. Die! I WILL NOT die till my unborn babe is righted, till I have proofs that the marriage was not false. I know it was not, and he knows it also; for he has quailed before me in the utterance of his foul lie. I will traverse Italy till I have discovered the priest who united us, till I have proofs that I am not the foul thing he, even he, the merciless betrayer, has dared to term me. Mary, I WILL do this; you know me; I shall not fail. And when it is done, when my child is cleared from aught of stain, I will come to my mother's grave (he told me I had killed her), come to her grave and die!' "Florence, my child, will you read this unmoved? Has it no deeper voice than the mere narrative of one now gone? Alas, alas! I dare not hope it. Nature will have voice. My child, my blessed child, believe those words, believe them as I do, as I have ever done, that she was not deceived, but the villain foiled himself. fate nor chance, but I do believe that a Father's arın is round us; that a Father's love will spare my child all needless woe; and, if it be not for a special good, will permit these papers to remain unseen for ever. "The emotions caused by that dreadful letter occasioned premature confinement. I was very ill some weeks; but my child, a girl, though weakly, promised to survive. But for Madeleine what could we do? The letter bore no date, no place of residence; the post-mark was obliterated all seemed a dark, shapeless mystery, which no effort could solve. We were then at Rome, and the wisest plan appeared to be, to return to Florence, and there wait (making every possible inquiry meanwhile) my poor friend's appearance; I never doubted she would come. Though her intentions with regard to the curé who had married them were vague and undefined, I knew her so well that I felt convinced she would persevere in finding him, and hoped she had more perfect intelligence of his abode than her letter revealed. To Florence then we determined on returning, as soon as my strength would permit; it was full ten weeks after hearing from her ere but so greatly had my health been shaken that and one female attendant who had long been in we set off. My child of course accompanied us, Madame Montoni's service, and was faithfully attached to us all. About the middle of the denly taken ill. No house or village being near, second day's journey my poor babe was sud reach some town where medical aid might be we proceeded as rapidly as possible, hoping to procured. Speed, however, for my infant was of fell, and just as we reached a miserable-looking no avail; she expired in my arms before evening band saw that assistance for our child was indeed house near the source of the Arno. My hus 66 vain; but being greatly alarmed for me, he determined, if he could but procure a comfortable room, to remain there that night instead of going farther. pitably, but declared she hardly knew how to "The hostess received us kindly and hoshad was occupied by a lady who had only been accommodate us, as the only good room she adding that the poor lady was quite alone, and confined three days, and was very ill indeed; she thought something was wrong in her mind, she looked and talked so strangely. Much more she might have said, but I heard her not; a new and terrible emotion roused me from the stupor which had fallen on me; strength, mental and bodily, seemed suddenly restored in the thought that Madeleine, my poor Madeleine was found, and needed me; I flew to the apartment pointed out as hers, I stood beside the miserable couch, and one glance sufficed me. Notwithstanding the awful change from blooming health to the hues of death-for at first I thought she suffering friend. She lay as if unconscious, save was gone for ever-I recognised my beloved and that her arm clasped her child, who was sleeping in all the peace of infant slumber, its little head cradled on the bosom which had nought but love to give. "Madeleine,' I shrieked, as I threw myself on my knees beside her, and pressed the thin, cold hand again and again to my lips; Madeleine, friend, sister; speak to me but one word; tell me you know me-love me.' "My wild words recalled the departing soul; her eyes opened, fixed themselves on my face with such a glare of inquiry, of hope struggling with doubt, that I could scarcely sustain the gaze; and then she sprung up; she threw one arm convulsively round my neck, and the wild, sharp, agonized accents of her voice thrill on me now. 66 Mary-Mary--Mary,' she reiterated; God has brought you-none but He, to save, love my child, my child-no stain, no shame. I have and her voice was lost in a gurgling rush of blood, streaming from mouth and ear and nostril; her head drooped, her arm sunk powerless—a few minutes, the rushing torrent ceased, and all was still! "I know not how long I remained kneeling motionless beside the couch, gazing as if fascinated on the countenance of the dead, gleaming forth in such ghastly whiteness from the dark lurid stains which had dyed the linen all around her. I heard not my husband's voice, nor knew that he stood beside me. It was the feeble wail of an infant which aroused me; bewildered and feverish, I imagined it the voice of my own child, and snatched it to my bosom; its little face and hands and dress were dyed with its mother's blood. Fearfully, hurriedly, I removed those unseemly stains, clothed it in clean, refreshing garments; and then I gave it food, its natural food; and as it eagerly and helplessly clung to my breast, as I felt its little head nestling against me as my own poor babe had done, sense and energy returned in a passionate burst of tears. 66 "Night came. They had removed all that was horrible from the chamber of death; and side by side they had laid the dead, my infant and my friend. All but my own maid believed them mother and child; and there was no need to dispel the illusion. That night, as I looked upon the innocent babe so strangely, so providentially thrown upon my care, the sole record of those I had loved with a daughter's and sister's tenderness, who appeared made mine to fill up the void which my poor babe's death had wrought; as I felt how utterly it was dependent upon me, nay, mine in all save life itself, I knelt before my husband, I conjured him to let me call it ours, to fold it to our hearts in lieu of the infant taken from us; like her it was a girl, and whoever its father might be, we robbed it, by adoption, of no legal heritage. It was indeed a weighty boon, though at the moment I knew not its extent; I only saw the struggle in my husband ere he could grant it. He bade me reflect on all I might draw down upon myself-we knew nothing of its father, but that he was a man of sin; we knew not even if its birth were legitimate. He bade me ponder well if, should we have other children, I could still bestow on our adopted one the same love. It needs not to repeat all that passed between us. It was evident his only objection was its doubtful birth, and the evil passions it might inherit from both its parents. Even after a long struggle, and he had granted my boon, and granted it in such a manner as tenfold to increase the love and esteem I bore him, he still wished me to bring up the child as an adopted one, not as my own, fearing the effect of concealment and deception on my own heart. But at such a moment I could not realize this fear-I could not believe that ought of misery or remorse could spring from a deception only acted to secure the happiness of an innocent being committed to my care. And even to this my generous Edward at length acceded. And in after years, when in your deep yearnings for Italy, your love for all that was high and noble in art and poetry, there I traced your mother's nature, and trembled lest similar sufferings should be yours; when I saw you quitting the child, for the high-souled loving girl, and I thought on all woman's trials, and dark forebodings and remorseful fears crept over me, bidding me dread I knew not what. Never once did my beloved husband upbraid me for having acted contrary to his advice; nay, he could not share my fears; for when I was tortured by the feeling that, even to secure your happiness, I had done wrong-that there was actual sin in forfeiting the straight line of truth, he soothed me by the assurance, which I could see he felt himself, that I had done right—I had secured the happiness of our adopted, and given him a treasure blessed and blessing as his own children. And so we both felt, my Florence. Every year that passed bringing forth new virtues, new qualities to endear. We blessed God for you, my child, as for our others; ay, and bless him now, for what have you not been to us? how blessedly have you repaid our cares ! Are you not ours still? Mine has been the breast to nourish, the hand to guide, the lips to train. Florence, my beloved, my own, oh! think of me, call me your mother still. "My strength is waning, my sweet child. With increase of difficulty my pen resumes its task. By my poor Madeleine's dying words, it seemed to us that she must have obtained some positive proof of the legality of her marriage, and was in possession of papers to that effect. Greatly to our disappointment, however, not any such could be found. The hostess reiterated her assurances that the poor lady had brought nothing with her, and as there could be nothing in a bundle of papers to tempt cupidity or falsehood, we were compelled to believe her. My husband, I saw, imagined poor Madeleine's words the mere excitement of her own belief. I could not think this, and still believe she had foundation for her assertion. There was no need of a bribe to persuade our hostess to declare, if any inquiries should be made, that the poor infant had died with its mother; for she herself believed it was so. I know not if such G inquiries were ever made, for we never saw the vale of Arno nor its inmates again. Our own maid, the only participator of our treasured secret, was too faithfully attached to us and to the poor child ever to divulge it. Even in her marriage (for she married soon afterwards, and went to France), to the hour of her death, it never passed her lips. We stayed another year in Italy, and then returned to England. Walter and Minie were successively granted us, and the love you bore them, the constant sacrifices of your own childish pleasures to enhance theirs, only strengthened the links between us, and instead of lessening the love we bore you, incalculably increased it. All was forgotten, save that you were indeed our own. "Nearly three-and-twenty years have passed since the day which made you ours; yet never have we heard the name of Charles Neville, or traced his course. His countenance, his figure were too remarkable ever to be forgotten or mistaken, and notwithstanding the lapse of years, both my husband and myself would have recognised him on the instant, had he ever crossed our path. Every inquiry we could make without exciting suspicion was made both in Italy and England, but all have been without effect; and if he still lives, it must be under some other name. I have seen none like him, none who ever recalled his features-I am wrong, I have seen one, but the image was faint and shadowy; yet it brought back thoughts of the past, strangely and undefinably. My hand fails me -what is this sudden mist? Florence-my child-" THE MOON IS BRIGHT. The moon is bright, in azure light And, 'neath her beams, the mists of night, 'Tis sweet to gaze on the moonlit rays, In mystic beauty blending; Whilst stars a brilliant coronet Their fairy light are lending. But the floating clouds from their amber shrouds The morning beams are parting, And swift the glorious lamp of day From its golden bed is starting. We search again, but all in vain, Where the barque of heaven" was riding; Unseen, amidst the sunbeam's glare, Its silver orb is gliding. Thus, like the moon, how oft too soon, Amidst their blaze sweet Friendship's rays Sweet flowers of springHeart-flowers of early years, Dewed o'er with happy tears, Young hopes and tender fears, Passed, passed and gone; Yet are there left us some Bright things to cheer our homeBright things that gladly come Fresh as the dawn. Spirit-gifts to the soul, Fancies, are ye; Scorning the world's control, E'en 'mid our sorrowing, Out of our sight. Which oft we see- Strung i' the tree- Out of our sight. Dryads of pathful woods- Dreams of delight!- Mingling with manhood's tears Old happy things Bright thoughts the world derides, Purest delight- Out of our sight. Courteous Reader! Have you not, in the course of your peregrinations through the highways and by-ways of this many-visaged world, frequently met with a being, pursuing his daily avocations without any precise object in view, undecided what to do, and indecisive in all that he does? If so, that man is the waverer! Suppose we devote a few minutes to the inspection of his character. If ever mortal was "bound in, to saucy doubts and fears," the waverer is that individual. Uncertainty marks all his actions, perplexity rules his every thought, and timidity sways each word that he utters. His resolutions are no more to be depended upon than the wind that blows. Should he, as he may vainly imagine, have made up his mind to one thing yesterday, by to-day he has either consulted a friend, turned it over in his mind, or some fresh view of the matter has struck him which entirely alters his purpose, and formed a conclusion which is as equally liable to be upset as the preceding; for the waverer is a man who never will act on the spur of the moment, but always on the principle of second thoughts being the best. Firmness, promptitude, and decision, in fact any qualities bearing affinity to these, are characteristics of which he is altogether deficient. Hence the waverer never attains that eminence which another without half his talent will and does reach, heedless of all obstacle. He seldom lacks sense; it is fixedness of purpose, and a stock of that useful article so nearly allied to impudence, and yet not impudence, commonly designated easy assurance" that he is wanting in. Neither will he make the most of opportunities falling in his path, but let them slip away as though unserviceable and valueless. 66 The waverer is of a retiring disposition, undesirous that the star of public favour should ever shine on him. No man can be less anxious for popular applause than himself; a very lucky coincidence, truly, since how many disasters and failures would befall him in his career were it otherwise! He is generally a "nervous, fidgetty body," which, by-the-bye, greatly tends to swell the sea of doubt flowing around him. Poor fellow! (smile, if you please, he certainly deserves the epithet) when in a large company, from an absurd fear of doing something contrary to fashion's strict laws, and thus rendering himself unavoidably conspicuous, he sits in misery the whole time, and at the hour of separation seeks his own abode with as much pleasure as an uncaged bird flies to its native woods. Not only in important affairs does his character shew itself, but in the most trivial occurrences also. Sometimes these wavering propensities are born with the man himself. In such case they ever abide with, "And cling through life inseparably close" to, the possessor; but they are often the offspring of habit, brought on by indulging in them, and giving way to that thief of time, procrastination. Frank L was a waverer, a born waverer too, and from his first appearance in the world, "to play at leap-frog with its troubles," gave indications of the fact. Frank had what we call a good education bestowed on him; and at the age of seventeen threw off the trammels of school. Unluckily for him, he possessed a father indulgent in the highest degree. Mr. L kind gentleman, was one of those who let boys have their own way too much. So when the point arose what should be his son's future employment, he did not press him to anything in particular. "Let Frank choose for himself," he remarked; "'t will be the best in the end"-an assertion, it must be candidly avowed, open to very great dispute. Being an only son, of course he was his mother's pet; so little coercion arose in that quarter. Situated thus, and with his wavering mind, no wonder the young man "took time to consider," or rather to silence the many "ifs and buts" that engrossed his attention on the subject. Two years of the most valuable part of life did Frank waver away ere he could determine whether to be one of England's merchant kings or a surgeon. At length, with the aid of others (unquestionably not of himself, for who of the class ever did yet?), he decided on the latter vocation-a profession requiring a greater amount of self-confidence than any one that may be named. After going through the regular training, as Sam Weller would express it, he became a thorough sawbones." Then the question had to be discussed where he should commence practising? A. and B. were towns that attracted his notice, as advantageous places for this purpose; but the former was certainly the more desirable. Frank, however, had to undergo his allotted quantum of wavering before coming to a conclusion: meanwhile he received intelligence that he had been forestalled at A. Hobson's choice was now left. Being eased of the burden of fixing for himself, he settled at B., and mounted a brass-plate according to time-honoured custom. The said brass-plate had not often undergone the burnishing process, neither had the repose of the bell-handle engraved "Surgery" been many times disturbed, when one morning, at breakfast, while employing himself in the perusal of the newspaper organ of the town, Frank caught his eye on an advertisement addressed To Medical Practitioners." It appeared that a vacancy had occurred in the surgical staff of a hospital at B., and gentlemen were requested to offer themselves for the situation, as the governors would proceed to supply it in a short time. “Ha!" exclaimed Frank, as he laid down the paper when he had finished reading the announcement, "just the thing for a young member of the profession like me. I'll issue a circular, and offer myself at once." Doubtless he would have done so had he not been a waverer; but being such, did not! "Ahem!" said he, as he paused over the task of penning the circular; "perhaps I had better not be doing things in too much of a hurry, so I'll just mention the affair to Jack Nhis opinion shall decide." This is always the custom of waverers. Whether through timidity or stupidity is uncertain, but they never will act on their own mental promptitude without troubling some special intimate, whose advice they delude themselves by supposing shall be their guide. Half an hour afterwards, Frank called on his friend, and was of course advised to proceed agreeably with his resolve. But what avail? the solitary cogitation had still to be gone through; and the plan finally formed was to wait awhile, and see who would come forward; "as it would be," he said, "rather mortifying to be pitted against an old stager, and come off second best.' The waverer therefore halted, accordingly, till the next number of the newspaper appeared. It contained no address from any other party. Our hero, when aware of the fact, thus imagined he had a clear stage and a great deal of favour before him; so at once began canvassing. Was it successful? Alas! no. To his disappointment he found that the majority of the governors had promised their support to another, who had secretly taken an early opportunity of soliciting votes in person. At the same time, to heighten it, all expressed their regrets, &c.; were not aware, &c.; himself as a candidate, or &c.; in the ordinary manner. The eventful day arrived, and Frank found himself beaten by one whom he could have left in a miserable minority had he himself been sooner "in the field:" but it was part of his destiny to be, as thousands have been, THE VICTIM OF WAVERISM. It were needless to relate all the occurrences of his life where his vacillating disposition proved his bane; I will, however, mention the following: It was a December morning, some snow which had fallen the previous day had frozen in the night, and rendered the streets, in consequence of their slippery state, extremely dangerous to pedestrians. Several accidents happened. Among the rest, a poor labouring man fell down and severely fractured his thigh; this was near the wavering surgeon's residence. As is usual in these cases, the nearest medical man was sent for. Frank answered the summons, and saw at a glance that amputation was the course to be pursued; but, as the reader is aware, he wanted the true qualification for the profession, decision. Thus he allowed himself to reflect. "This man," thought he, "depends upon his limbs for support; perhaps a family also. How cruel, therefore, to deprive him of their service while there is hope." And as the sufferer himself seemed averse to the operation, he was induced to set the broken limb as well as he could, and use the extreme alternative, if requisite, at a future time. So the man was conveyed to his home, a short distance from B. This delay, however, caused death. On Frank's calling the next day, matters had taken a bad aspect. Mortification had secretly commenced, and the poor fellow was weakened in his frame to such a degree that while undergoing the operation of dismemberment, which was now found absolutely necessary, ;he sunk under the torture, and soon afterwards expired. Still the most galling part of the business to Frank was to hear it rumoured abroad that bad management had led to this result. Frank's conscience told him a similar tale; but, I repeat, he was a born waverer! | Year stole after year, the few patients the M.R.C.S. ever had dropped away "by one, two, and three" when he himself was taken seriously ill. It was a disease that required the closest and earliest attention. His friends besought him to take the advice of a brother Professor, and after much ill-timed wavering—(it was the ruling passion strong to the last!)-he consented. "Two of a trade seldom agree," says the proverb. So it was, unfortunately, in this instance. Frank had learnt a different method of treatment to his attendant; he, therefore, would not trust himself wholly to his prescrip tions, followed his own plan a little, and the other's less, and between two stools fell to the ground, thus "Making his exit, vulgarly called DEATH." ON A YOUNG LADY. Banks of the Yore. |