"My child-Willy-fetch him." He was brought in, and she clasped him to her bosom as well as she could. Her lips moved in secret prayer, and her eyes were upturned to heaven. What sights may not the dying faithful see, which are hidden from us! As if blessed with a vision of peace, her wan face lighted with a sudden joyful smile, and she turned her eyes towards the rector. "Some water, please," she said, so as scarcely to be audible. Then beckoning with her hand to him, she added, as he leant down to catch her words, " Bless me before I die; bless me, O my Father!" once when you first spoke of it, and his crib came from Dorchester three or four days ago." "Then you could take charge of him to-night?" "Quite well; and the sooner the better, you know, if you consult me." "I wish, Mr. Freeman, you would go with me, and you too, Charles. You may perhaps make the matter less awkward, though of course I shall wish to break it to her at first alone, which can be easily managed." So, after breakfast we went; and there on the top step before the door was little Georgie with his flaxen hair, and pale delicate face, lighted up with a bright glad smile. When he saw us he clapped his tiny hands together, and shouted as loudly as a child can shout, "Here's Mr. Montoo, mamma!" and he clambered down the steps one at a time, with his right leg foremost throughout, as fast as he could, and running to us, caught hold of the rector. He raised the little fellow in his arms, and a sad earnest look did he fix on that innocent face which was so soon to brighten his parsonage. He was thinking, doubtless, of his awful charge. But, quickly rousing himself from his reverie, he kissed the dear boy on his fair forehead, and carried him in his arms to the house, while Charles Montague and I remained in the garden. As he passed in, the sun poured down a glowing light on the upturned face of the child, and gilded the falling hair with an almost supernatural brilliancy, as it lay streaming over the arm of the aged clergyman. I could not but think of the Good Shepherd, carrying one of the lambs in his bosom. I trust it was not wrong. However, I am coming the sentimental again in my diary. The old clergyman laid his hands on her head, and gave her the Church's blessing. She took his hand and kissed it, and then kissing her child, (who seemed almost to know what was going on, so quiet was he,) she placed it upon his head, and looked up in the rector's loving, peaceful face, and prayed him with her eyes, for she could no longer speak, that he would take care of the orphan. A change came over her, and the perspiration stood on her face, and she motioned for water. It was brought, but she could not swallow. Her eyes closed, and her lips moved, as if in prayer. We all sank on our knees, and the rector said in a low voice a litany for the departing soul. He ended, and there was no sound-we watched for breathing, but it had ceased. The mother of Willy was asleep in Christ. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." The child was at once taken out of the room, for he was frightened, and was pulling the motionless arm of the departed, to catch attention, as of old. Poor orphan! that may not be. Thou shalt never see her again who once sheltered thee in her bosom from all fears, and loved thee with a mother's tenderest love, till time has ended for thee also, and that last sleep has sealed thee for the grave. How changed both mother and child will be then, who can tell? Meanwhile thy mother careth for thee, Willy, and may be nearer to thee than thou dreamest. Keep her memory as a vestal flame ever pure and bright in thy soul, then shall the presence of the dead be thy best shield and buckler against temptation. Though thy remembrance of her will be faint and phantom-like in after years of manhood, still let the reverence of her being pleasure to be obtained thereby-which signifies, ever preserved in thy heart of hearts, the inmost sanctuary of thy spiritual temple; then wilt thou obey the commandment with promise, then will thy voice be low and subdued if thou chancest to speak of her, and thy love will be eternal, and thou shalt in a measure overlook the partition-wall of flesh, even here, in this thine earthly sojourn! July 21st.-At breakfast this morning the rector said that he intended calling on Mrs. Hutchins, to ascertain her determination about her child. "I have purposely waited so long," he said, "because I wanted her to hear of it first from common rumour, which she is sure to have done ere this, and so it will not take her by surprise. I suppose, Mary dear, that you are prepared to receive little Georgie?" We had not been long walking the narrow circumference of the garden when Mrs. Hutchins made her appearance and invited us to come in. There were tears in her eyes, but a most contradictingly goodhumoured smile playing about her mouth. When we entered, we beheld Mr. Hutchins sitting with both his feet on the fender, in front of the fire-place, reading the newspaper. He did not rise to receive us ; and this piece of ill-breeding was all the more conspicuous and unmeaning as there was no correspond in plain English, that there was no fire in the grate. The child was on a stool, up in a corner, (his usual seat) close by the sofa on which Mr. Montague was sitting. The expression of his face was greatly altered-it was now one of fear. Mr. Hutchins scarcely noticed us by a distant shake of the hand, and did not change his position. A sullen and dogged ill-humour was depicted in the plainest hand-writing on his coarse countenance; and he was endeavouring, most unsuccessfully, to appear engrossed with his paper. "Well, then, Mrs. Hutchins, you will give me leave to run away with Georgie to the Parsonage, won't you?" said the rector. It's "Why, I do not know what to say, Mr. Montague. very hard to be separated from him, for he is a "Oh, yes, papa, quite prepared; I arranged it all at great amusement and comfort to me, I assure you. But then he will not be far off. I shall be able to see him when I like. And it's for his good too, I'm sure, poor fellow. I don't think I ought to stand in the way of that. And then you are all so kind, so very kind to him. I'm sure he ought to be very grateful to you for your goodness in consenting to take the trouble. And he is very fond of you. I assure you he's always talking about you and Miss Mary.” "I thought I would take him back with me at once, if you had no objection. It is better, I think, that it should be done as soon as possible, for your sake." "But that's very soon, Mr. Montague, very soon. It's rather hard to make up one's mind—he is my only child, and it will be dull for me here," but at this point she remembered herself, and, looking with an anxious expression at her husband, she added "when George is away. However, it shall be as you wish. I'm sure you know best." "I think, perhaps, you might consult me, Mrs. Hutchins, before you quite decide to sell your child," growled out Mr. Hutchins from behind his crackling newspaper, which he shook with a decided sort of flap to give emphasis to his words. "Sell him, my dear George! oh, how shockingpoor boy!" and here, taking the little child into her lap, she burst into a flood of tears. Montague and I rose and looked out of the window, talking about the view, to make our presence as little oppressive as possible to the poor mother. "Very sentimental, I dare say," growled the husband. "Lets her child go at once, and then pretends to cry about it. As if he need go at all, if you don't like it!" "Mrs. Hutchins does not seem willing, sir, to allow any selfish feelings to interfere with her child's true interests," said the rector very sternly, as sternly as I had ever heard him say anything. Mr. Hutchins seemed to be taken aback for a moment, but added almost immediately :— “Why, I suppose a father has a right to have a voice in the matter, sir?" "Yes, doubtless," said Mr. Montague, "nobody can dispute that; but I thought I understood that you had left the decision to Mrs. Hutchins." "So you did, you know, George," said Mrs. Hutchins, amid her tears, "for you said you did not care twopence about it, and you would be glad to get rid of his squalling." Here she kissed the child with double fervour, as if to make up to it for having repeated its father's harsh words. "I certainly shall give him that education which my duty as a clergyman requires me to give him, and practical religion will be my main object. In fact, I shall try to make him superstitious, as you call it—it is right that you should know this before you decide. For if you object to this, I tell you openly that I cannot consent to be responsible for his training." "Well, you must take him, I suppose. Come here, sir!" These last words he addressed to his child, who came to him timidly. Placing the little fellow between his legs and lifting up a finger, he thus concluded his harangue. "Mind you're a good boy, do you hear? and do as you're told, and don't talk nonsense. If you do, I hope you'll be well whipped." There was a slight tremulousness in his voice, and I don't think he quite relished parting with Georgie in his heart, though the feeling had mainly developed itself in an unusual exhibition of bearishness. "Would you like to go with Mr. Montague?" asked Mrs. Hutchins. "Of course he will! He must!" said the father. Will you be going with me, mamma?" answered the little child, at the same time that Mr. Hutchins was speaking; but hearing his father's voice he looked back, frightened, and hid his face in his mother's lap. "No, Georgie, but I shall come and see you often, very often; and so will papa; and you will be with Miss Mary, you know, and close by the church which you love so much to go to on Sundays. Won't that be nice, my darling?" The child said nothing, but seemed to be thinking deeply, for his blue eyes were fixed earnestly on his mother's face. At last he kissed her hand, and climbing again upon her knees, caressed her as children only know how best to do; and then getting down, he quietly came to the rector's side and said, looking up to him with a touchingly pensive expression, "Will you love Georgie as mamma does? Will you, though, Mr. Montoo?" This overcame poor Mrs. Hutchins completely, and she was leaving the room, her face buried in her handkerchief, when the little fellow running up to her took her hand and said, "What do you cry for, mamma? Don't cry, there's a dear, dear mamma, or I shall cry too." She took him up in her arms, and, kissing him vehemently, left the room. Mr. Montague took this opportunity to rise and take leave; the child was dressed to accompany us by his father, who actually kissed him before he went, and came out quite civilly to show us to the door. July 23d.-I do not know how it is, but I seem to myself strangely altered within this last month. It seems to me as though the sparkling fount of joyous "But I think it's as well for a wife to make at least a show of consulting her husband on such an occasion," said Mr. Hutchins. "Do you then object to my taking charge of ness which once gushed forth from my heart were Georgie?" inquired the rector. "Why, no; that's another matter; of course I don't wish to stand in the way of his advancement and comfortable settlement in life. But I suppose he'll be taught all sorts of superstitious and fanciful notions, and learn to be excellently unfit for a practical life." dried up; and as though the airy tread and activity of my youth were gone by, and an autumn were passing upon me. My spirit seems to sit alone in a silent thicket beside a babbling streamlet, and the shade of thick leaves is over my head-and pensive music floats over my heart's responsive strings, like the weary plaint of the nightingale—and wind-sighs stream, to the unreached, uncomprehended distance! Expansive, all-embracing as the Universe, thou hast no resting place for thy wings, save on the tallest mountain-top basking in the full light of the unclouded sun! July 26th.-To-day, as we were busy at lunch, indulging in cheese and home-brewed beer, by way of a comfortable preparation for a rather long walk before dinner, the post arrived with two letters for the rector, the contents of which were soon common property, and they certainly formed the oddest imaginable contrast. They were both from solicitors, the one to this effect : come fitfully from a far distance, and a luxurious | sentinels smile friendlily, and the trusty air carries sorrow has softened down the gayest and brightest | the melody in its bosom over¡ tree, glen, field and tints in the picture of life. Yet withal there breathes, more than ever, over all things around me, a breath of loving poetry which I knew not before. The quiet lane shaded with overarching trees, the secluded meadows, with their steep surrounding slopes, the peaceful rivulet, the gray old church, the wild flowers, whose sparkling eyes peep through the hedge upon the deep rutted road, and above all, the moonlit night when silence hovers over field and tree which lie bathed in the pale sheen, have a message for me inexpressibly soothing and subduing. It is now a night of most heavenly beauty. I can hear from the opened window of the room the wild ghost-like howling of the owl, sailing with its heavy flapping wings about the church tower, which I can see, edged with silver, above the light-tipped heads of the trees. There is not a cloud in the midnight heaven, and the moonbeams stealing amid the thick foliage shine like the last visions of consolatory hope in the heart of the downcast. There is a stillness which may be felt, and the breath of the night air creeps in, burthened with flower-incense most refreshing to the wearied. Surely such is the half-life of Dante's Place of Longing; the sleep of a night, without the 'glad light and "Soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony." I suppose it is because all the active turmoil of the busy world is asleep, and life is tuned to an unbroken calm, and the celestial star-watch look down from their lofty fields of dark azure on the unhappy and heart-sick with guardian eyes of holy love, and there is no discord in the wooing melodies of nature. The moon is indeed queen of love; she would gather to her own pure bosom the unfathomable depths and countless waves of ocean—never satiated, ever long- | ing. And, thus attracted, ocean's flowing tide rises higher and higher, in ready sympathy. What should we not be in this dark place of disappointment and distress, without the life of love as it flows onward to the infinite? Spirit of sadness, spirit of vexation and hardship, and yet withal spirit of sweetest purification, in such a night as this dost thou chant thy burthen of soul-subduing sympathy, and the heavenly "Rev. Sir, I am very anxious to discover a Helen Jewell, who is the widow of a John Jewell, once a workman in a cloth manufactory on the Kensington Road, and who afterwards hanged himself. I have lost all traces of her in London, but accidentally heard, a day or two ago, that a person of that name was living in your parish. I should therefore be much obliged if you would let me know whether you are acquainted with any woman answering to the above description. "I remain, Rev. Sir, your obedient servant, 66 Chancery Lane." This letter excited much curiosity among us, as may be imagined. The other was from a Mr. Holden, also a solicitor, and a personal friend of the rector. It enclosed a letter which he had received from Miss Hawkner, and which he gave the rector full liberty to use as he pleased, as he was desirous of preventing Miss Hawkner from carrying out her present intention, and so falling into the hands of some sharper who might rob her and make her ridiculous. said he had himself written to her, and, among other things, had informed her that he had forwarded the in his hands. The letter of the old lady was read letter to Mr. Montague, so that it was now entirely aloud, and we all laughed till, in pure mercy to ourselves, Montague and I slipped out into the garden, for we were quite breathless. I got a copy of this rich production, and here it is. He "Dear Sir, I have been in very deep affliction since I last wrote to you, but I have had strength given me to bear up against it. It may indeed be said of me that I have been in a land of much drought, but in the midst thereof I have been much refreshed and comforted by the dear minister at under whom I usually sit. The precious colonel has been suddenly released. He did not suffer much pain, but passed away like a lamb. It is very delightful and consoling to me to recollect that he was much changed before he died. He had been very dark and carnal, but the sabbath before he died he went with me to hear dear Mr. preach, and was visibly edified and enlightened. Is not this a blessed thought? But while he was ill the formalists in this parish would not let him alone, and I am sorry to "No, Mr. Hutchins; what is it? That you have made another pun, perhaps?" "No-guess again—though that's true, too. Well, I won't keep you in suspense, for women are so full of curiosity. Eh, Montague? What do you think of the Chartists having begun to kick up a row at Dorchester?" "No, you don't say so!" "Yes, I do, though; and what's more, you'll find it true. Not that I care for myself at all, because I have nothing for them to take worth having, in my house; but it will be dreadful work for the poor." The ridiculous inconsistency of this speech was made the more evident by the tremulousness of his voice, and the very perturbed expression of his countenance. "I suppose they will begin with the parsons, as they've done in so many other places; so look out for yourselves if they come here. What will you do now, Montague, eh, if they should come?" "There will be time enough to think of that," said the rector, "when there really is a likelihood of their visiting this secluded village. At present it seems highly improbable." say that that Mr. Montague, who is, as I believe you know, the clergyman here, actually so pestered him, that he was driven into leaving his property to his godson, a little boy, the son of the surgeon of this place, whose vulgar wife is always quarrelling and beating the child, and will not let her husband have a moment's peace. As to the father, he is utterly irreligious and ill-disposed-but there is no wonder at anything in this place, it is so dark; however, it is better than we deserve to have it. Mr. Montague has behaved shamefully. He ordered all the matter of the funeral, and his son was chief mourner. Would you believe it?-And only think of the colonel having left all his property to that unhappy little vessel whom I have already mentioned, and who will doubtless grow up as bad as his parents! It is the greatest grief to my mind to think how shockingly this trust will be abused to the spread of evil, for no good can come of the boy, as he is to be trained by these Montagues. I want, therefore, to know from you whether I can recover my right to the property by any form of law, as I would give anything to prevent the evil one from triumphing; and I am sure, if those conceited Montagues succeed, the cause of true religion will suffer. Will you let me know if anything can be done? There is no doubt whatever that he was imposed upon. I also want to know if you have heard from my tenant at Malvern. I grieve very much for the wretched state of this unfortunate place, the blindness and religious ignorance is shock- "There are some men, you know, who are women," ing. You must excuse my writing so openly on our said young Montague, in a cold precise tone, turning short acquaintance, but I am in need of consolation | his glance towards Mr. Hutchins, (for he had before and sympathy, and I do not know a really pious person | been looking out of the window,) "and they need to whom I can tell my feelings and pour out my not be thought of, for they think enough of themheart; for as to Mr. Montague, if it is not uncharitable | selves." to say so, I do not believe he is sincere; indeed, he cannot be, for no one can fail of seeing the contrast between him and my dear minister at Will you kindly ask your dear lady to send me some patterns of the fashions of the season? I can trust no taste as I can hers. The patterns which she before sent me possessed true Christian simplicity, with the handsomest materials, and did full justice to the figure. If she will take the same trouble in my behalf now, I shall be greatly obliged, as one becomes conspicuous by avoiding the fashion of the day with unseemly | openness, and here it is impossible to discover what the fashion is, we are so out of the way. I am thank-company, but that was before I became a surgeonful to say that, considering my affliction, I am pretty well and quite resigned. Praying that you may have every temporal and spiritual blessing, I remain, your sincere friend and well-wisher, "C. HAWKNER." The rector has determined to go to Miss Hawkner and remonstrate with her, and has asked his son to Just as we had recovered from accompany him. our excessive mirth at this epistle, who should come in but Mr. Hutchins, in the best possible humour? He had called, he said, to see how Georgie was getting on. "Have you heard the news, Miss Mary?" inquired he, seating himself by the side of Miss Montague. "Well, if I were you," resumed Mr. Hutchins, "I should ask for a troop of militia. It will be dreadful if we are unprotected; not that it matters to us men, but the women, you know, must be thought of." "I don't understand what you mean by that clever speech, Charles, unless you mean me; and if so, I treat it with utter contempt, as I know the quarter from which it comes." And his thick neck, bald head, coarse face, and even his fat paddling hands, flushed crimson. 46 Oh, of course I could not mean you, Mr. Hutchins, for one cannot fail of appreciating unselfishness and bravery, you know, wherever one meets with them. You were in the militia, once, I believe, a perfect warrior on the martial plains of Dorset?" "Yes, I was so; and they were going to give me a now I am exempt, you know." "I am aware of it," returned Charles, "and of course tremble so much the more for the defencelessness of our village. However, I hope you will consent to lead our rustic troops in case of an invasion." "I dare say I shall not be back ward if occasion offers —at least, not more so than my neighbours." This Mr. Hutchins meant to be very severe, and then turning to Miss Montague, he asked— "When the seat of a dining-room chair was like two celebrated characters in English history? Give it up? I know you can't guess it. Well-it's when its new. Because its horsehair in jist-just in, you know. (Horsa, Hengist)." |