station in the world. During the interval following his departure from Blakely Hall, he had heard nothing of its inmates, excepting that Mrs Blakely, his kind patroness, had died. In what condition Harriet was, whether single or wedded, he had not learned. But he himself had not forgotten the past, and it was therefore with an anxious and fluttering heart that he perused a letter, which at length came to him from Frank Blakely, inviting him to visit the Hall as a guest and friend. The note was brief, and entered into no particulars. George lost as little time as possible in accepting the invitation, and speedily followed up that acceptance by presenting himself at the gates of the well-known abode of his youth.

He was received in the first instance by Frank alone, and the latter entered at once into a conversation most interesting to his guest.

'My dear George, Harriet is yet unmarried. She has refused all offers since you left us, in so decided a way, that I have at last become convinced that she either resolutely prefers the unmarried state, or still clings to the remembrance of yourself. The subject is a delicate one, and I have had no explanations with her; but I must tell you, that she constantly expresses a wish to remain single, and, as she is quite cheerful, though not very gay, she may in this speak the truth. But you are now in a respectable position in life, and were you even in one less so, I could not see my only sister's chance of earthly happiness, if it does depend on a union with you, thrown away. I learned that you were still unmarried, and now you have my full sanction in addressing Harriet, if you choose it. But be not too confident: I tell you again that she ever expresses a wish to remain single.'

George thanked his young patron most warmly, and confessed that the feelings which had made his former position most trying, were still predominant in his breast. 'But be not too confident,' repeated Frank with a smile, as George concluded his avowal.

George and Harriet were left to themselves for some

moments that evening, and then was seen another proof of the wide applicability of Benedict's reasoning-When I said I would die single, I did not think I should live till I were married.' Harriet Blakely had had much the same meaning in her declarations. George Dale had been her first and only love. Thrown into his society in childhood, she had loved him ere she knew what distinctions of rank were, or at least before she could appreciate them. When George made the offer of his heart and hand, she accepted it with a blushing joy, proportioned to its unexpectedness. So ends our story. It hath a moral, or rather a double moral. It tells parents, in the first instance, that if they would not have the young to form connections out of their station, they must guard against opportunities being given for it, and remember that there is a sort of free-masonry in youth, which takes no cognisance of social inequalities. Ere the consciousness of these is acquired, the affections may be irrevocably engaged. But our little story has also a more pleasing moral; for we find in it self-command, disinterestedness, and high principle displayed under the most trying circumstances, and in the long-run rewarded in the most appropriate manner-namely, by the prize which had been so nobly rejected, when it could not be accepted with honour.*

THE DROP OF DEW.

BY ANDREW MARVELL.-(1620-1678.)

SEE how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn,

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,

For the clear region where 'twas born,

*The reader will find the outline of this true story in the Lounger's Commonplace Book.

Round in itself encloses:

And in its little globe's extent,
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight!
Scarce touching where it lies;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and insecure,

Trembling lest it grow impure,

Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,
Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;
And recollecting its own light,

Does in its pure and circling thoughts express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,

Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day;
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love:
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,
White and entire although congealed and chill;
Congealed on earth; but does dissolving run
Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

ORIGINAL STORY OF KING LEAR.

THE world has long been aware that Shakspeare, transcendent as were his powers both of invention and execution, contented himself in the case of nearly the whole of his plays, with adopting the plots presented to him by the historians, romancers, and dramatists of preceding days. More particularly did he adhere to truth in his historical compositions, the very words of the old chroniclers being frequently used by him, with only such alterations as were necessary to cast them into blank verse. This fact, pro

perly viewed, ought only to add to our estimation of the poet, indicating his consciousness that art could never excel nature, nor the human fancy conceive imaginary events and language more fit to purge the soul by pity and by terror,' or more provocative of laughter, than the realities disclosed in the authentic annals of our kind.

Geoffrey of Monmouth, it is usually supposed, told for the first time the story of King Llyr and his daughters, on which Shakspeare based the inimitable tragedy of Lear. It is related, however, in a Welsh manuscript history of earlier date, entitled the Chronicle of the Kings, and written by a bishop of Wales named Tysilio. This work was composed at the close of the seventh century, and several copies of it are in existence. It thus tells the story of Llyr, or Lear, the eleventh king, according to the account, of Britain—a term then confined in a great measure to Wales:

'After Bleiddud came Llyr, his son, to be king, and he governed in peace and tranquillity for five-and-twenty years; and he built a city upon the river Soram, which he called Caer Llyr, and in another language, Leir Cestyr.*

*Most probably Leicester, which Nennius, in his Historia Brittonum, calls Caer Lleirou-a name not unlike the one here used.

And he had no son, but three daughters, whose names were Goronilla, Regan, and Cordeilla;* and their father had excessive fondness for them, yet he loved the youngest daughter more than the other two. Thereupon, he considered how he might leave his dominions amongst his daughters after him. Wherefore he designed to prove which of his daughters loved him the most in particular, so that he might bestow upon that one the best part of the island. And he called to him Goronilla, his eldest daughter, and asked her how much she loved her father. Whereupon, she swore to heaven, and to the earth, that she loved her father dearer than she loved her own soul; and he believed, then, that this was true, and bequeathed to her the third part of the island, and the man she should most prefer in the isle of Britain to be her husband. After that he called to him Regan, his second daughter, and asked her how much she loved her father; and she, too, swore by the powers of heaven and earth, that she could not, by her tongue, declare how much she loved her father. He then believed this to be the truth, and left to her the third part of the isle of Britain, together with the man she should choose in the island for her husband. And then he called to him Cordeilla, his youngest daughter, and whom he loved the most of all, and he asked her how much she loved her father-to which she answered: "I do not think there is a daughter who loves a father more than she ought; and I have loved thee through life as a father, and will love thee still. And, sir, if thou must know how much thou art loved, it is according to the extent of thy power, and thy prosperity, and thy courage." And thereat he was moved with anger, and said: "Since it is thus that thou hast despised my old age, so as not to love me equally with thy sisters, I will adjudge thee to have no share of the isle of Britain." Thereupon, without delay, he gave to his two eldest daughters the two princes

Shakspeare has softened these names into Goneril, Regan, and

Cordelia.