dered that he had a share in thy death, and that he intended to keep her on the blood-money."

“Villain! villain!" cried Edward; "with God's help will I avenge this cruelty! On, Willie, with thy tale!"

"When first he told this to Mistress Kate," continued Willie, "she fell upon the floor, and it was thought he had killed her; but, poor thing, she was not dead: my Cicely tended her affectionately in a painful illness that followed. During this time, Andrew Westrill came, and, as she lay almost dying, told her again that thou wert murdered, her faith to thee solved, and threatened her, unless she wedded Spenton."

"On! on!" cried Edward, in agony; "oh, what torture is this! But there is justice!"

"She told him," said Willie, "that, if thou wert really dead, she soon should join thee; that in the heaven to which she was going, there would be none to cross her love! Poor Kate! they still urged and threatened her: no choice was left; and some days since, ill as she was, she fled, with my Cicely, from her wicked brother's roof, to avoid the daily torment."

"And thou knowest not where she is! She may have perished from exposure to this wintry air! She may-I will find her! Be she happy angel, or afflicted mortal, I will avenge these cruel wrongs !

1

They had descended the hill, and now entered the little village. Mat Maybird parted from them, to visit his father and friends. Edward and Willie continued on their

way.

"This is the cottage," said Willie; "thou remember'st it; in happy times hast thou travelled hither many a summer evening, to walk in the garden with Mistress Kate, and I to visit the charming Cicely. Ah!" continued he, "those were delightful days, when she and I were on our knees together, thinking of love as we scrubbed the kitchen floor! Oh, Cicely! the house is dreary now! The floors want scrubbing, now Cicely is away; and Mistress Kate's garden is sadly neglected!"

"See! " said Edward, as the tears rose to his eyes for the first time; "this was her own flower-bed, that she tended so carefully, and planted with the sweetest flowers: look, Willie, look at the weeds that now overrun it!"

"Ah!" said Willie; " and this other is the bed that I helped Cicely to weed, when I took leave of her before starting with thee! We should find plenty of work there now!"

The house was empty, for Andrew Westrill had also left it; and as Edward and Willie entered, similar remembrances met them at every step. Here was a guitar that Kate had played; there was a poor bird-dead and stiff-that Kate had cherished! Edward remembered when first she had it; 'twas last winter, when she found it dying, and warmed it to life in her bosom it was dead now, and the bosom that once had warmed it might, perhaps, be cold itself.

And now, as Edward gazed upon the lifeless favourite, all the bright dreams of days of old arose to complete the anguish of his soul. Oh, how often, during the months now past, had thoughts of Ellerton softened a soldier's hardships; and the pure image of Kate Westrill, graven on his heart, how often had it urged him on to glory! how often, in the dangers of the fight, had the remembrance of Kate's mild blue eye stayed the cruel arm of bloodshed, and, where war knew no pity, there was a bright genius that possessed the warrior's soul, and pleaded ever-mercy. On Ellerton, and on the gentle Kate, how many hopes had rested; every scheme of happiness, every hope of joy, every thought of peace and bliss-here, here had all been centered: here now all crumbled into dust! In Kate Westrill's home, where often he had heard her cheerful tones of love, and gazed upon her smile, there was a dreary solitude-the very bird she cherished, that used to know her gentle voice, and would joyously flutter at the sound, as it responded in notes not more melodious, whose daily song was tuned to the praise of its tender mistress-the very bird was dead!

Nor was Willie Bats without his reminiscences: the kitchen, with its pots and saucepans, contained not an article but that brought the charming Cicely to his mind; and, as he roved from thence to the dairy, new thoughts crowded upon him. He remembered how on this spot he and Cicely had sipped the new-brought milk; on that, he had driven away a sly poaching cat, that was tasting similar delights.

However different the objects that excited the feelings of Heringford and his humble friend; however differently they were manifested, yet in both they were equally deep: one felt as acutely as the other the piercing chill of his desolation.

(To be continued.)

PASSING AWAY.

THE Solemn vesper bell had rung

The lingering "knell of parting day," And pure and holy voices sung

Their lowly evening roundelay.

The stars were beaming far above,
With softened light, as clear as day;
And, musing on the realms of love,
Upon my humble couch I lay.

But sleep forsook my aching brow,
And heavenly visions by me fled,

So bright, that memory sees them now,
As round and round my couch they sped.

And first I saw an infant band,

With cheeks and lips of roseate hue; They passed, and each one, in his hand, Held forth a snowdrop tipped with dew.

And singing, in their childish glee,

With hearts yet free from worldly care, "As pure and spotless white are we, As the sweet flow'ret that we bear."

The chorus of that infant throng

Was sweet and true as was the lay,
For this the burden of their song,
"Passing away! passing away!"

They vanished; and there came a troop
Of youths, in merry concourse met;
Their snowdrops had begun to droop,
But health's glad hue was on them yet.

They sung no more their ancient song

Of "Pure and spotless white are we."

The world's dark cares had touched that throng,
And envy 'mongst them I could see.

But still, methought they gaily sung
The burthen of their former lay,
And in my ear their voices rung,
"Passing away! passing away!"

But they were gone, and into view,
A manly multitude there came;
Their snowdrops were nigh faded, too,
Scorched by their passion's fiery flame.

But though from memory's tablet, long
Had disappeared their infant lay,
They sung the burden of that song,
Passing away! passing away!"

66

And last in all the motley throng,

A group of withered crones passed by ;
Their snowdrops had been faded long,

And round in withered fragments lie.

But though their life was well nigh spent,
And they could scarce hold on their way;
Yet still they sang, as on they went,

“Passing away! passing away!”

Δ.

THE COUNTRYMAN.

(PARAPHRASE FROM TIBULLUS, ELEG. I.) LET others hoard the yellow ore,

And boast the riches of their farm;
Their toils and troubles harass sore,

And neighbouring enemies alarm:
Eternal care their wretched lot-
Care, by the wiser few forgot-
Whilst ever and anon they hear
The martial trumpet at their ear,
Startling their sleep ;-it bids them rise;
And at its blast their slumber flies.

But me, my penury shall lead

To life from all such troubles free;
Shall take me to the flower-gemmed mead,
And show me where its treasures be.
The creeping vine with care I'll tend,
Whilst fruit-trees to my culture bend;
For me the ripened apples fall,
And grapes adorn the sunny wall;
And ruddy-gleaming o'er the snow,
Upon my hearth a fire shall glow.

Then for thee, Ceres, be a crown

Of bearded corn to deck thy head,
Who cast'st thy blessings freely down
Before ripe Autumn's day is fled;
We'll sprinkle at thy temple door
An offering from our garner-floor :
Whilst Bacchus! Bacchus! purple king!
With jocund voice, our youth shall sing;
And maidens o'er the shaven mead,
With flowing robes their dances lead.

S. T. S.

CHURCH MONUMENTS.

No. II.

IT has been remarked that the character of a people-their habits, tone of thought, and feelings-their advance in knowledge or in the comforts of civilized life-their domestic and social relations, are not to be found so much in the page of the historian, as in the more minute details of information collected by the patient industry of the antiquary. The former tells of kings and wars, and those great external revolutions which operate suddenly and powerfully; but we must have recourse to the latter if we wish to ascertain the moral and social state of a nation, at any given period. It is only by observing and comparing with diligence the accounts of domestic habits, the little incidental notices which frequently occur where we should least expect them, and the relics of ancient houses, furniture, and implements, that we can form any conception of the manner in which our forefathers lived—what were their predominant habits-what the chief objects of their tastes, their hopes or fears. Few criterions of this nature are so important as the state and character of the arts. All art is but the development, in an external form, of the feelings and ideas previously existing in the mind of the artist; and these are of course subject to the influence of national character, swayed by the same impulses, moved by the same sentiments, and acting under the same impressions as the rest of his contemporaries. It is not meant to deny that, in order to attain high excellence, there must be an individuality in the mind of the artist; but only to assert that works of art, like those of poetry or learning, bear the stamp of the age in which they were composed, and may be taken as illustrations of its character; and there is in them, as in the others, a tendency to promote the feelings of which they were the development, to reproduce the same type, and give rise to the same character, as that in which they themselves had their origin. This is, of course, as in the case of literature, only a general rule, which, in particular instances, is liable to be frequently disturbed or altogether obviated by external circumstances.

Each province of art, then, may be assumed as an indication of the state of a people's habits and feelings in that portion of their