easily let what he sung perish. The aspiration after an honest fame, when used and not abused, must, we think, be pronounced a sound human emotion; in the noblest type of humanity, it must be subordinated, and, as we have said, independence to it, and the power of rising above it, mark the loftiest human development. Mr Montgomery's manhood had now, as far as we can gather, attained its ultimate development: fame he still ardently desired, and we say not that it was not still too constantly present to his mind as a motive power, but an honest fame it must be; and, girding up his loins, he commenced a new poetic career. The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other Poems,' were published early in 1806. We understand Mr Montgomery to inform us in his preface, that the Wanderer of Switzerland' was commenced in 1803; that is about the time when he attained to the firmer standing-point upon which we saw him. We shall not pronounce the poem free from defects; we shall not claim for it either profound passion or lofty ideal beauty; but it is rich in promise, it is full of vigour and fire, and occasionally rises into a really lofty strain. If not sinwhen commonplace haunts our bards as a phantom of horror, how many instances have we had of that false and palling semblance of originality—fantasticality! The following lines, in which the Swiss wanderer describes his birthplace, and the first irruption of French tyranny upon his native land, were never written by an every-day bard :— dition and equipment with which he commenced. We cannot recognise any deep enthusiasm for beauty on its own account, such as so mightily thrilled the breast of Shelley or Keats; nor was there that which moral earnestness imparts, a superiority to temporary or even lasting disappointment. There was this radical displacement: the motive power came from without, assuming the shape of a certain desirable entity, called fame; we cannot discern that inward enthusiasm which renders the opinion of his fellows well-nigh indifferent to the rapt and irrepressible bard; we cannot see that indwelling power, at once the pledge of success and the warrant for effort, which impels its possessor to utter his thoughts in song. This deeplying morbidity in our youthful bard took the outward shape of a feverish restlessness, a sort of mania, which nothing but fame could allay or satisfy. Mr Montgomery, in telling us of his utmost aberration, thus confirms and illustrates our remarks:-The renown which I found to be unattainable at that time, by legitimate poetry, I resolved to secure by such means as made many of my contemporaries notorious. I wrote verse in the doggerel strain of Peter Pindar, and prose sometimes in imitation of Field-gularly original, it is not fantastical; and in those days, ing and Smollett, and occasionally in the strange style of the German plays and romances then in vogue. Effort after effort failed. A Providence of disappointment shut every door in my face by which I attempted to force my way to a dishonourable fame. Disheartened, at length, with ill success, I gave myself up to indolence and apathy, and lost seven years of that part of my youth which ought to have been the most active and profitable, in alternate listlessness and despondency, using no further exertions in my office affairs than was necessary to keep up my credit under heavy pecuniary obligations, and gradually, though slowly, to liquidate them.' We venture to say that those seven years were by no means lost. Disappointment, trial, and the experience of failure, are a valuable discipline for any man. In this period of comparative rest, Mr Montgomery's powers had time to strengthen, amplify, and settle; his resolves became firmer, his energy more enduring, and his whole manhood more fully developed. The first wild herbage fell swiftly enough into decayinto total forgetfulness and dissolution; and lo! in the fresh beauty of a second spring, there arose upon its decayed masses a healthy and umbrageous foliage. About the year 1803, Mr Montgomery once more attempted to draw a strain of true and noble beauty from his almost forsaken lyre. He swept the strings with a strength which he had never before shown, and his courage revived as he listened to the music. Besides, there was no lack of 'applauses,' and these, from all we have been able to gather, have always exercised perhaps too powerful an influence on Mr Montgomery. The result was, that he fixed his eye on the laurel crown with a more resolute and a nobler ambition than heretofore; and on his banner, under which to conquer or to die, he inscribed the motto-'Give me an honest fame, or give me none.' To investigate the question, how far is fame, even honest fame, a lawful motive to poetic exertion, would lead us far. We mean not to investigate it. Suffice it to say, that one grand result of that strange sympathetic affinity which, underlying, as it were, our personality, links us so mysteriously and so closely with those around us, is the inborn desire, stronger in some than in others, but existing in all, to win the praise and the esteem of our fellow-men. This is that strength of weak and ignoble minds, and that infirmity of strong and noble minds, called the love of fame. Assuredly, there is a nobler motive than fame of any sort; and the mighty ones of the earth have been mighty, just as they have been able to rise above the opinion of their contemporaries, and appeal to their God above, and to their own hearts within. But, it may be questioned, whether the very noblest, surveying mankind as stretching forward into the dim vistas of futurity, have not been fired by an earnest aspiration after that fame, which would render their names household words to the latest generations. Milton, we well know, was fully conscious of the mighty stimulus which he derived from the idea that mankind might not 'Stranger friend, the tears that flow Which no human tongue can speak. My tormented bosom tear:- Born in Freedom's eagle nest, Rock'd by whirlwinds in their rage, High o'er Underwalden's vale, There my little native cot Rich in every rural charm! Glid along, yet seem'd at rest; On the waking mother's breast; All this aching heart held dear. All submitted to the yoke.' Mr Montgomery's small volume met with speedy and extensive popularity; edition upon edition was called for; whereupon, a very mighty little critic thought it bis duty to mankind and to posterity, and perchance also to his tailor, to pounce upon the said volume from his dim turret. He did pounce; and smarter critical small-talk than the following needs not to be :-'We took compassion upon Mr Montgomery, on his first appearance, conceiving him to be some slender youth of seventeen, intoxicated with weak tea, and the praises of sentimental ensigns, and other provincial literati, and tempted, in that situation, to commit a feeble outrage on the public, of which the recollection would be a sufficient punishment. A third edition, however, is too alarming to be passed over in silence; and though we are perfectly persuaded that, in less than three years, nobody will know the name of the 'Wanderer of Switzerland,' or of any of the other poems in this collection, still we think ourselves called upon to interfere, to prevent, in as far as in us lies, the mischief that may arise from the intermediate prevalence of so distressing an epidemic. It is hard to say what numbers of ingenuous youth may be led to expose themselves in public, by the success of this performance,' &c. This invaluable guardian of ingenuous youth published his lucubrations in the Edinburgh Review,' of January 1807. We trust that he lived, and had lost none of his estimable anxiety concerning the welfare of humanity, when, after the appearance of a thirteenth edition of the poems which so alarmed him, Mr Montgomery remarked, 'When a giant of twenty-horse power undertakes to break a butterfly upon a wheel,' it is ten to one but he misses his aim, and stuns his own arm by the violence of the first stroke; while the silly insect flits away, to the delight of it is hard to say what numbers of ingenuous youth,' who have been led to expose themselves in public,' on so august an occasion irreverently shouting-Judex damnatur cum nocens absolvitur. Publius Syrus.' We find we must hasten to a conclusion, and abstain from commenting at any length upon Mr Montgomery's other poems. Among these, one of the principal is The West Indies: a poem in four parts, in celebration of the abolition of slavery in the West Indian Islands by the British legislature. This was a subject on which the author had very decided opinions, and very deep feelings. In his poem he gives expression to both. There is a fervour, an intensity, as of youthful energy, in its stanzas; there is occasionally very vivid, and, one might venture to say, even gorgeous description; the sincere intensity of the author's feeling has an exciting effect upon the reader; and, if there is not much of rhythm or varying melody, the ear is certainly never offended by the lines. The candid critic,' however, who gently hinted to Mr Montgomery that the versification suggested the idea of loud speaking,' will be opposed by no one whom excessive admiration has not blinded; it is certainly in parts rather rhetorical than poetic. 'The World before the Flood' is a poem of a purely ima. ginative kind; it possesses all the beauties of Mr Montgomery's style, and is not free from its defects. The following description is a bold effort, and required a strong hand to do it with such power: 'Here Jubal paused; for grim before him lay, Mr Montgomery has published two other poems of great length, entitled respectively 'Greenland,' and 'The Pelican Island,' besides a large number of smaller pieces; they have enjoyed an extensive popularity. We cannot draw these remarks to a close without directing the attention of our readers to the amount of work which Mr Montgomery has performed. Early inured to hardship and toil, he struggled long and dauntlessly, until, at an early age, he attained an honourable and important station in society. During the noontide of his years, unallured into dreamy indolence by the smiles of the Muses, he devoted himself, with manly energy, to the prosaic, but honourable and responsible task of conducting a newspaper. He pleaded with zeal, and with what honest insight he possessed, all those great social changes which met his approval. Withal, he found time to utter strains of song which would have been pointed to with pride as the whole work of many a lifetime, which have been such as to spread his name to the ends of the earth, and which have won him a place in the homes and hearts of thousands among his countrymen. Well does it beseem us to twine this slender laurel about his honoured and patriarchal brows! THE GREAT SALT LAKE. IN 1849, Captain Stansbury, of the Topographical Engineers, was appointed to make an examination of the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and a hydrographic survey of that singular sheet of water. His chief object was to make an exploration of the west side of the lake, which has never before been done. Colonel Fremont, and all other explorers, have traversed the castern shore. The west was literally a terra incognita, and, so far as discoveries had extended, was known to be the most uninviting desert in America. Captain Stansbury writes: We found that the whole western shore of the lake consists of immense level plains of soft mud, inaccessible within many miles of the water's edge to the feet of mules or horses, being traversed frequently by meandering rills of salt and sulphur water, which apparently sink and seem to imbue and saturate the whole soil, rendering it miry and treacherous. These plains are but little elevated above the present level of the lake, and have, without doubt, at one time, not very long since, formed a part of it; for it is evident that a rise of but a few inches will at once cover the greater portion of these extensive areas of land with water again. I do not think I hazard much by saying, that a rise of one foot in the lake would nearly, if not quite, double its present area. The plains are, for the most part, entirely denuded of vegetation, excepting occasional patches of artemesia and greasewood,' and they glitter in the sunlight, presenting the appearance of water so perfectly, that it is almost impossible for one to convince himself that he is not on the immediate shore of the lake itself. This is owing to the crystallisation of minute portions of salt on the surface of the mud, and the oozy slime occasioned by the complete saturation of the soil with moisture. From this cause, also, arises a mirage, which is greater here than I ever witnessed elsewhere, distorting objects in the most grotesque manner, and giving rise to optical illusions almost beyond belief. I anticipate serious trouble from this cause in making the triangulation. The first part of this desert was about seventy five miles in extent, and occupied us two days and a half to cross it, travelling all day and the greater part of the night; walking a great portion of the way to relieve the mules, which began to sink under the want of sustenance and water. In the latter portion of the first desert, we crossed a field of solid salt, which lay incrusted upon the level mud plain, so thick that it bore up the mules loaded with their packs so perfectly, that they walked upon it as if it had been a sheet of solid ice, slightly covered with snow. The whole plain was as level as a floor. We estimated this field to be at the least ten miles in length, by seven in width, and the thickness of the salt at from one and a half to three quarters of an inch. A strip of some three miles in width had been previously crossed, but it was not thick or hard enough to prevent the animals from sinking through it into the mud at every step. The salt in the solid field was perfectly crystallised, and, where it had not become mixed with the soil, was as white and fine as the best specimens of Salina table salt. Some of it was collected and preserved. After crossing the field of salt, we struck upon a fine little stream of running water, with plenty of grass, lying at the foot of a range of mountains, which seemed to form the western boundary of the immediate valley of the lake. The latter part of the desert was about seventy miles in extent, and was passed in two days, by prolonging our marches far into the night. From the knowledge gained by this expedition, I am of the opinion that the size of the lake has been much exag gerated; and, from observation, I am induced to believe that its depth has been much overrated. That it has no outlet, is now demonstrated beyond doubt; and I am convinced, from what I have seen, that it can never be of the slightest use for the purpose of navigation. The water, for miles out from the shore, wherever I have seen it, is but a few inches in depth; and if there is any deep water, it must be in the middle. The Utah River (or the Jordan, as the Mormons call it), is altogether too insignificant and too crooked to be of any use commercially. The greatest depth of the Utah Lake that we have found is sixteen feet; so that, for the purpose of a connected line of navigation, neither the river nor the lakes can be of the slightest utility. Such, at least, is my present impression. Further examination of Salt Lake may, perhaps, modify this opinion with regard to the latter. The river connecting these two lakes is forty-eight miles in length. PHILIP THE FOUNDLING. BY MRS CROWE. CHAP. V. WHEN Philip found that all his efforts to save the property for Mary and her son were unsuccessful, he was obliged to confess to her the real state of affairs; but by this time her health was so far restored that she was able to hear the sad news without danger. I was in hopes of finding some means of preventing this misfortune,' said Philip; but the creditors insist on a sale, and will not wait any longer. It is a great pity, for, under the circumstances, the place will go for half its real value, and if we had had money to buy it in, I could, in a year or two, have brought the business into as good condition as ever it was. However, that cannot be. I have tried to borrow the money, but the interest we should have to pay would ruin us. So we must allow the creditors to sell it, and reimburse themselves. But do not, my dear mother, let this vexation trouble you more than it should. Gil is young, and has his two strong arms to earn his bread with; and, as for you, it will be hard if I cannot supply your simple wants. I know where I can get high wages and thanks into the bargain for my work; and, although we shall not be so rich, we may be just as happy as if we had had the mill.' 'I know it would grieve your heart were I to refuse your generous offer, my son,' said Mary, and whilst I need it I shall freely accept your aid-hoping by and by, when my health is fully restored, to be able to help myself. In the meantime, as it is just the creditors should be paid, the sooner the sale takes place the better, as this is the best time of year for selling. So we must consult together as to where I shall go.' "That I have already provided for,' said Philip. I wrote yesterday to Hillside, where I am going to work again with my old master; and I have engaged two rooms in a neat cottage close by his mill, so that I shall be able to see you every day. There is also another room, should Rose choose to accompany you, which she can have at a small weekly rent, if she likes to pay it. But I think it is not a sort of life to please her, and that she will prefer going to some of her other friends.' 'I don't know that,' said Mary, looking at Philip significantly. I think she will prefer living with us; but we can ask her.' And Mary was right; for Rose had no mind to part company with Philip, whom she still persuaded herself she should win, though she could not see that she was going quite the wrong way to gain her object. It is always a melancholy thing to leave the home of many years for ever, even when it is not misfortune that drives us from it; but when it is poverty and calamity that snaps the links that have bound us to some beloved spot of earth, there are few moments more bitter than that in which we cast a last lingering look at the dear, familiar objects entwined by fond memories around our aching heart. The tears fell fast over Mary's face as the cart drove from the door, and she looked back upon the mill, all silent and still now, and the cottage, with the shutters closed in the broad daylight, as if everybody was dead; and she remembered the busy 'whirr, whirr!' of old times, when the wind and the sails played merrily together, and her own bright hopes when she came a happy bride to that now deserted home. But Philip was by her side, true and strong-hearted, to uphold her; and, smiling through her tears, she turned her face towards him, and said, 'Blessed, oh my son, was the hour in which I first beheld you; and blessed was the inspiration of the Lord that melted my heart at the sight of your helpless infancy.' 'Thrice blessed to me, mother,' said Philip, gently pressing her hand. 'But for you I had been a waif in the world-suffered to grow up to manhood in ignorance and neglect, with no resting-place for my heart, no light for my mind, no foundation for my principles. The love and the care my own parents denied me, you bountifully bestowed; and I owe you more gratitude and affection than ever son owed to the mother that bore him.' It was evening when they reached Hillside, and Philip, having set down Mary at the lodging he had engaged for her, proceeded to his old master's house, where he was gladly welcomed by Mr Andrews, and perhaps no less gladly by Fanny, though she was very quiet, and said little about it. 'Well, Philip, so you are come back to us again,' said Andrews; and what have you been doing since I saw you?' 'I have been living at Weston, sir?' 'At the mill there-Mason's mill, where you lived before?' 'Yes, sir.' 'It's to be sold, I hear, to pay off the debts he has left. What has become of his widow and children?' 'Mr Mason left only one child, sir-a son-who works with a wheelwright at Dean.' 'And Mrs Mason? She must be badly off, I'm afraid.' 'She is not very well off,' answered Philip, blushing; for he could not bring himself to say that the widow of John Mason was now a dependant on him; and the bond that united him to Mary was so sacred and so peculiar, that he had never felt inclined to discourse on the subject to anybody. Besides, he was naturally silent, and little given to talk of himself or his concerns; so that Andrews knew nothing about him, except that he had been in the service of John Mason before he came to him; and seeing now that he was not disposed to be communicative, he inquired no more. Andrews, hoping Philip would return, had not engaged anybody in his place, so that the young man immediately resumed his former situation as foreman; and everything went on as before, except that Philip had the consolation of spending his evenings with Mary; and delightful evenings they were to him, till Rose, who had been visiting another relation, arrived, and then Philip found them less pleasant; for the more he saw of her, the less he esteemed her, though at the same time he could not help perceiving that she liked him much better than he liked her. But, unfortunately, instead of taking the right way of showing it, which would have been to correct her faults and cultivate more amiable qualities, she only thought of dressing herself becomingly, and looking as pretty as she could, whilst she played off all manner of airs and graces to attract his attention. But Philip, though he always treated her with kindness and respect, remained silent and grave, wishing her to see that he neither cared for her beauty nor observed her ill-judged efforts to obtain his notice. Rose, however, had not been long at Hillside before she went to see her old school-companion, Fanny Andrews. They had a long chat together, and presently after she was gone Fanny went to her father, and asked him if he knew that the widow of the miller of Weston was living in the neighbourhood. 'No,' said he, 'I didn't; we must go and see her. But what's the matter, child? What has happened to make you look so pale? You haven't been crying, Fan, have you?' It's nothing, father,' said Fanny, blushing. It is our Philip, Rose says, that has brought Mrs Mason here, and Rose too. I believe he is to marry Rose.' 'Well,' said Peter Andrews, patting his daughter's head, 'she's a pretty lass; no wonder Philip fancies her. But we must go and see Mrs Mason, and I'll walk there with you now, if you like.' I wish I was pretty,' thought Fanny, as she left the room to put on her bonnet and shawl. Decently attired in her widow's weeds, Mary was sitting at the door, when they arrived, enjoying the bright sun and fresh air, with her knitting needles in her hand, for she was not yet equal to any active employment. When Andrews had introduced himself and his daughter, she gave them a kindly welcome, and led them into her little apartment, observing that she had heard much of them from Philip; and, after some conversation, she said she supposed Mr Andrews knew that Weston mill was to be sold. 'Yes,' said he; and I was sorry to hear it, on your account. Couldn't it be anyways helped ?' 6 Philip did all he could,' she answered, to save it for us; but the creditors insist upon selling, to pay themselves, as no doubt they've a right to do.' Andrews then made many inquiries respecting the state of the property, what it was worth, &c.; for all which information she referred him to Philip. During my husband's lifetime,' said she, I never had anything to do with the affairs; and since his death I have been too ill to look after them. I don't know what would have become of us, if Philip had not come to our aid. But, after saving my life-for I'm sure it was more the sight of him than the doctor that cured me he repaired the mill and set it a-going: so that, if it hadn't been for the debts, we might in time have got over our difficulties. He has been more than a son to me,' said she; but no doubt, after his living so long with you, you know his worth.' Nobody could be more disposed to commend Philip than Andrews was; but his curiosity was now raised, and, after saying as much in his praise as Mary could desire, he remarked that she was very fortunate in having had such a servant as Philip, for there were few like him, as he himself had good reason to know. 'But he is not a servant-he is a son to me-a son as dear as my own boy Gil,' said Mary; and then, beginning at the beginning, she related how she had found him on the banks of the streamlet in his infancy; and how he had grown to manhood under her eye, not omitting Letty's intended desertion, and her own consequent adoption of him as her child; and Andrews, with his round, goodnatured, rosy face, sat listening to the tale with glistening eyes, ever and anon taking out his pocket-handkerchief and emitting a long, trumpet-like sound, as he applied it to his nose; whilst the tears ran down Fanny's cheeks without restraint. Oh, what sweet tears they might have been, had not that pretty face of Rose Mason's come in the way! From this period the two families became intimate, Mary and Fanny especially; for not only did their natures resemble each other, but there was a strong bond of union betwixt them-Mary liked to talk of Philip, and Fanny liked to hear her. Sometimes, in the fulness of her heart, Mary would enter on this favourite topic with Rose; but, when she did so, Rose always laughed and said, 'she had no doubt Philip was an angel disguised in a miller's jacket and apron; but that, for her part, she never praised young men; they were not worth it;' or some such idle and impertinent answer, which hurt Mary's feelings; whilst Fanny, on the contrary, smiles and tears contending in her face, sat listening to the commendations of Philip with delight; so that, in spite of her partiality for her niece, Mary often thought that Fanny would have made a better wife for her favourite. But still she looked forward to the match with hope, for she thought that Philip would be able to correct Rose's faults when he became her husband-an event she fully expected was to take place some day or other; and in this delusion Rose, whose vanity still deceived her, encouraged not only her aunt, but herself; for, whilst she daily and hourly saw her own pretty face in the glass, she had no glass to show her the ugly faults that rendered her beauty worthless in the eyes of Philip. And what was he doing all the while? Certainly not thinking of Rose! No; he had long discovered the mistake her bright eyes had led him into, and deeply regretted that he had been so dazzled by then as to overlook Fanny's more valuable endowments. Considering the great difference betwixt Mr Andrews' circumstances and his own, he would have thought it the greatest presumption to have looked at his master's daughter with any eyes but those of respect, till her father himself gave him encouragement to do so; but unfortunately he was then under the influence of Rose's delusive charms; and now that he had become sensible of Fanny's inestimable virtues, and felt that every day he lived under the same roof with her he loved her better, he feared it was too late to recover the ground he had lost. How could he expect she would lend a favourable ear to him now, after he had turned a deaf one to the hints her father had given him before? Indeed, he had little reason to suppose she would, for he saw clearly that she avoided his company; and as he did not know that she did so because she believed him engaged to Rose Mason, he naturally concluded that she disliked him. This apprehension, and the regret he felt for his own folly, in refusing what he now clearly saw would have made the happiness of his life, had a considerable effect upon his spirits, which was not unobserved by Mary, or Andrews either; and one day she said to him, when they were alone, 'I want to speak to you, Philip, upon a subject that lies near my heart, and yours too, if I mistake not.' 'What is that, mother?' asked Philip. 'Why, my dear child,' said she, 'you are now of an age to be settled in the world, and I don't see what there is to occasion any further delay. I think the sooner you are married the better.' 'And who should I marry, mother?' said Philip, smiling sadly. Who, but the person you love, and that loves youmy niece Rose. You smile and shake your head, Philip, and perhaps you think your love is not returned; but you are mistaken, my child. If you find her a little cold and capricious sometimes, remember she is very young, and has been a good deal flattered and spoiled; but she has a good heart, and since she is sincerely attached to you, you will soon be able to cure her of these little faults.' 'You are mistaken, mother,' answered Philip; 'Rose is not attached to me-at least, not in the way that I understand attachment.' Perhaps you think she is too fond of dress; but remember she dresses to please you. You may think her lazy, too; but, poor girl, when her heart is full of anxiety, it is not easy to employ her hands.; and, if she sometimes answers me sharply, it is only when she is hurt at some little neglect of yours. Come, come, Philip, it is useless denying it: you are attached to each other, and there is no reason you should not marry, that I see.' 'Since you take it so seriously, my dear mother,' answered Philip, I must be serious too. You are so good yourself, that you think everybody else is the same. Whether Rose has a good heart or not, I cannot pretend to say; but I do know to a certainty that she does not please me, and I would rather remain single all my life than marry her.' As Philip always told the truth, Mary had no choice but to believe him now; still she was puzzled, for she saw clearly that he had some trouble on his mind; and if it was not love for Rose, what could it be? 'Perhaps it is pride,' thought she. He thinks he is too poor to ask the hand of a girl that has a fortune of some hundred pounds. And it is I that keep him poor. Whilst he maintains me, he will never be able to marry. This must not be.' And thereupon she formed a resolution to speak to Mr Andrews, and, after explaining her motives, request him to try to procure some occupation for her, by which she might gain her livelihood. She thought his regard for Philip would induce him to do this; and, as she expected, he listened to her request with great kindness. I am not equal to much fatigue,' said she; but I could teach the dame school, or look after children, and you may rely on it I will not discredit your recommendation.' The period fixed for the sale of the property at Weston having now arrived, Mr Andrews said he would go over and see how things went, and take Philip with him. They were gone two days, and, on their return, Mary was pleased to learn that Mr Andrews was the purchaser of her former home, which had brought a sufficient sum to satisfy the creditors, and a trifle more, which would be repaid to the widow. 'I wonder how Mr Andrews will manage both mills,' said Mary. 'He will let Weston, I daresay,' answered Philip; and, as he has got the place cheap, it will pay him very well.' But Mr Andrews had a plan of his own, which, having summoned Philip to attend him in his little back parlour, he communicated as follows: 'Why,' said Andrews, what do you say to a wife with a little money?' Here Philip's heart began to beat again higher than ever; he thought something about Fanny was surely coming now; but he was so agitated, that he could only stammer out, I'm sure, sir, I couldn't presume--I don't know anybody that would' and there he stopped short, blushing and confused. 'Come, come!' said Andrews; you mustn't be so shamefaced; we all have our turn once in our lives, and there is no reason why you shouldn't be married as well as another. But what I have to propose is, that you should purchase a share of Weston mill with your wife's fortune. I will then let you have the cottage rent free, and you can live there with your wife and Mrs Mason; and by good management and economy, in process of time you may be able to get the whole into your own hands.' 'But, sir,' said Philip, almost too agitated to speak, for he still thought the wife was to be Fanny, will Miss Andrews ?-will your daughter-——— ? ' 'If you mean will my daughter approve of my assisting you in this way, I can assure you it was she herself suggested the plan.' 'Is it possible, sir ?' exclaimed Philip. How happy I 'Heyday! How now?' cried Mr Andrews. 'Why, we are at cross purposes! I thought just now you were delighted?' 'Oh, sir,' said Philip, forgive me! I was very presumptuous-I misunderstood you; I did not think it was Rose Mason you meant me to marry.' Who did you think it was, then?' asked Andrews. 'I thought you were attached to Rose-nay, engaged to her.' Oh no, sir, not so; it's all a mistake, I assure you,' said Philip, looking the picture of disappointment. 'Rose Mason would never suit me, nor I her.' 6 But who would suit you, then?' asked Andrews. 'Who did you think I meant when I proposed to get you married? Come, come, speak out.' 'I dare not, sir; excuse me ! I shall probably never marry.' 'Pshaw! never marry!' said Andrews. You are too young to say that. There was a time,' he continued, looking hard into Philip's eyes, 'there was a time when I had hoped that perhaps you and my daughter Fan might have taken a fancy to each other; but 'But Miss Andrews wouldn't think of me-of course I couldn't expect it,' said Philip, in great agita not! tion. Why, that remains to be seen,' said Andrews: 'the first question is, could you think of her?' Think of her, sir!' exclaimed Philip, 'I never think of anything else! I can scarcely attend to my business for thinking of her!' 'My dear Philip,' said the good father, with the tears in his eyes, 'you have made me a happy man; and when I tell this to my little Fan, she will be a happy woman. We thought you engaged to Rose Mason, and, of course, had that been the case, there was no more to be said. But, of all the men in the world, you are the one I should prefer for my son-in-law; and I think, if you will come up to-night at tea-time, and ask Fanny how she would like you for her husband, you will find that we are both much of the same opinion.' Happy Philip! What a tea-drinking that was! With Fanny's blue eyes glistening with delight, and her father shaking hands with him over and over again, and calling him his dear good son! And Mary was pleased too, when she heard it; for, though sorry for Rose, she saw that it was the best thing for Philip's happiness; and she knew that Fanny merited the love of that brave and honest heart. And what did Rose do when her aunt gently broke the news to her? She turned pale at first, and staggered to a chair; but, presently recovering herself, she burst into a violent fit of laughter, saying, 'She wished Fanny joy of him! and that, for her part, when she took a husband, it shouldn't be one that had been picked up by the roadside, and nursed in the poorhouse.' Mary shook her head at her sadly and reprovingly, and Rose retired laughing to her own room; but, when she had shut the door, her laughter changed to tears. After a hearty cry, she washed her eyes in cold water, and came out again quite merry. She was even present at the wedding, which took place the following week; and nobody was so gay as she, laughing and jeering everybody; but when it was over, and Philip and his wife went to Weston, Rose declared her intention of leaving Hillside, which was too dull for her, and residing henceforth with a relation she had at Dean; so that, when the new married couple returned, she was gone. They returned, because the father found a tenant for Weston, for he could not consent to part with his children; they must live with him, and Mary must be with |