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imparts tenderness to the proud, and the love of Claudine towards me was shown not only in words, but in every look and action, and gave to her manners the only charms they wanted-those of feeling and gentleness. Claudine, however, had evidently little sentiment naturally in her composition; she preferred prose to poetry, and instrumental to vocal compositions. Her drawings and paintings were correct, but lacked the soul of the artist; and she had, as she confessed to me, been always in the habit of ridiculing and blaming attachments formed on the acquaintance of a few days, until her own experience told her that it would be better to leave the subject at rest for the future. Some weeks elapsed; we visited among the neighbouring families as acknowledged lovers, and it was generally understood that our union would take place when a year had elapsed from the time of my father's death. One evening, I was reading aloud to Claudine and Mr. Delamere, when a paper dropped forth from the volume in my hand that had evidently been placed there for the purpose of a mark. I took it up; it contained some sweet and touching stanzas, elegantly written in a delicate female hand, and signed by the initials

of 'A. W.

"I suppose they are some of Anna Welford's 'never ending, still beginning' effusions,' said Claudine, somewhat scornfully.

"Who is Anna Welford?' I eagerly inquired. "I think,' replied Mr. Delamere, I can answer your question more justly than Claudine, because she may not be inclined to be the herald of her own good deeds. At the school where my daughter finished her education, she formed an intimacy with Anna Welford, the daughter of a West India merchant reputed to be very rich; but his death revealed the fact that his affairs were involved past the possibility of extrication, and Anna had no resource but to become dependent on an aunt possessing a very slender life-annuity, or to accept the proposal of her governess to become a teacher in the establishment—an office for which her exceeding delicacy of frame and diffidence of disposition very ill qualified her. My dear Claudine was then on the point of leaving school; she wrote instantly to me, entreating that I would comply with her request, and suffer her home to be also the home of her friend. I hesitated to give my consenta perpetual inmate in the house is rather an awful idea; but I allowed Claudine to invite Anna to pass a few weeks with us; and the gratitude, mildness, and modesty of the poor girl so won upon me, that she finally became domesticated in our family.'

"How is it, then, that I have never seen her?' I asked, feeling a little apprehensive that the domestication' of the fair Anna might prove to be in the housekeeper's room.

"She has been visiting her aunt,' replied Mr. Delamere, 'who has been seriously ill, but is now recovered, and Anna will very shortly return to us.'

"The entrance of visitors put a stop to our conversation, and I only afterwards thought of

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Anna Welford as affording an additional proof of the noble and disinterested kindness of my affianced bride. One morning, returning from a long ride, I left my horse at the garden-gate, and proceeded towards the house to seek Claudine in the drawing-room. I heard the sounds of a guitar as I approached, and the sweet tones of an exquisite female voice. I was inexpressibly delighted. As it is never the custom of the English to make music a part of the entertainment of a morning visit, and as no guests were staying at the house, I felt convinced that Claudine herself was the vocalist, and that, like the Lady of Munster, in Haynes Bayly's pleasing little drama of Perfection,' she had kept secret from me her possession of this charming accomplishment that she might electrify me with a joyful surprise. I approached nearer, and stood to listen; the song was 'All that's bright must fade,' a fashionable and favourite air twenty years ago. Alas! how often have I since thought that the words were an omen of the future fate of the singer. I entered, fully expecting to greet Claudine; but to my astonishment I found that the songstress was a fair, fragile, and exceedingly lovely girl, whose clustering light brown ringlets, soft blue eyes, and timid softness of demeanour offered a perfect contrast to the personal and mental attainments of my dignified and self-possessed Claudine. I immediately concluded the stranger to be Anna Welford, and endeavoured to persuade her to indulge me with another air; but her manner displayed evident trepidation. She answered me in monosyllables, and hastily gathering her songs together, quitted the room; nor did I see her again till we were all assembled at dinner. Let me pass briefly over the incidents of the next few days. I do not pretend to defend my conduct; I was wrong-culpably wrong-in loving Anna Welford; but unless you could have seen and known her, you can have no idea of the temptation that I felt to do so."

"I confess," said Dr. Walwyn, "I have no particular predilection for fragile young ladies with clustering light brown ringlets, who only answer in monosyllables."

"Her silence and hesitation," replied D'Arcy, "did not, as I soon discovered, proceed from want of intellect, but from the subjection in which she was held by her patroness; there were moments, however, when I was alone with her, and others in which, although in the midst of company, I obtained the privilege of conversing with her. Pity first occasioned love in me, gratitude caused her to reciprocate it, and congeniality of tastes and pursuits cemented the bond. Our affection, however, was implied, not declared; our words were only those of friends, and I am persuaded nothing could be further from the intentions of either of us than to deceive the confidence and injure the peace of the generous Claudine."

"And how did the generous Claudine approve the progression of your platonic intimacy?" asked the doctor.

"She was not aware of the full extent of it,"

my

answered D'Arcy; " and was also in the habit of, considering Anna so immeasurably inferior to herself in every respect, that she would have shrunk from the degradation of suspecting her to be a rival. At last, however, a fatal accident caused the disclosure of my feelings. Claudine had accepted the pressing invitation of a young friend residing at the distance of a few miles from Southland House, to be present at her wedding as bridesmaid. She was to go to the house of her friend on the preceding day to that appointed for the marriage; the carriage came to the door; I handed her into it, and saw it drive off at a rapid pace. I then returned to the drawing-room, where I had left Anna sketching; but she had taken advantage of my short absence to make her escape, feeling, as it was probably just and wise for her to do, that society might be dangerous to her, and that her surest safety lay in flight. In her rapid retreat, however, she had forgotten to secure her portfolio; and I eagerly sat down to examine it, since it was with difficulty I could ever prevail on her to show me any of her drawings. I had scarcely begun to look over them, when she returned, agitated and trembling, and requested me to restore her portfolio. I playfully persisted in retaining it; but her anxiety to gain possession of it was so evident and unaffected, that I relinquished my opposition, and placed it in her hand. She attempted to fasten the strings, but her trepidation was so great that it fell from her hand, and its contents became scattered on the carpet. I did not imagine I could be doing wrong in assisting her to gather them up, notwithstanding her repeated entreaties that I would desist; but her uneasiness was quickly accounted for, when I beheld among her sketches an admirable and spirited likeness of myself. I could not conclude that she had merely chosen me as a suitable subject for her pencil; her tears, her embarrassment, her entreaties that I would endeavour to forget I had ever seen the sketch in question-all combined to convince me that I was the beloved of Anna Welford's young and gentle heart. Walwyn, blame me, despise me if you will-I fell at her feet, and owned my

affection!"

"And I conclude," said Dr. Walwyn," she adhered to her old habit of answering in monosyllables, and favoured you with the sweetest and most comprehensive of all monosyllables in reply to your address."

"She answered me only with sobs," said D'Arcy; "but was on the point of raising me from my kneeling position, when the door opened, and Claudine stood before us!" "Having, I suppose,' ," said the doctor, “returned for the purpose of watching you." "Not so," replied D'Arcy; "she merely returned to take a music-book from the piano, which her servants had neglected to place, as desired, in the carriage, and she was totally unprepared for the scene that met her eyes. I shall never forget the lightning-glance of anger and disdain which she cast on Anna and myself; it was but for a moment, however; she instantly

regained her self-possession, mentioned the cause of her return in a few measured, freezing words, and had taken the book and re-ascended the carriage before I was rightly aware whether I had gazed on a spectre or a reality."

"And the sobs of your fair Anna doubtless redoubled in consequence of this episode in your conversation," said Dr. Walwyn.

"No," replied D'Arcy; "Anna, although a timid, was not a weak-minded girl; she dried her tears immediately, bitterly reproached herself for her ingratitude to her generous friend, and declared her resolution of instantly returning to the house of her aunt. I did not attempt to renew my addresses to her; I was convinced, as well as herself, that we had been acting a selfish and a culpable part, which would not bear reflection. I dissuaded her, however, from leaving the house until she had requested the permission of Claudine to do so, telling her that the best reparation we could make to her whom we had injured would be to submit ourselves implicitly to her direction, and to act in such a manner as would, in her own opinion, be most conducive to her peace. Anna retired to her room, under the plea of indisposition, and did not quit it during the remainder of the day; and I employed the next hour in addressing a long letter to Claudine, and directed my valet to ride over with it, and to inform her that he would call for an answer on the ensuing morning. The man did not appear in the least surprised at my orders, deeming it, I suppose, very probable that engaged lovers should wish to correspond daily; and I felt an unspeakable relief in the reflection that I could write to Claudine, instead of undergoing the trial of an immediate interview with her. I related to her the plain and simple facts of the case, exonerated Anna from all blame in wishing to attract me, and concluded by expressing to her the contrition and sorrow that we both suffered under, and our wish to be immediately separated from each other should it meet her approbation. Having despatched this letter, I prepared myself for a téte-à-téte dinner with the worthy, unsuspecting Mr. Delamere, who, good, easy man,' had not the slightest idea of the contending feelings that had been racking the hearts of his family on that eventful morning, but who imagined that everything was going on precisely as it ought to do-jested with me on my want of appetite, which he imputed to the absence of my ladye love,' expressed his concern for poor Anna Welford's delicacy of constitution, and concluded by drawing a vivid imaginary tableau of the wedding on the morrow, in which a particularly handsome bridesmaid, in a lilac satin dress, occupied a conspicuous station. The next day I received the answer of Claudine; she began by pointing out, with much spirit and a little severity, the reprehensible line of conduct pursued by Anna and myself.

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remark in more than one circle. Let Anna therefore

of it except Mr. Delamere, and he dismissed the subject with the brief observation that bashfulness generally grew upon a girl; but that, after all, it was a fault upon the right side!'

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Prosperously as my courtship with Claudine proceeded, I could not forget the past; and I felt truly grateful when an occurrence took place which gave me a fair opportunity of quitting the hospitable roof of Mr. Delamere for a short time.

mine in exchange, transfers his affections to another, and she whom he selects is in every respect my inferior-the partaker of my bread-the creature of my bounty. When I said, however, that love and pride possessed the joint sovereignty of my heart, I expressed myself unadvisedly; they have experienced a severe contest, but the former has gained the victory. I accept your renewed addresses, and grant you the forgiveness you solicit. I cannot allow of Anna Welford's departure, lest the cause of it should be suspected. The trials that I endured yesterday did not cease with those of the morning; in the evening "My father, during his youth, had resided for a busy friend, with affected concern, but real triumph, some years in Scotland, and had purchased an warned me to be careful not to permit my lover estate in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, to converse too frequently with my lovely protegée, which of course, on his death, became my prosince his attentions to her had been the subject of perty. I was anxious to dispose of it, and had remain at Southland House, and be as happy as her recently received an offer for it from a gentleconscience will allow her to be; I shrink from the man in the immediate vicinity, which I felt inthought that the late unhappy events should become clined to accept: my solicitor, however, was of the jest of society, and grieve the kind and trusting opinion that the sum offered was too small. heart of my excellent father. To abate any un- The solicitor on the other side spoke of dilapi easiness that Anna and yourself may feel in the dations which diminished the value, and I was anticipation of my return, let me assure you that it advised to take down a surveyor with me into is my intention never, directly or indirectly, to allude | Scotland, and ascertain the real state of the to the past.' case. When I arrived I found the business more complicated than I had supposed. Some former friends of my father invited me to their houses, and showed me numerous kind attentions; and several weeks passed on, during which I could only converse with Claudine by letter. She was no loser, however, by this change. Her letters were eloquent, refined, and affectionate, and excited in me a feeling of exultation that I could claim the writer of them as my own. My heart was also drawn towards Claudine from the circumstance that I had wronged her, and she had forgiven me; and if I ever suffered myself for a moment to dwell on her occasional hauteur and disdain, the remembrance of my own inconstancy flashed across my mind, and I felt that I was unworthy to be loved and valued by a woman so high-minded and so true-hearted. I had written a long and affectionate letter to her; several days elapsed: she did not answer it as usual. I was surprised and alarmed; it was the first time she had ever failed in punctuality. I wrote again, and in a short time received an answer directed in the hand of Mr. Delamere. The paper was black-bordered; the seal

"I did not quite like the lofty style of this letter, and did not approve of the allusion to poor Anna's conscience, or of the avowal that she considered her as the creature of her bounty but I could not wonder that one even less proud than Claudine should feel aggrieved and insulted by such an injury as I had inflicted on her; and I determined, since she had pronounced the pardon I solicited, to do all in my power to prove myself worthy of it. I told Anna the contents of Claudine's letter, although I did not wound her by repeating the exact words of it, and we prepared ourselves to receive her on the ensuing day, with downcast eyes and beating hearts; Mr. Delamere congratulating us all the time on the happiness in store for us, and remarking that we had seemed quite dull and lost without dear Claudine !'

"Claudine arrived: she was true to her promise in making no allusion to the past, and none but the guilty could have detected any change in her look. I could not, however, but feel her occasional glance of distrust at myself, and the haughty, contemptuous coldness of her manner towards Anna. In a few days I began to lose somewhat of my painful embarrassment. I was struck by the resolution and self-command of Claudine in concealing from her father the provocation that she had received from me, and gratified by the excess of love which I felt could be the only cause of her forbearance. I deplored indeed, sincerely, the situation of poor Anna; but since it appeared that my notice of her had already given rise to injurious rumours, I felt that it was due to her respectability, as well as to the dignity of Claudine, that I should withdraw all attentions from her; and although I fear my eyes sometimes expressed commiseration and interest more forcibly than the eyes of an affianced man ought to do, my lips were silent. Anna became more and more reserved and retiring, but no one seemed to take notice

was of the same sable hue. I did not dare to

open it: I felt a terrible foreboding that Claudine was no more-that wounded pride and affection had been slowly consuming her while striving to appear happy and confiding in the eyes of the world, and of her false lover and friend, and that my protracted stay in Scotland had probably appeared to her anxious and fearful mind to be wilfully and deliberately contrived for the purpose of affording me the means of freeing myself from an engagement of which I had become weary. Conscience-stricken and trembling, I stood with the letter in my hand, dreading to open it, and to find my apprehensions realized. At length, by a strong effort, I broke open the seal: alas! how sad were the tidings conveyed by that letter! Claudine was indeed living, but Death had been busy in her dwelling, and the victim on whom he had seized

was the sweet Anna Welford! The letter of Mr. Delamere was written with great feeling, describing himself, and still more his daughter, as overwhelmed with grief at the loss of their gentle, amiable, and unoffending companion. Anna, he said, had a fortnight ago been attacked by influenza-a complaint very prevalent in the neighbourhood. The physician in the neighbouring town saw her daily, and said in a few days that the worst symptoms were over, and that she had now merely to attend to warmth and quiet: suddenly, however, a fearful relapse took place, and in a few hours Anna was removed from the world.

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With what arms wilt thou gird thee to rush to the
strife?

Lo! we tell thee, go forth mid the tumult and din
Of the closely fought struggle, "The Battle of
Life!"

Her last Let the "Good Cause" be Virtue, beloved for her

words,' continued Mr. Delamere, 'were to thank Claudine for all her kindness, and to entreat her forgiveness for the wrong she had done her-a sure proof that the poor girl's senses were wandering, for she would not wrong the lowest and meanest of human beings, and especially Claudine, whom she had always regarded with almost idolatrous admiration and gratitude. I severely feel the loss of this sweet and endearing girl, but I still more deeply feel for the change that it has wrought in Claudine. I could not have believed that she would have mourned for her friend so intensely and so devotedly she literally refuses to be comforted. She passes almost the whole of the day in solitude and weeping; and I should be seriously unhappy on her account, were it not for the consoling idea that Time heals much heavier calamities than hers, and that your presence, which I trust will not be much longer delayed, will be the surest way to revive her drooping spirits.'

:

"I brought my affairs rapidly to a termination in Scotland, and bent my way to Southland House. The unlooked-for sensibility displayed by Claudine had greatly raised her in my estimation, and I resolved to suppress as much as possible in her presence my own grief for the loss of Anna, that she might not imagine I was clinging to the idea of her in death, whom I had loved above all others in life. It was a source of great comfort to me to reflect that Anna had not fallen a victim to sorrow and disappointment; but that she had been carried off by a complaint that might equally attack the most healthy and prosperous: and when I reflected on the happiness that she was now enjoying, and the trials and troubles which would probably have been her portion in life, I felt resigned to the dispen

sation of Providence.

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY MRS. EDWIN HANCOCK.

Dost thou long for the battle, oh! proud heart of Man?

Do visions of glory shed light on thy dreams? Wouldst thou strive to ennoble thy fast fleeting span, And entwine thee a wreath of all-glorious beams?

worth,

And the far-spreading empire to which ye belong Be the whole human race on the surface of earth, And sustain ye the weak when oppress'd by the

strong.

Be thy sword "a firm spirit," of temper so true
As never to falter or swerve in the fight;
And though often the foe may the conflict renew,
Let its blade in each action gleam radiantly bright.
Make it serve thee for falchion, and also for shield,
Thy means of attack and thy permanent ward,
For, ever on duty whilst holding the field,
Thou boldly and firmly must stand on thy guard.

Be thy breast-plate the conscience, unsullied by stain
Of unworthy intention, howe'er thou may'st fail
The height of perfection in deed to attain,
For clouds round thy pathway shall ofttimes
prevail.

Be the helmet, that shelters and covers thine head,
The fond prayers of those thou hast aided and

bless'd;

For, who through that sad scene of struggle hath sped,

Nor shewn kindness to friend or to comrade distress'd!

Never shrink from a duty, though oft it may prove
Unpleasant or arduous; yield no delay
When occasion requires; make the vigorous move,
Though Ease may oft shrink from the skirmish
away.

Hold thy post still undaunted, whatever befall,
Nor faint through the storm nor the combat's

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And subalterns calmly are led to their post;
The chiefs who direct by the thought and the brain;
The ensign who bears the bold flag of the host;

All, all are as links in one beautiful chain.

And chieftains and host, 'neath the leader's control,
Obey his behests, carry forward his will;
They know but in part, He doth compass the whole,
And eternal his love, and consummate his skill.

Look round with an eye of attention, and see
How differing the parts to the soldiers assigned:
Some ever in action seem destined to be,

Whilst some to comparative ease are confined.

Yet they have their warfare: to calmly be still
Is oft keener struggle than braving the fire;
But Discipline recks not of passionate will,

And Obedience each soldier is bound to acquire.

Perchance the position where thou mayst be placed Were the last thou hadst chosen, had choice been thine own;

Yet the "Great Leader's" wisdom may often be traced

When the rush of the conflict is over and gone.

And whatever the office in which thou must move,
Do thy best its requirements to wisely fulfil;
Be it lowly, thy grace may its aspect improve ;
If arduous, 'twill show forth thy valour and skill.

Then on this field of battle go win thee a name

That shall tell of the glory and triumphs of Mind, Light the Cavern of Death with a time-honoured Fame,

And prove thee a blessing and boon to mankind. Bath, Dec. 10, 1847.

THE DYING POET TO HIS WIFE.

Close, love, yet closer to the light, It is the hour of setting sun; Oh! let it glad my aching sight

Ere yet life's weary toil be done.

Oh! beautiful-so soft, so still,

What eye could see such glorious rays, Yet fret, because some transient ill

Will cloud, at times, joy's summer days?

It is it is a lovely world;

And were it not for man's deceit,
The sails, which Fancy once unfurled,
The favouring breezes still might meet.

I knew the time-'tis long ago-
Before I saw thy gentle face,

I loved the bright creation so,

I could not think man's heart was base.

I laughed, in mockery, to deem

The last work of Jehovah's hand Should so belie what he could seem, And blemish what his love had plann'd.

But what they said came all too true;

And still we cling, yet know not why, To those glad hours, ere memory grew,

And sadness had not ouched the eye.

Oh, beautiful! I deemed my heart Had said farewell without regret; But ah! 'tis only when we part,

We feel how precious life is yet.

We feel, though bright that higher sphere For which life's weary pilgrims pine, God hath assigned sweet blessings here, Like my heart's love, in love of thine.

Nay, do not weep-thou'st been to me

A kind, dear friend, through weal and woe; And yet, perchance, it comforts thee To let these drops of anguish flow.

I will not bid thee stay thy tears,
They speak the heart's undying love;
But think, we part a few short years
To meet, in happier times, above.

Look at yon cot; thou hast a tie;

A mother's heart should never break; Thou'lt see him grow beneath thine eye, And love him for his father's sake.

I know thou'lt teach his steps to walk
In virtue's sweet and cheering way;
And, when thou hear'st his prattling talk,
"Twill shorten many a dreary day.

I would not break his peaceful rest,
Yet I would kiss my child again,
And press him to a father's breast

In one last, fond, and lingering strain!

He doth not wake-yet one more kiss-
Another-oh, my child, my child!
How little did I prize the bliss
When first thy beaming features smiled.

"Tis over, and-my eyes grow dim
With a thick film. Come nearer, love-
I hear some glorious angels' hymn,
And heavenly music from above.

Yet nearer-let me kiss thy brow.
Farewell! God's blessings on thee rest!
Yes-this is death-I feel it now:

Death is not bitter—it is feeling blest.

He's gone; the morning sun will shine,
And happy hearts will hail its rays;
But they will bring no warmth to thine,
Poor poet of the mournful lays!
J. R. W. LOMAS.

Sandwich, July 2, 1847.

LINES.

Thou hang'st between my heart and peace,
As some thick veil which human hand can never
Withdraw till bitter Life shall cease,
And these wild pulses shall be stilled for ever.

Thou stand'st between my soul and heaven,

As some black gulf whose waters ceaseless roar: Till angels burst the bonds so closely riven No hope have I to reach the further shore!

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