-the same hum-drum society-have formed the doom of my contented sisters, and in that doom they have been happy! It is extremely well that we all have not the same tastes. Such a life as theirs would kill me in a week. ،، Well, eight of iny father's daughters were taken off his hands-you see that I can use the true market phrase-before I was fifteen. I was the ninth, and the youngest by many years. When all the rest had been disposed of, literally to the best bidders, I was yet such a mere chi d in years and thought, that matrimony was a goal to which, for some time at least, my steps were not to be directed. Perhaps, as I was the beauty of the family, mind, I only use the word comparatively -I was kept on hands a little longer, in the hope of being more advantageously disposed of! Perhaps, my youth would have been no great impediment to my 'settlement in life,'-how convenient are these terms !-but rny mother died suddenly, and I was sent to a fashionable boarding-school, at Derby, until further orders.' ، "We knew very little more of the relative to whom my father intended leaving the estate, than that he was eccentric, very rich, and very old. On the formal announcement of my mother's death, he sent a letter of condolence, written in very courteous terms,-requesting particular information respecting the domestic affairs of our family,-and intimating a desire that, connected in blood as we were, we should also be connected in friendship. "In his usually frank and hearty manner, my father replied that it should not be his fault, if a friendship were not formed and fostered. From this followed such an interchange of compliments. that, some six months after the correspondence commenced, Sir Edward Morton invited my father to visit him at his seat in Yorkshire. "The visit was paid, and each father must have loudly sounded the praises of his child, for they agreed that the estates should be united by the bond matrimonial. I was fluttered and flattered at receiving a notification that I was to proceed forthwith to Morton Hall, where my father still remained. I had a vague suspicion that something in the marriage line was on the tapis, for my father's recent letters had been brimful with praises of Mr. Henry Morton-the only child of his "I was received at Morton Hall as if I were Sir Edward's daughter, instead of his guest. We women have a sort of freemasonry by which we can see when we are likely to become favourites, and I saw at a glance, that I was on the high road into the old baronet's heart. He was so kind, so considerate, so generous, that I must have been cold indeed, if I did not seek to repay him by all the attentions in my power. ،، Soon after my arrival I was summoned to a cabinet council in the library, where, after a preliminary harangue of half an hour, my father informed me that Sir Edward and himself had agreed that Henry Morton should marry me and that it was expected that I should make no objection to this arrangement. Sir Edward added a few words to the effect that he knew my disposition was exactly similar to that of his dear son, and this gave him assurance that the union would be a happy one. The gentlemen quite forgot that neither party had yet seen the other. But a family compact of this nature, does not include much regard for the feelings or affections, it is simply an affair of business, and not an affair of the heart! I usually have a good memory-yet I forget what reply I gave to this matrimonial proposal. Perhaps I gave noneperhaps none was expected. At any rate the affair was looked upon as fixed, and I was sent back to school, loaded with presents. "In a few months I was suddenly summoned home-my father was on his death-bed, and I arrived in time to receive his blessing and see him die, Although he was a negative character in society, as a man, he was a kind parent, and the tears which I shed for him were neither few nor unmerited. "On his will being opened, it appeared that he had saved a considerable sum annually from his income, and this accumulation, divided between my sisters, was some consolation to them for the remaining provisions of the will, which stated that, by mutual agreement between Sir Edward Morton and my father, it had been determined that Henry Morton should become the husband of Isabella Carlisle -that he should tender his hand to me within one year after his father's death, The "Here then was I, at the age of sixteen, a conditional heiress, and a conditional wife! Sir Henry Morton soon returned to England, and was little pleased to find the conditions on which his paternal estates were bequeathed to him. You would hardly blame him for taking legal advice upon his father's will. I am little of a lawyer, but I believe that some short time before he quitted England on his continental tour, he had joined in what is called cutting off the entail,' which I fancy gave his father a power to alienate the property as he wished. Poor Sir Henry was heart-sick to find himself in this dilemma. Although he did not conceal his chagrin, he did not attempt to dispute the validity of his father's last will and testament.' "Did he dislike me? No. He had never seen me-scarcely knew, until now, that such a being was in existence-but he had romantic feelings-was of an imaginative turn of mind -and of acute sensibility. It is no wonder, therefore, that he had a horror of being obliged to marry 'per order,'-as the tradesmen have it. He did not attempt to disguise his feelings, and through one friend or another, I was not long left in ignorance of his avowed intention to decline my hand. What an affront!-not to let me have the pleasure of refusing him! But I was not very much displeased with this report of the young baronet's spirit:-I think I should have heartily despised him, had he made up his mind, as some of the sex would have done, to take the estates, with myself as the encumbrance; but from the moment I heard that he vowed he would only see me once, to tell me that he would not wed me, he grew rapidly in my esteem." (To be concluded in our next.) THE LAND OF MY FATHERS. The white cliffs of Britain emerge on my sight, For here are the tombs where our fathers are laid, On the Marriage of the Princess Anna Maria of Portugal. Can the parent forget that her fostering hand That their land is the birth-place of Shakspeare and Scott. The fortress of Europe, whose bulwarks have hurl'd That world will confide in thy awe-striking name, TACET. ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCESS ANNA MARIA, OF PORTUGAL, WITH THE MARQUIS LOULEE. 151 [The event alluded to, it is believed, is unexampled in modern times, from the heroical devotion of this lovely Princess, who yielded all her royal claims for the purpose, with the acquiescence of her Majesty, the Queen-Mother. The late John VI., on the sudden and dubious death of the Marquis's father, declared that " he would be his father." His Majesty placed him near his royal person, highly favoured him; and thus, in his intercourse with the Royal Family, originated the passion which has ended in a delightful union. The Marquis is remarkably handsome, and entirely unaffected in his manners; so also is his consort. They determined upon travel, almost incognito, the now simple Marchioness observing that "her presence among the Portuguese people can be in no way necessary."] Let prouder poets weave the verse in vain, Bright was the morn, and placid was the hour, So warn'd, so unforbidden, unrepress'd, And who with many an adverse storm have strove, High is my birth, and proud the name I bear, All, all I yield, unheeded let us roam, The virgin Queen of Heaven, she sure may move THE SYLPH LOVER. A FANTASTIC TALE, FROM A BRETON LEGEND. "Yes, dame Isabeau, we have with pain noticed the negligent manner in which your daughter has performed her duties. But one confession since Christmas last! and I verily believe that she slept in sermon-time at the church of Coucy. We have all a paternal regard for our vassals of the abbey, and when, like lost sheep, they wander from the right way, we bring them back with affectionate solicitude." Here Frere Jehan paused to take breath. He leant back in the wooden arm-chair, made a sigh of compassion, and gave a scrutinising glance at the pretty Eloise to see how she took his lecture. Now Frere Jehan was a fine plump monk of the rich order of the Premonsteaus. His curled black beard was neatly clipped in a circle round his face, his eyes shone like two pieces of live coal, and his large cheeks were of a bright claret colour. His gown was of the finest cloth, girded by a costly silk belt. In spite, however, of his florid jocund appearance, there was a sinister expression of mouth and eye that declared to the observant beholder that Frere Jehan was a sensual egotist. "Sainte Salaberge," muttered dame Isabeau," have I not told you, child, that you must go oftener to church. The reverend father is very kind to trouble himself about your welfare. Why do you not thank him, and promise to profit by his advice?" Eloise replied not: she was in a pro Old Play, 1600.-" Wisdom of Doctor Doddypol." found reverie. Her thoughts were wan dering far enough from the cottage and the holy visiter. "How! have you nothing to say? Think you that no apology is due for sleeping at a sermon ?" "Ah, pardon me, mother! I did not sleep at Frere Jehan's sermon; I only closed my eyes-that I might think." Dame Isabeau held up her hands"Here is a pretty reply! Is it not a sad thing, father, for me, so good a Christian, to have a girl who chooses to think with her eyes shut in sermon-time?" "Do not make yourself unhappy, mother," replied Eloise; and then she added, with repugnance and in embarrassment, "I hope the reverend father will pardon me if I have unwittingly offended him." "For all sin there is mercy, fair child," said Frere Jehan; " and those who repent are half-pardoned" But his words were lost on Eloise, who was already again absorbed in thought. On what could her thoughts be dwelling with such deep attention? There was nothing but the old poplars to be seen through the diamonded panes and heavy wood-work of the pointed windows of the grange. As their pale leaves shivered in the clear moonlight, they traced a thousand fantastic shadows on the walls and ceiling of the low-roofed room. Father," said dame Isabeau in a half whispering confidential tone, " you must not be angry with this child, who has no ill intentions. In truth, she is a very singular maiden ; and if she goes not often to church or shrift, she goes still seldomer to feasts and festivals. It is more than six Sundays since she has joined her companions in the village dances. She takes delight in nothing but to sit dreaming as you see her now, and when she is alone she talks unceasingly to herself." "Solitude is not good for young girls," said Frere Jehan; "it encourages bad thoughts." "Ah, if with all this estrangement from the world she had had a little more devotion, I know well what I should have thought of for her: it would have been a religious life. But that is not possible." 66 Why is it not possible? dame Isabeau. Confide the matter to me, and we will soon make a little nun of her. I will undertake her religious instruction, and her admission among the Cordeliere sis− ters of St. Quentin. The abbess is one of my relations." Eloise turned on him impetuously-"I will not be a nun-do not reckon on it: I will die first!" Frere Jehan and her mother were pe trified at this sudden explosion. Eloise continued, in an under-voice, as if talking to herself "I who love to wander on the banks of the rivulet when the moon sleeps on the meadows-I who love the clearings in the woods when the sunset gilds the green leaves-I who love to dance by myself when the breeze sings more harmoniously than the viol of the jongleur-I who love the free air of the heavens; and they would deprive me of all this!" Then she added, with angry determination, “I will not be a nun!" and, darting through the tears that filled her rebel eyes a glance of rage on Frere Jehan, the charming girl quitted the room. "What a strange child!" said her mother. "Where can she have learnt all the odd things she has been talking of? For my part, Frere Jehan, I understand no more of them than of the Latin in your breviary. But," continued she, lowering her voice, "she was born on the holy eve of Advent, and I believe she sees visions." "Indeed!" replied the monk. present, farewell, mère Isabeau. I will think of some way to convert your daugh ter. VOL. IV.-No. 3. "At This Eloise was, indeed, a strange girl. She had no companions among her laughing rosy compeers of the village; she always avoided them, and still more their vulgarbred brothers, whose company and conversation inspired her with disgust, which she did not try to conceal. The beauty of Eloise was of an order that the rude villagers could not comprehend. Her fair and delicately-formed features, her redundance of light silken curls, her airy figure and dreamy smile, which never appeared during the laughter of others, made her seem like the inhabitant of another world whenever she mixed unwillingly with the Sunday sports and dances of her neighbours. She seemed like a daughter of one of those druids who used to unveil the future to her Celtic ancestors. She entered her lonely little chamber, which occupied the eastern corner of the low-roofed cottage-grange. Ivy and honeysuckle hung from the thatch, and halfobscured the open window, which was nearly level with the velvet turf below, and the breath of early spring flowers came sweetly through the open casement. The heart of Eloise was ready to burst when she thought of the hateful proposition of Frere Jehan. She shed a few tears, then shook her pretty head with an air of resolution, threw down her silken curls, and made her night toilet. Her light was extinguished, and every thing was still. Then a voice was heard from one corner of the chamber, high, clear, and brilliant as the vibration of silver, or the ringing of glasses in unison. “ Mistress, my dear mistress! I am here. Good even, fair mistress." Eloise started up. "How! you here at such an hour! When did I give you leave to enter my sleeping-chamber? Away with you, or I will call aloud and scare you hence." The voice became more plaintive, and murmured more sweetly than the goldfinch when disturbed in his night covert among the embowering leaves. "Do not chide me, mistress. Consider, unkind mistress, that you have not talked with me since yesterday." "How exacting he has become! Not talked to him for four-and-twenty hours ! One might as well have the tyranny of an earthly lover." Oh, what a vile welcome is she giving me! I who have worked for her so hard since yesterday! I have neither U |