What a strange inconsistent being is man! To think of taking her along with me was vain. At that time a voyage to India was nearly as formidable as a voyage to the Pole; and, besides, Mary's delicate frame would have wasted and withered away beneath a tropical sun. Mary resided at her father's house, which was situated a short distance from town. Thither I accordingly repaired, and soon found myself sitting in the old-fashioned parlour where I usually met her. There stood her harp, over which I had often hung enraptured, drinking in love and sweet music, till I was almost intoxicated with delight; it was now mute, to me it would be silent for ever; there lay a landscape I had asked her to paint, but which I was never to see completed. Alas! thought I, in this very spot others will listen delighted as she sings, and gaze at her as she works, perhaps, at this little picture, while I, poor I, forgotten by all, am burning away my life beneath the influence of a tropical sun. At this moment, casting my eyes upon a large mirror, I could not help smiling at my woe begone visage; so, rallying a little, I awaited the arrival of Mary. It was only that forenoon that poor Mary had been told of my intended departure, and she now entered the room with a cast-down, dejected air. She approached me with something between a tear and a smile; but when our eyes met, when I said I had come to bid her farewell, the big tear started to her beautiful eyes, and throwing herself into my arms, she wept aloud in an agony of grief. I am now an old man, and many a sorrow have I felt; but these two hours were the bitterest I ever knew, and yet, strange as it may seem, there is a sort of pleasure in melancholy. Sad as I was, my beart was filled with a soothing sweetness, like that which fills the soul when we listen to some old melody we love ;there is surely some mysterious connexion between music and melancholy, for the nature of their effects on the feelings is the same. It was long before I could think of leaving her. Often I tried to say farewell, but as the sound trembled on my tongue, an entreating look from Mary again drove away the half-formed words, and so I sat still, while we talked of the pleasant hours we had passed together, hours which absence was so soon to render sacred. But at last I had to depart, and, as the wretch on the scaffold, through very desperation, flings off the fatal handkerchief, so straining my Mary to my beating heart, I kissed her with a deep, a last kiss, and then rushed to the door. The interview was over; I saw her no more. About an hour after, I received a small packet; it contained a lock of dark brown hair, with these words"Keep it for the sake of Mary." Poor Mary! she had been weeping when she wrote it, for the paper was still wet with her tears. When I returned home, I found my parents setting_with the rest of my family, all anxiously waiting for me. I felt that I had been unkind in spending so much of the night away from my own family. What little time I had should surely have been devoted to my poor father and mother. Others I might see again, but long before I returned their heads would he laid beneath the green turf. I dare say all our reflections were sad enough. My father tried to rally our spirits, and smilingly talked of the time when 1 should return to the support and joy of his old age. But the attempt was vain; it was but a mockery of cheerfulness, and we were sadder than before. At length we had to separate. I bade them all an affectionate good-night, and promised to see them before I departed in the morning. But that promise was meant to spare us the pain of parting. When all was quiet I silently quitted my chamber, and glided along the passage. As I passed my parent's room, I perceived that there was still a light in it. I was tempted to look through the keyhole. I saw my mother on her knees, and, doubtless, she was praying for me. Oh! how I longed to fly to her arms, to indulge in the satisfaction of at least bidding her adieu! but restraining my feelings, I took a last look, and then went on. I could not leave the house without visiting our little parlour-that room where we had all spent so many a happy hour. Never, never on earth was that happy circle to be again re-united. As I looked round, the tears sprung to my eyes, and, overcome by my feelings, I laid my head on the table and wept. But the clock struck two-it was the hour of my departure, and, dashing away the tears, I quickly stole out of the house. When I gained the outside, I took a last, long look,-the light was still burning in my room; in my heart I invoked a blessing on her, and on them all,-and thus, sorrowfully and in silence, I quitted my once happy home. THE CONTRAST. After sojourning nearly forty years in the East, I found I had amassed a fortune exceeding even the sanguine anticipations of youth. Still I hesitated whether to return to Britain. I had been so long in India that it now appeared to me my home, and friends had grown up around me from whom I felt unwilling to part. felt that, in returning to Scotland, I was going, as it were, to a strange land; my parents, and brothers, and sisters were dead, and after so long an absence, the few friends of my youth who still remained would in all probability have forgotten me. But in spite of all this, I felt a something within me which prompted me to revisit the scenes of my youth, and though nearly sixty, I confess I had a desire to see once more my first, my only love, my dear Mary. To say I loved her would be nonsense; love will seldom survive a separation of forty years; but I still thought of her with tenderness, and in revisiting my native country, she was the only one whom I felt happy at the thought of seeing, the only one who, I expected, would be happy again to see me. Like me, she could never again love,-like me, she was still unmarried. At length I returned to Scotland. The feelings of youth had long been calmed by age, and I reached my native place without those agitating, but delightful emotions, which many will imagine the sight of whom was so calculated to produce. I thought, with a melancholy smile, of the grief had felt when I left it. Ay, all are gone, said I; in my father'e house I am a solitary stranger; for what end was I to toil away my life in a foreign land? that I might return rich and happy to my friends: rich I am, but where are the friends with whom I was to have spent the evening of my days? Alas! they are gone, and my life bas been passed in vain. In the same spirit did I wander along the streets of my native town. I felt myself an isolated lonely being. Every one seemed happy except myself; every one had his pursuits, every one had his companions and friends. I alone had none; a new generation had sprung up, and those whom I had formerly known as young men, were now strangely metamorphosed into grave-looking gentlemen, with grown-up families, and many of them with grand-children. Such as they were, however, I was glad to meet with them, though I often could not help wondering that they looked so old. The town itself, too, seemed no longer the same I had left behind me. Magnificent buildings had succeeded to old-fashioned habitations, and the fields over which I used to shoot were now loaded with dwellings like palaces. It was a proof of the prosperity of the place, and yet I was half angry at the alteration. Had I been a magician, I should have restored the town to the state I remembered it to have been in when I left it forty years before. On reaching home, I found that Mary Lindesay was in the country; but when she returned, my first care was to visit her. I have said that she was still unmarried, and though I had long ceased to love, yet I felt my heart beat as 1 approached the well-remembered house. I pictured to myself the transport with which she would throw herself into my arms, and fondly believed that the joy of our meeting would repay us for the misery of parting. My heart began to beat more quickly as I gently knocked at the door; and when the servant appeared, I could hardly ask him if Miss Lindesay was within. "Miss Lindesay-Miss Lindesay," said he, slowly repeating the name, as if uncertain whom I meant; "O yes, sir," and then shewing the way, I soon found myself alone, and seated once more in the old-fashioned parlour. It was the only thing I had yet seen which was still the same as I had left it. Looking about me, I soon discovered old friends in the pictures which were hanging round the room. There was but one new one,-it was the landscape I had asked her to paint, and there it was hanging, half finished, exactly as I had last seen it. At the other side of the room was the portrait of a youthful and beautiful face, which I at once recognised to be Mary's. I could scarcely help thinking that all that had past for the last forty years was nothing but a troubled dream, so completely did the scene carry me back to the days of my youth. In a short time the door opened, and my heart again beat quick,but it was a false alarm, only the servant sent to say that Mrs. Lindesay would be down presently. Good God! thought I, is the old mother living yet! she must be a very aged woman by this time: let me see, when I left this in the year 17-she was at least-but here my calculations were cut short, for the door again opened, and the old woman herself entered the room. The old lady's face flushed as she approached, and she seemed embarrassed. I was astonished to perceive that she looked as young as when I saw her last, but making a respectful bow, I congratulated her upon her good looks, and then eagerly inquired after Mary. The old lady smiled. "Indeed, William," said she, and I started at the voice, "indeed we have both paid the tax for growing old in the aged woman who speaks to you, you see your once loved Mary." At that moment, casting my eyes in the direction of the mirror, I saw the reflection of a withered old man. I remember what I had been when I looked there last, and I now saw that I was as much altered as even poor Mary, or, as she now termed herself, Mrs. Mary Lindesay. And yet, so gently and gradually had time laid his hand upon me, that till that moment I never thought myself half such an antique as in reality I was. Here, then, was an end to all my dreams. The hope of returning to Mary was what cheered me when I left home.it was that which sustained me while in India. I foolishly believed that I was to find her the same fond, blushing girl, that I had left her; and never reflecting that time would rob the face of its youth, and the deepest love of its romance, I expected that when I returned there would be many a year of happiness and love in store for us. These delightful visions were baseless. I came home an old man, and found Mary-an old woman. A short time, however, blunted the edge of my disappointment. Reconciled to old age, I may say that I am happy. Mary and I have for several years been man and wife; we have retired to a sweet spot, away from the bustle of town, and if we do not feel the raptures of a youthful love, we at least experience the happiness which springs from a well-founded friendship. A SIMILE. The little spot of azure dye, That smiles from out a stormy sky, By the world's dark cares surrounded. The lowly star that glistens there, 'Mid the tempest pure and fair, Shows of love the lingering blossom, That home holds for the wanderer's bosom. SIGMA. |