and abundance. Here am I with every luxury at my command, yet am I a stranger to peace and quietness. I do not possess, cannot purchase the luxury of a good conscience. I have great estates, a splendid mansion, rich apparel, abundance of the world's goods, but what of these if they bring not peace! The best estate a man can possess is a contented mind and an enlarged intellect." After a short pause he repeated to himself, "Blind and in distress. I have a title," he continued, "but am I superior to that poor outcast female? What magic does a What magic does a title possess in the eyes of any one but its owner? The poor woman," resumed he, "bears a strong resemblance to Maria; but she had eyes-and what eyes they were!"

His lordship had by this time relinquished his hold of the bridle, and his head drooped upon his breast. A strange contrast did the general appearance of the rider, equipped in his scarlet coat and hunting dress, present to his deeply meditative coun

tenance.

"Young, interesting, in distress, and a mother," said Frederic over again. "I should much like to know her history."

His lordship now resumed his hold of the bridle, turned his head, and addressing the groom, said,

"Go and tell that poor blind girl to call at the castle this evening."

The groom cantered back to the village. The master proceeded on his way homeward, and resumed his reverie as follows:

"I should much like to see Maria once more; I think it would do me good. I dance, and sing, and look gay, yet do I feel a sadness at heart. Even now, overcome by sorrowful emotions, have I absented myself from my Lord Draton's hunting dinnerparty. In vain does the fresh sea-breeze kiss my cheeks; in vain do riches and splendour meet my view; these cannot dispel my thoughts."

His lordship was interrupted in this chain of self-reproach by the groom trotting up and informing his noble master that he could not find the object he was sent in search of.

An expression of disappointment passed over the features of Frederic as he said to himself, "Truly virtue is its own reward and vice its own punishment." He now urged his horse forward, and presently arrived at Barton Castle, the noble mansion handed down to him by his ancestors.

Maria was seated in an obscure lodging-house for travellers when my Lord Lindon's groom entered the village in his fruitless search after her. Here, in company with some few individuals, the very dregs of society-mendicants, by choice and profession, she partook of a dish of tea and some dry bread. What a situation for a sensitive female to be placed in! for Maria, fallen as she was, possessed the finer feelings of humanity,

Even there her debased companions sympathised with the poor blind and youthful mother.

She caressed her baby, thought in sorrow of her present degraded position, of her once happy home, of him who had been the cause of her ruin. She pressed a fervent kiss on the cheeks of her child, and said, "I cannot see thy face, my lovely one, but I know thou art handsome; every one tells me thou art a beauty. But Heaven has sealed my eyelids, has punished me for my sins. Oh! may Providence preserve thee, my child, from falling into snares such as were laid to blight the peace of thy mother." As she thus spoke she again pressed her infant fervently in her arms and wept in secret.

In the manner described did Maria traverse the country, carrying her babe and a heart weary and heavy laden with cares. Death would have been a welcome visitor to the hapless mother but for her infant charge, for whose sake only she cared to live.

Months passed away and the unhappy mother wandered about the country scarcely knowing whither she proceeded.

It was in the month of December that she arrived in London, weak and enfeebled in mind and body. Maria had cause to remember the twenty-second of that month. The snow, which was falling fast, was blown and drifted about by a piercing northeasterly wind. It was on this night that Maria with her babe had not where to lay her head, for so exhausted was she that she could not reach her humble lodgings. Two years previous the then innocent and light-hearted Maria was assisting her mother at home to prepare the good things with which to celebrate the festive season so close at hand. Alas! what bitter changes do a few short months sometimes work in the destiny of human beings!

Turning sick and faint with over-exertion, cold, and want of food, she sunk in a kind of stupor on one of the stone seats on Westminster Bridge. The passers-by, as they hurried on, were so enveloped in clothing as to prevent their noticing this unfortunate woman had they felt disposed to assist her. In a short time she was covered with a mantle of white, for the piercing wind blew and the snow drifted around her. The babe had as yet slept silently beneath the tattered cloak of its wretched mother. Could the really distressed and unfortunate be readily distinguished from the idle and dissolute the former would meet with prompt assistance from their fellow-creatures, but imposture so frequently steals the boon away from the deserving that all the outcasts of society are viewed with suspicion, and frequently disregarded; thus it was with Maria whilst the outcast lay unconscious of all around her. The child awoke, and feeling cold and hungry began to cry and moan most piteously, which soon attracted the passers-by. At this time Lord Lindon was returning from an evening party to his house in Parliament Street. Observing the crowd that was

fast gathering round the unfortunate woman he was naturally attracted to the spot. The moment he saw poor Maria he recognised her as being the poor creature he saw at Hampton, and whose history he was so desirous of knowing. He could not tell the reason, but he seemed drawn towards her as if she was in some way connected with him. When he came up the crowd made way for him and his liveried attendant. Lindon immediately ordered his servant to call a coach, in which Maria was placed. His lordship desired the coachman to drive to the nearest coffeehouse. When poor Maria was placed in the vehicle Lindon followed, bearing the child in his arms. At this time his lordship started with surprise, for the features of that sweet innocent reminded him of his own lost Maria.

They were not many minutes in reaching a coffee-house, when Maria, by Lord Lindon's orders, was led into a warm and comfortable apartment, where a plentiful supply of refreshment was placed before her and her child. Lindon longed most ardently to hear the poor woman's story, but did not like to ask her for her history; at last, however, gaining courage, he said,

"I fear you have suffered much." And he spoke the words in such a sweet and gentle voice. Ah! in the same tone that had lured poor Maria from the path of virtue and honour.

It will not appear strange to the reader when told that Maria, though deprived of sight, knew the voice, and exclaimed, in a passionate flood of tears, at the same time throwing herself in Lindon's arms,

"It is, it must be him! Frederic! oh, how I have longed to hear your voice once more! Ah! this is your child!" and she held the baby to him. "Take her, take her, she is your own, and see what the vengeance of Heaven has inflicted upon me for my crime;" and she placed her hands over her sightless orbs. "I have not seen the light of Heaven since I lost my virtue; I have not seen my child's sweet face, but they tell me it is beautiful to look on. Oh, God! thou hast indeed afflicted me! have mercy on me! have mercy! and let sight once more be restored to my poor eyes, let me but see the face of my child and my Frederic and I shall die in peace.'

"Talk not of dying, my much-injured Maria," exclaimed Frederic, in deep emotion; "I will soothe thy grief; you shall never leave me more; I will be thy guide; my eyes shall see for thee; my whole life shall be spent in making recompense to thee for the wrongs I have inflicted on thy defenceless person. Say thou wilt strive to forgive me; it will take a weight from off my heart that is fast wearing me to the grave. Think not, Maria, although I have not suffered the misery you have, that I have gone unscathed. No, I have had an everlasting tormentor in my bosom. I have carried a hell within my breast, though it was not discernible to men."

At Maria's desire Lindon took lodgings in a quiet part of the town, when after a short time he determined, by Maria's consent, to marry her. I fancy I see some stickler for "caste" start with astonishment and indignation when they find his lordship making proposals of marriage to this poor girl. "The idea is monstrous," perchance they will say, " to think of marrying a good for nothing girl that has lost her virtue and a lord too! Hussy! how could she dare think of such a thing?" And may I ask, should she not expect it? Ay, and demand it too. What! if a "fine lord" thought her good enough to seduce from the path of virtue, why, I ask, is she not good enough for his wife? I would have my readers strive, when they judge of another's case to make it their own. Was their sister or friend seduced by a lord they would think her good enough to be the wife of the said "nobleman."

Maria's days now glided on in comparative happiness, for those she loved were near to support and comfort her. Her child grew in interest and loveliness, and was the delight of its father. Lindon now begged of Maria to become his wife, but now it was in her power to marry him she was not willing to do so, for fear she should bring disgrace on his noble name. But be it known, to the honour of Frederic, that he deemed it a greater disgrace to have it said he first seduced an innocent girl and then left her to her fate, than to marry the girl whose prospects in life he had blighted. Frederic brought a skilful physician to examine poor Maria's eyes, and he was delighted to hear that there were hopes of her sight being restored. The troubles poor Maria had experienced undermined her constitution, and Frederic had to bear the distressing news that his own Maria was in the first stage of a decline. All Frederic's kind attention could not stop the progress of her disease. No, death had marked her for his own. And that Maria felt and knew; but she was patient and resigned to the will of Heaven.

"Frederic," said she, "be a father and a guide to our poor child; shield her from the cruel world; never tell her what sufferings her poor mother underwent, for that would embitter all her days; teach her to love the paths of virtue and rectitude."

Maria's prayer had been heard, and she had the joy of once more beholding her beloved Frederic and darling child. Oh! the delightful ecstasy of that moment when she beheld the face of her sweet child! Who can describe the feeling of that poor and once sightless being when she found that the light of Heaven once more dawned upon her? After great persuasion from Frederic, and for the sake of her darling child, she consented to become his

wife.

On the morning of her marriage she was arrayed in a robe of spotless white; suspended from her neck by a black ribbon was a locket that contained the miniature portraits of Frederic and the

child. She might, as she stepped forth on her bridal morn, have been taken for an inhabitant of another world. Scarcely had the blissful sound of "wife" reached her ears before she fainted. She was removed from the altar quite insensible. She lingered a few hours through the day, but was apparently lost to all around her till within a short time of her decease, when she faintly breathed forth the names of her husband and child, and placing her hand in that of her husband, she said, "I am now thy wife;" and with these words on her lips surrendered up her soul to the God who gave it.

I scarcely need say that Frederic was quite inconsolable at her loss, but the sweet prattle of his child, after a time, in some measure assisted to assuage his grief. And he determined to dedicate the remainder of his days to the care and education of his sweet child, thus repaying the love he bore Maria by his kind attention to her beloved offspring-a poor recompense, however, for the ruin he had occasioned.

THE RELEASED CAPTIVE'S LAMENT.

BY MRS CHARLES TINSLEY.

Amongst the prisoners released at the destruction of the Bastile, was one old man who had been an inmate of those dreary walls from his youth, and who pathetically implored that he might be allowed to pass the remainder of his days in his dungeon.

"TwAs a prison's walls gave way,

As the crowd in its stormy wrath press'd on,
And a captive host, when the pass was won
Burst forth to the glad free day;

But one whose head bore the weight of years,
Thus lifted his voice amid burning tears :-

"Are there none to bear me back
From the boundless wastes of this desert place,
Verdureless, springless, to one whose race
Has left on the earth no track?

Leave me not now in this alien crowd,
With the sense of my desolation bow'd.

"Ye have brought me forth in vain

To the scenes in which I can bear no part;
Ye have call'd me back with my wither'd heart;
Can ye bid it bloom again?

Can ye conjure up from the wasted past

One shape that may gladden mine eyes at last?