SKETCHES FROM NATURE.

No. I.

He was proceeding with the soliloquy—“ "Yet a little while,-and then," -"and then what?" continued a plaintive female voice from behind the curtain, that concealed her slender but lovely form. "Is that you, Marianne, my love!" cried the unfortunate invalid, as he stretched forth his thin white hand to welcome her. His eye gleamed with unearthly brightness, his cheek was suddenly flushed with the hectic of joy, and then gradually resumed its wonted paleness. "I had quite given you up ;-I was endeavouring to persuade myself it was all for the best---that I should never see you more---that I must pass into eternity without receiving and imparting the farewell blessing. I know you will forgive me, but I could not help thinking there was something like unkindness in this last neglect, but now”—and his eye sparkled as he spake---" but now my fears are vanished---I feel as though a load were removed from my heart--as if happiness was yet in store for us"--the tone of tender melancholy, in which he addressed her had thrown her into tears; as he pronounced the last sentence her face was for a moment enlivened by a - gleam of hope, and she involuntarily exclaimed," Indeed!" he saw---he heard her not; he was wrapt in his subject; and Marianne's soft blue eyes were again suffused with tears as he mournfully concluded---" but not here---not in this world."

He was a young man, apparently about nineteen, he could not be more than twenty;---he had been in the army, abroad---had undergone the perils and fatigues of a two years' campaign in the Peninsula; he was advancing in his profession, had at-tained the rank of lieutenant, when

his health declined, his strength gave way, and he returned home with the prospect of recovery---he hoped in the caresses of his parents and the smiles of his Marianne, that his health would quickly be restored ;---but from the hurry of travelling, ere he reached his home, decay had made rapid in

rived, and his parents knew not of it; they thought him on the mountains of Spain, and he was at their threshold ---overpowered by a multitude of feelings, scarce was he able to throw himself into their arms;---they bore him to his bed, and he had been there ever since---it was only three days--to him it appeared an age---his sole enquiries were for his Mariannethey told him she was from home --it evidently preyed upon his spirits ---it was therefore deemed prudent to deceive him no longer;---she had been nigh him, and he saw her not, she had heard him, and knew it not; this was her first interview since his return from the Peninsula. Marianne endeavoured to cheer him---she spoke of the war, of the hardships he had endured, of the laurels he had reaped ---of the prospects before him---she faltered as she spoke---every effort to avert his mind from gloomy forebodings was unavailing ;---he saw through the affectionate little artifice, smiled his thanks, and she was silent ---the tide of feeling was at his height ---one word would have told all---she rose to retire---the big tear trembled in her eye, and ere she had closed the door a convulsive sob burst on the ears of the wretched William, and thrilled through his frame with indescribable anguish. Oh! but there is something in woman's sorrow that insensibly wins the heart, and engages the best feelings of our nature in its behalf;---the lamb-like resignation--the vain attempts to arrest the ebullition of feeling;-the retiring meekIness that seeks to withdraw itself from public gaze;--the calm despair and the wild throb of agony alternate ;---all tend to shew nature loveliest in her weaknesses. It was impossible to witness a scene like this and not inwardly curse the fiendish monster war ;---my soul took an expansive glance over the unknown myriads this single war has swept to an untimely grave; on the tens of thousands it has beggared; and on the millions of hearts it has widowed. I asked myself ;---and will it not be asked in another world? "Why should man raise his hand against his

fellow?" His faculties, his feelings, his pleasures, and even his pains, bespeak him formed, not for himself alone, but for society, and yet in this particular, we run counter to nature, we become lions---we glory in the reeking blood of thousands, and, like Indians o'er their sacrifices, turn midnight into day, with lighted windows, bonfires, loud huzzas: and thus deJuded thousands, whilst they mourn a husband, father, brother, shout for the general weal. When falls the conqueror, many nations mourn; bards swell the song, and statuaries join to tell posterity his deathless fame; but sons of inercy die and none regards---they pass untrophied to the quiet grave, but not forgotten.—

Oh, no! their tribute is the bounding of the grateful heart, not shouts of multitudes mingled with dying groans

-not widows' tears, but widows' blessings---not the bereaved orphan's anguished cry, but songs of gratitude --not dying soldiers' curses, but their prayers---not the world's fear, but the world's veneration."

I know not how much longer my reverie might have continued, had not the return of Marianne called my attention to what was passing around me: there was a calmness in her aspect that might easily be accounted for; the full heart had overflowedthe tide of her feeling had subsided, and she was now sunk into a deep and settled melancholy. During her absence her lover had fallen into a gentle slumber; fearful of disturbing his repose, she approached his bedside on tiptoe, and, having seated herself beside him, watched his pale and haggard looks with the most fixed and solicitous regard. He appeared to be dreaming, his lips muttered inarticulate sounds-his face became flushed, his brow bedewed with perspiration-his whole frame seemed agitated-she was alarmed; she took his hand, and gently pres-sing it, exclaimed, "William, my love!" he raised himself from his couch, and wildly casting his eyes around, cried, as he earnestly seized her arm, "What, Marianne! here still! methought we were separated for ever-death was the divider-and

I was just casting a last glance on this transitory world;-'twas all a dream-but shadows of truth, for I feel my strength rapidly wasting, and ere long shall be as though I ne'er had been. Yes, yes, I am verging towards eternity; each moment bears me like the boiling billow, farther from the shores of time---my eye is dim, my hand is feeble, my frame is relaxed, but my soul, my immortal soul, is still the same; it lives through all, and flourishes in the midst of ruin,---to feel all the agony of parting, and to experience with more poignant anguish the sad and solemn reflection, that when I am reposing beneath the grass-green turf, there will be one kind and gentle spirit left, lonely and deserted, who must weep unnoticed---sigh uncomforted ---in the hour of gaiety joyless, in the silence of solitude drear and desolate---these are the thoughts that rack---these the reflections that harass me; she who loved me living must mourn unconsoled o'er my memory when dead. Then, Marianne," continued he, "then, when you shall call for me unanswered, save by the hollow echo from the graves---then, if parted souls may visit those they love, mine shall hover round you, watch over your destiny, reverberate your sighs, weep over your sorrows, if disembodied spirits weep---and be the first to hail your trembling spirit when it crosses the threshold of eternity." Those, and those only, who have stood beside the couch, where all that is lovely and valued lies struggling with the last enemy, can imagine the devotional fervour, the something more than mortal interest with which Marianne beheld him. "This," said she, taking a little miniature from her bosom; "this is all that will remain to remind me of a hapless lover---but my heart needs no remembrancer---none, none,'tis withering at the core, and ere long"---The door slowly opened, and an aged lady, whose face bespoke a heart ill at ease, gently approached to his bed-side, enquiring with much anxiety how he felt himself. He smiled, and would have reached forth his hand, but the

THE DISCOVERY-THE PROGRESS- THE WRECK OF BEAUTY.

THE following pathetic incident is extracted from a volume, just published, entituled "Soine Account of the Life of the late Gilbert Earl, Esq." It will doubtless be read with considerable interest:

The author and his friend, one afternoon, were coming home from shooting, it was a very hot day, and we went to a farm-house to make interest for a draught of home-brewed. Dallas proposed it, saying, as he pointed to a substantial cottage at a little distance, that he could not only promise me a mug of admirable ale -but that he would shew me the prettiest country lass within ten miles. He had discovered them himself, he said, only a few days before, on a similar occasion-and he had brought me this way, half on purpose, that he might prosecute his acquaintance with both.

THE DISCOVERY.

It was between four and five -o'clock, and the day had been extremely hot. The sun, however, was now declining,-and as our path lay along the eastern skirt of a wood, the cool deep shade of the trees gave a refreshing and very grateful contrast to the glowing and baked appearance of the open field beyond. We walked gently along, enjoying the change for we had been out many hours. We thus approached the cottage slowly, and were partially concealed in our advance by the trees-the house standing at the extremity of the wood. As we drew nigh, I perceived a girl sitting, with her work, on the bench which is usually placed by the side of cottage doors. She was singing;-Dallas put his hand upon my arm to stop me, and said in a low voice, There she is!?

I had thus means to survey her leisurely and I confess I was surprised. I had expected to see a blowsy Country-girl, with very red cheeks, and still redder arms-whose beauty consisted in youth and freshness, and buxom make, and perhaps a bright pair of eyes. But this was a very different creature. Her form was certainly round and full-and her

cheek shone with a healthful bloom -but she had none of the coarseness which is the usual concomitant of rustic beauty. I cannot quite say that the band which plied the needle was the whitest I have seen-(the long sleeve prevented my judging of the arm,) but the glimpse of the neck which the crossed handkerchief permitted, betrayed a texture and a colour of skin which many a fine lady might envy as she puts on her pearl necklace. [Par parenthese, nothing is so trying and true a criterion of the complexion as how it shews with pearls; and I strongly recommend no lady to wear them without the fullest certainty that they assimilate, instead of contrasting, with the skin on which they rest.] The pretty cottager seemed to possess this most delicate ingredient of female loveliness; and the fine relief which it furnished to the beautiful hair which was clustered (somewhat artistement, I thought) from beneath her cap, added greatly to that absence of ali coarseness of appearance, of which I have spoken. Her voice, too, was not what we should expect in one of her degree; -that is, her singing voice-for the sweetness of the natural organ knows no limit of birth or station, while its application to music is affected (independently of direct tuition) by a familiarity with modulated sounds scarcely attainable in humble, or at least in rustic, life. But maugre this my theory, they were certainly very sweet notes, sung in a very simple yet expressive manner, which I heard yesterday, as we stood gazing on that charming picture-a beautiful woman-made more charming, too, by her unconsciousness of our gaze. I recollect Gilbert used to say-and I always perfectly agreed with him— that painters ought to contrive means to make their studies for portraits when the objects were ignorant that they were so doing. doing. When people sit regularly for their picture, there is always a made-up look-half primness, half pertness, all want of nature; a heavy dull fixedness, or a theatrical assumption of energy or thought, equally far from the real and unstrained expression of the features. (To be continued.)