Old Love By M. N.: 300

Old Man, and the Spirit of Solomon: By Mrs.
Abdy: 73

Pierre Jean de Béranger: By W. C. Bennett: 121
Ruined Tower, The: By Ada Trevanion: 67
Ship-boy's Complaint, The: By F. Louis Jaquerod:
67

Song: By Anne A. Fremont: 186

233

Jejee's Bridal: By Shoshee Chunder Dutt: 90

Mercutio Frangipanni: 316

Memento Mori: 186

November: By Ada Trevanion: 300

To a Grasshopper: By W. C. Bennett: 67
Unseen Wife, The: By Mrs. Abdy: 121

Who can see the Flowers perish?: By Elcanor F
Cobby: 246

Wind, The: By Ada Trevanion: 239

your

I must keep my promise, dearest Susy, and write a minute narrative of my new life, for eyes only, over and above my weekly letters to mamma. I described to her my first arrival here; so of that I will say no more, except to add that although Aunt Julia is very kind, yet I am in mortal dread of her. I don't think she has an atom of imagination; and I can see she thinks I have been woefully brought up. I am afraid that I shocked her sadly, when she asked me what style of reading I preferred, and I answered, "Poetry, above all; and next to that, novels." And, oh! Susy, you don't know how dull our walks are; shopping in the grey old town, and pacing up and down The Close. I should like that, all by myself, and without meeting anybody; but we have to bow to so many old ladies, and prebends, and canons. And there is a Sophy Cartwright that I am to make my friend, and I know that I shall never like her. She is five-and-twenty-such an uninteresting age, as you and I have often agreed; and she is not at all pretty, only she has bright eyes, and laughs very gaily, and has beautiful teeth.

I

Now I will just describe yesterday to you, and that will serve as a specimen of all our life. I awoke from a delicious dream, in which fancied I was walking with you and little Jane, and poor dear Harry, on the sands. Such a summer's evening it was, and such a tide! ́

"I heard the dash, so clear and chill,

Of some old fisher's solitary oar;
I watched the waves that, rippling still,

Chased one another o'er the marble shore."

And I awoke to behold, on the green-sprigged wall opposite, "The Death-bed of Blucher," in

mezzotinto; and on rising, I could from my window see the mist-hung garden, where the husky-throated birds were trying to sing and fancy it May.

I won't be ungrateful to Nature, though. Sunbeams were struggling through the grey skies: dew-drops glistened on the budding roses round my casement. I flung it open, and that

"One draught of Spring's delicious air," sent a gush of gladness through my heart that had not a single reason for feeling; and, closing my eyes, such sweet, solemn sounds came to me, I was in a vision of old-world loveliness at once. The grave rooks were cawing in the trees around The Close, the sweet cathedral bells were calling to prayers. I longed to obey their summons; but Aunt Julia only goes to Litany services; so I had nothing to do but to dress, and sit with "George Herbert" in my hand, catching the swelling of the organnotes, and the shrill trebles of the choir, as now and then the wind bore them to my ear. I kept saying, over and over,

"Sweetest of sweets, I thank you; when displeasure
Did through my body wound my mind,
You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure
A dainty lodging me assigned."

And just as I was wound up to feel the whole of that beautiful little poem, Dawson appeared, to tell me, sternly, that her mistress was waiting breakfast for me. So I went down, and all through breakfast we appraised Mrs. Burrow's dress; and Aunt Julia extolled Sophy Cartwright's manners; and then we settled the programme of the party that we expected in the evening, just as intently as though this were a world in which no poet had ever breathed, or such an invention as church-music been ever heard of.

Then, after breakfast, Aunt Julia worked a collar, and I read out to her "Travels in Timbuctoo," or somewhere; and, when I was tired, Aunt Julia took the book and read herself; whilst I thought of you, and wondered what you were doing, and whether you were walking

B

on the sands, as in my dream we were. And when Aunt Julia looked up and said, "Those were very remarkable statements, Lily," I answered (supposing she must be right), "Yes, very remarkable indeed;" and then we went on again till luncheon. After that, we called on old Mrs. Mainwaring, the widow of the late Dean. She is a nice old dame; but I don't know a creature that she speaks of, and she talks only of people. As we were sitting with her, I heard the bells going again, for eveningprayers. I begin to think the bells will be my friends here. They speak to me of what I like to hear; so they must feel for me.

I am sorry to say that I dawdled over my dressing, reading Burns, which happened to be open on the table before me, and half the company had arrived before I was ready. I don't a bit know how to enter a room, as Aunt Julia told me afterwards; and Sophy Cartwright's hair was so beautifully done, and I never can get mine to sit, but just in its own way. It was very uncomfortable, but I seemed to be seeing myself with the eyes of everyone in the room-a sensation I had never known before, and not a pleasant one I can tell you. It was such a relief when Sophy Cartwright asked me to show her your sketch of Sandy-holms. I took courage, and began to tell her a little of our doings at home; but as I was describing our boating with Harry last summer, she stopped me, by asking if I had seen Miss Manby's fashions yet; and as I had not, I had nothing more to say-till at last she offered to teach me chess; and I was very glad to learn, only I was so dull. At this moment I don't know how the knight moves; I always pushed him at a venture into an awkward corner. And so the evening came to an end at last.

Having finished the Timbuctoo-book, we have this morning begun some Travels in Italy; and as there is no great connection between the two, I don't expect to remember much about either. Besides, I don't like the man who writes this book; he grumbles at everything. Do you remember, last autumn, our reading of that German poet visiting Italy, feeling himself

"At home in the wide world,

No longer an exile"? That is how people should think of Italy: as the home to which, of right, they belong; though circumstances may banish them from it for a time. It seems to me there should be born with everyone the hope of one day looking upon Italy. I shall one day, I am certain; though how or when, Gramercy! Just think of my talking so confidently of going to Italy, and I can't so much as cross over to the cathedral without Aunt Julia's leave: I will to-morrow morning, though, I am determined. This evening we spend at home; to-morrow we dine at the Cartwrights'. I laughed so when you spoke of my "gaiety;" it is such dulness.

I am resolved-yes, quite resolved-never again to look forward to anything either with hope or dread. Dull! anything but dull was

the evening. I will tell you all. First, I went, as I was resolved, to the morning-prayers; and that was a good beginning to the day. The morning sun was shining so beautifully through the stained-glass window that were flooding the floor with shadowy gems, that I could not help lingering at the entrance of the choir, to carry back that "thing of beauty" as a joy to store up in my heart all day long. So absorbed was I, that I did not observe I was preventing a person who had sat near me from passing out by the door; and when I made the discovery I was so much shocked that I could offer no apology; but perceiving that it was a stranger, I consoled myself with the idea that Aunt Julia would never hear of my rudeness-a delusion in which I was not long to remain.

Who do you think took me in to dinner at the Cartwrights'? The stranger! Yes, as I was sitting, very shy and miserable by Sophy Cartwright-who I am sure must hate me, for I am always pinned on to her-Dr. and Mrs. Burrows entered, and a gentleman with them. Mr. Everard it seems was a stranger to me only; he was known to every one, and welcomed by all. Even Sophy Cartwright quite flushed_up with pleasure, when she spoke to him. But now, Susy, pity me. I made such a dreadful mistake. I had shrunk quite out of sight behind Sophy, I was so afraid the stranger would recognize me. It had been signified to me that Mr. Hanmer, one of the minor canons of whom I am very much in awe, was to take me in to dinner; and in a desperation of confusion at coming forth into Mr. Everard's view, I actually took his arm instead of Mr. Hanmer's. I am sure Sophy was disappointed; but she only nodded very good-naturedly, and followed us, with Mr. Hanmer, who was, I think, well satisfied with the exchange.

to me, "You admire stained windows, Miss As we went downstairs, Mr. Everard said Pryor."

Then was, of course, the time for my apology; but somehow I forgot to offer it; and we went on talking of stained windows and tracery, and Gothic architecture and old legends, till all at once I looked towards Aunt Julia, and I saw her fixedly gazing on me. There was an awful pause all round the table, and mine was the only voice heard. I had not noticed it. I was telling Mr. Everard of our old church far among the sand-hills; and how the people were said to have forsaken the village that once stood around it, because of a plague that struck them, after the wrecking of a Spanish ship in the bay; and how, wherever the Spanish money was taken, it had brought the plague with it; for it was sent as a judgment on the wreckers of the coast, and it only ceased at last when the dollars were thrown into the deep sea, far out beyond the bay.

I stopped very suddenly, for I easily read the warning in Aunt Julia's face. And Dr. Burrows, by whom she sat, said something in a mollifying way about simplicity and a country