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It was rather rapid—but their banns were put up within a month.

DREAM-KISSES.

DEAR as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others.

O poet's truth-the very gold of thought!
How have I felt this sad and silent yearning-
This wordless wooing Solitude has taught,

Ever rebuk'd and e'er-alas! returning;
These hundred wishes without one hope, born:

These stars without a moon: these flowerless leaves
Of what will never bloom: these relics worn
Round an unanswer'd heart. Tis well one grieves
Only with open eyes; the night is still

A Paradise for those who love, unlov'd:

Then the dream-kisses of the uncheck'd will

Pillow our prayers with promise-the removed,
The false, the cold: are Brides of our Despair,
And, angel-winged, around our couches bear
Echoes the voice can only waken there.

PRIDE AND JEALOUSY.

(Continued from page 256.)

CHAPTER IV.

TENNYSON.

F. C.

IF Constance had wept herself to sleep, the child of love and infant sorrow, she awoke the next morning the woman of sternest pride. Her love! Had it vanished? Had it been repelled from her gentle bosom? Oh, no! It was only compressed by the mastery of other and fiercer passions. She arose from her couch feverish in health, with burning eyes and an intoler

able head-ache-and with what was worse, however she strove not to believe it, with a heavy heart. She nevertheless endeavoured to appear and think herself calm and unaffected by the events of the previous night. She even tried to smile and to think how foolish she had been. She went so far indeed as to hum an old tune which she had learned "a long time ago," and sung many and many a time before. And then as thought settled into remembrance, and that remembrance of Edward! no-she did not cry. She did not bewail her pitious fate and tear her hair. It is true that a half suppressed sigh did once escape from her bosom, but she drove it back however and sang aloud.

She threw open the casement and looked out. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining with unclouded splendour, his beams dancing in the flowing tide. A delicious perfume was wafted upon the summer gale which fanned her fevered cheek. Every thing looked lovely-too lovely for her—for the tranquillity and harmony which reigned every where around formed a sad contrast to the elements of discord which were warring within herself, and she was compelled to turn away from the sight of so much unmixed beauty, the reflex of so much untainted happiness. She closed the window and though only half attired, she bustled about the room ever and anon singing and sighing till she contrived to assume an appearance of indifference when, and not till when, she summoned her maid to make the morning toilet.

The abigail came and Constance contrary to her wont was astonishingly communicative; she talked too of all the indifferent things imaginable—of the coming fair, the races, and the ball-of every thing but love. There was some excuse however for that.

The maid was surprised to find her mistress with such an unusual flow of spirits-but then she knew nothing of that study the profoundest of all-the study of human nature-the history of the heart—and with a feeling of what shall we call it-it was not maliciousness, let us rather say a desire of triumph peculiar to the sex, a desire prompted by chagrin at the loss of a lover being so lightly esteemed, she hinted in a manner no less indifferent that Mr. Edward was gone, that he had left at a very early hour by the mail-railroads, as we have said, not being in fashion then. Her impertinence, however, was instantly checked by Constance somewhat pettishly begging her not to pull her hair so tightly, as it brought the tears in her eyes.

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Had she dared the abigail would have laughed aloud; as it was she enjoyed her satisfaction in a quiet smile, and deemed the tears to have sprung from another source.

Oh woman woman! what an inexplicable phenomenon art thou! At the moment that the servant communicated the unwelcome, though not altogether unexpected intelligence, the thought had flashed across Constance's mind to enquire whether her lover had really left or not.

From that moment Constance sat silently under the infliction of her maid's untiring tongue, who, as if to make amends for her mistress's taciturnity, chattered like a magpie.

Constance endeavoured to think it a relief to know that Edward was gone: she could do as she liked now: she had never before been so completely mistress of her own actions. Shortly afterwards she dismissed her maid, but no sooner was she left to her own silent and solitary reflections than a new flood of tears burst forth-she wept as none who have not so wept know weeping.

He was gone. He had departed and had bidden her no kindly farewell. Without a word of explanation, he had left in anger and for a foreign shore-she thought of this and how could she do otherwise. But soon the current of her thoughts had a different turn, and she smiled to think how weak a thing she must be to care so much for one who thought and cared so little for her. Vain fool!

Again her hand was upon the bell to re-summon her attendant, but nature would have way and she wept again and again. It might be high treason to love to say, however, it might be believed, that the last of these floods of tears was rather the result of wounded pride than of slighted affection. Ah! of what strange elements are human hearts composed.

At this instant the housekeeper wondering why her young mistress had not descended to the breakfast room, and fearing that she might be unwell, tapped gently at the door and of course obtained admittance.

The old lady having delivered herself of the purport of her errand, Constance decided that she would breakfast by herself in her own little boudoir. But she would first walk in the garden, perhaps it would give her an appetite, and so, having now completed her toilet, walk in the garden she did.

It was very odd, but by a singular coincidence who should she find there, but Sir Henry Hargrave. She had not seen him, when looking out of her window! certainly not.

Sir Henry Hargrave, as before hinted, was a fine looking man, some few but not many years older than Constance herself, and without any more ado, just the man to win, not a woman's heart, perhaps, when deserted by her lover-but to supply the place of "a naughty, good for nothing, ill-tempered fellow," until such time as the said young gentleman should return to a proper sense of his duty, or until "the gay, handsome, and goodlooking fellow" should have managed to propose and be accepted.

It so happened, then, that Constance had on the morning in question just emerged from the shrubbery into the garden, and was in the act of plucking a flower when the Baronet approaching, courteously presented her with a pale rose bud, which he had but that instant gathered, paying some common-place, but pleasing compliment, as he did so.

Constance blushed, and almost unconscious of the action, she accepted and placed the flower in her bosom. It was habit she had acquired. She had always been accustomed to do so when flowers had been presented to her by another hand.

Sir Henry smiled, he perceived the air of abstraction in which the mistake had originated; he had not vanity enough, albeit he had no small share of self-conceit, to construe the act into any intended compliment to himself. He affected to do so however, and being a consummate master of courtiership, as he offered his arm to Constance, he made some delicate allusion to the circumstance and hinted a desire that it might be emblematic of the crowning of his fondest hopes.

We shall not attempt to detail what passed on that eventful interview. It is sufficient that when Sir Henry and Constance parted after a long ramble, it was with sentiments which the latter somehow did not, because she durst not, attempt to analyze.

That walk was oftentimes repeated; Constance had always respected Sir Henry, how could she fail to esteem him now? Alas for woman's heart, for woman's love, for woman's pride. Sir Henry Hargrave by slow and sure degrees, succeeded in estranging the mind of Constance yet more and more from her former lover, although in reality her affectionate regard for him still

remained unaltered.

To do him justice, Sir Henry who had only professed to love womankind before (and his professions had been many) was in this instance truthful and sincere. No man can pass through life without meeting the one dear object upon whom he may place his affections. With some men, women; with others, gold; with others, some point of honor to be attained towards which

the loftiest ambition may soar; but with all men some object more than another will obtain the mastery over the mind—in most cases it is women-particularly so with the libertine-and such we shall hereafter see was Sir Henry Hargrave; or rather such had he been. When even the accomplished roué bebecomes enamoured of a young, a lovely and a virtuous girl, his passions grow more refined and his affections sublimated, his mind, under the influence of that potent but beautiful spell, transforming, as it were, to another mind, and so in the spirit of the Pythagorean principle, his soul becomes transmigrated and fused into the purer being of the beloved. This change, then, had Sir Henry Hargrave undergone; and had there been nothing in his past life to mar his prospect of future happiness-had there been no sin whose sting was hereafter to be inflicted and felt by the loved and the loving alike, he had been a new man, one whom the world should justly have termed happy.

Sir Henry Hargrave was a man whose heart had been spoiled by his education. With natural principles of good implanted in his bosom, the dissipation so commonly attendant upon College life, had ruined his better nature. Talented and rich, his acquaintanceship had been courted by the "men of spirit," who in return for admission to his friendship, instilled into his mind the noxious and libertine sentiments which, if they dared not openly profess, at all events they secretly practised. He had commenced his career as the man of principle, too soon he became the man of artifice, the "pleasure seeker." Intoxicated with his new life ere he had attained the age of five and twenty he had run riot in excess-broken hearts and ruined hopes being the only trophies of his triumphs.

But now again his better nature prevailed-his heart, oh rare occasion; oh noble principle-was really engaged: yet how often after having quitted his new "lady love," as he sat alone in his solitary room, sipping his sherbet, and inhaling the aroma of his choice tobacco, did memory come back to him, like a horrid spectre dancing before his mental vision, ever and anon exhibiting the black catalogue of crime and folly whose remembrance it renewed. Still although inwardly cursing the excesses in which he had heretofore indulged, he could not but acknowledge, as he strolled through the garden, or clomb the hill, or watched the rippling of the stream, with that fair girl upon his arm, that he had never experienced such real enjoyment, so much unmixed happiness as now, in all the short but stormy career of vice and passion's sway he had passed.

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