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"NO MORE"

Oh! words of bitterness, ye fling

O'er the bright visions of Life's passing hour
A dark despair; for as the heart doth cling
To things yet left us, seeking some bless'd power
To banish the sad clouds which round us lower,
Too soon do ye exhaust our little store;

And as we see expire Hope's last pale flow'r,

What wonder we should wish lifes dreams were o'er,

That blighted hope and faith might wring the soul "no more."

L.

THE PORTRAIT.

By Miss Berkeley.

(Concluded from page 49)

FANSHAW continued to pursue his professional career, as much from a desire of employment, as from necessity. Fortune, like a capricious beauty, sometimes smiles on those that seek her not; so it was with Fanshaw-success attended his steps when he cared not for it; professional renown was his when he realized it not; and wealth returned to him when he had no one to share it with.

He was not the person to form a second attachment, scarcely a second friendship, and so he lived on in the world-unloving and unloved yet withal, just, honorable, and high principled; but the sacred fire within his breast had been extinguished, and he trusted neither man nor woman again with his love or friendship.

After many years of professional labor he retired to Milverton Hall, a place which he had fancied and purchased.

He treasured the portrait of Julia Graham as one would the picture of some mansion or estate which had, in the decay of fortune, passed from our hands. It served as a warning too, and, paradoxical as it may seem, I think we retain such souvenirs more than anything else, from the delight of recalling the one bright spot in the History of the Past, however much the oasis may be in contrast with the desert which immediately surrounds it. Whatever the feeling, the Historian has no right

to invade the province of the Philosopher, and as a simple narrator of facts, I have only to add the sequel to this hitherto retrospective Biography of the old Bachlor.

Some time ago, I am afraid to think how many pages back, I believe we were taking a survey of the Library at Milverton Hall-good reader, imagine yourself there again, that is always supposing both yourself and me to be quite invisible-and we see Mr. Fanshaw standing at the window looking out upon one of the last cold days of Autumn, when the glory of earth seems departing. The rain was descending dismally; but Mr. Fanshaw's curiosity was excited by seeing a shabby looking post chaise driving up the avenue.

He did not expect any visitor at that time, and concluded it must be some mistake, expecting to see the postillion turn the horses' heads after the enquiries had been answered at the hall door; but on the contrary, the carriage door was opened, and a gentleman alighted.

Mr. Fanshaw was surprised, but retreated from the window, and seating himself in his arm chair, waited the announcement of the stranger. In a few minutes the door was opened and the old butler ushered in Mr. Willoughby.

"Mr. Willoughby," repeated Mr. Fanshaw musingly, “I know no such name?" but he immediately advanced, making a formal, but polite bow to the stranger, who in return said, "I believe I have the honour of addressing Mr. Fanshaw."

He bowed an assent, and pointing to a chair, seated himself in a posture of attention.

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"My name," continued Mr. Willoughby, "is, I am aware unknown to you, but I am the bearer of a letter from a deceased lady too well known to you, who with her dying breath made me promise to see you and urge her request"—he hesitated and took a letter from his pocket but still did not present it.

"Sir, I am all attention," said Mr. Fanshaw, with his usual formality, "you will perhaps inform me of the name of my correspondent, and the nature of the application; at present I am quite in the dark."

"I will endeavour, sir, to explain myself," said Mr. Willoughby "but the position I am in at present is a painful one, and I am fearful that I shall have to probe a long healed wound-pardon me," he added with emotion, "but may I ask you to promise that you will hear me out with patience whatever may be the subject I allude to."

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Sir," returned Mr. Fanshaw, "you are a gentleman, and I

presume from your dress, a clergyman, and I am in my own house, and therefore bound to listen to you as long as you choose to address me on any subject which is not absolutely insulting." "Then to be brief," said Mr. Willoughby, bowing, "I will relate to you the following circumstances. About three years ago, a widow lady in wretched health and poor circumstances, came into my parish who had one little girl, an interesting child of about twelve years old. They had been attracted to the neighbourhood by its cheapness and salubrity.

"In the discharge of my parochial duties I formed an acquaintance with this lady, and learned from her at different times the history of her past life, which seemed to have united much of error and consequent unhappiness. Her husband, an officer in the army, was the eldest son of a baronet, and though their marriage had been what is called a love-match, the union proved a most unhappy one; in a very few years after their marriage, in consequence of extravagance and thoughtlessness, they found themselves in great pecuniary difficulty. Alienated entirely from their relations on both sides, and exiled from their country through fear of creditors, they most keenly experienced that least endurable of all feelings, that mutual hatred and dislike which not unfrequently succeeds to unworthy love. To be brief, they lived most unhappily together for many years. Their children all died, except the youngest girl, whom I mentioned to you before; and the husband was killed in a duel, about some gambling transaction, leaving his wife and child with nothing to subsist on but the small pension of the widow of a captain in the army. The sufferings and trials which she has undergone have been very severe; but these she told me she could have endured with patience and calmness, but there was at her heart's core the gnawing worm of self reproachthe recollection of her disobedience, her treachery, her falsehood, could she forget that she had shortened the life of her indulgent and loving father-could she forget that she had trifled with the affections of a heart only too deeply devoted to her, and had cast a gloom over the whole life and happiness of one of the most excellent of men? Need I tell you, sir, that this erring, this chastened fellow creature was Mrs. Barton, who in happier days, had borne the name of Julia Graham ?"

"Is it possible," said Mr. Fanshaw, rising from his chair visibly affected, "is it possible that after long years, her name should sound in my ears, bringing back the bitter memories I had thought buried in oblivion? Is it possible there is yet this

weakness in me, that the recollection of that woman should produce this emotion ? I thought I had conquered all such feelings: "but, sir," said he, turning to Mr. Willoughby, conscious that he had been listener to his soliloquy, "for what purpose I ask, have you, a perfect stranger, thus intruded on my private feelings by the mention of circumstances that cannot but be disagreeable to me?"

"I come," said Mr. Willoughby earnestly, "to plead before you the cause of the orphan. It was a dying woman's last request that you should take her child."

"What," cried Mr. Fanshaw, indignantly, "take her child, the child of him who so basely, so deeply injured me, the offspring of that unblessed union, the child of that heartless woman who sacrificed her duty, her honour, to follow the impulse of her faithless nature? it is preposterous, sir, to suppose that I can either forgive or forget the past."

"Sir" said Mr. Willoughby calmly "Our Saviour forgave His enemies. Remember that wise and holy maxim "return good for evil" and the good shall overcome the evil."

"But why," said Mr. Fanshaw somewhat softened, "why should she throw the child on my protection? of course I am sorry for the poor thing, it is guiltless of its parent's sin, but why not have sent it to the father's relations ?"

The grandfather is dead," answered Mr. Willoughby, "and the most implacable hatred existed between the brothers for many years, the present baronet has even refused to have any intercourse with the widow or child; she, alas, had outlived all her own relations, and with the exception of myself and wife was utterly friendless. She felt her end approaching, and to add to her many causes of distress, knew she was leaving this poor girl perfectly destitute. Of course, sir, I need not tell you that with my small stipend, and a large family, it was quite impossible for me to think of providing for her, much as I felt inclined to do so,-in the extremity of Mrs. Barton's agony of mind she thought of you, she knew your place of residence and made me promise that after her death I would myself deliver this letter to you, and implore you by the memory of her father's name, to become guardian to his destitute grandchild. Sir," he continued after a slight pause, " I will leave you to peruse that letter alone, and let me hope that I may be summoned to receive a favourable reply to my petition."

Mr. Willoughby withdrew, and Mr. Fanshaw with much emotion read the following letter, written in the feeble and

unsteady hand of one who is about to sink into the still and

silent grave.

"A few days-even a few hours-will in all probability close my mortal career; I need not tell you that it has been a career of sin and folly, but I may tell you that it has also been one of much sorrow and suffering. Unhappy, most unhappy in the marriage which a strange infatuation urged me into, I have dragged on ever since the lengthened chain of misery and selfreproach.

I have lived to abhor the man I gave up all for, I have lived to know the hatred was mutual, I have lived to see my children all die before me, except this dear girl, my youngest born, and a fate so sad, so destitute, seems to threaten her that my heart dies within me to think that she survives me. I look around, and to no one can I commit the care of my orphan child—but to you-and on your mercy I throw myself,-by the love you once bore me, by the memory of my father, by the principles of that holy religion which teaches us all "to have mercy and forgive"-I implore you, I beseech you, to take my friendless child, she will be a comfort to your old age, for unlike her mother, she has early learned to govern her heart by the precepts of religion. Duty and not self-gratification is the principle of her life, for she has been brought up in the school of adversity. I know I ask much, very much, when I ask you to trust in the faith of woman again-but I ask not without hope, that you will make the trial, and with perfect confidence in the result, if you do. Both myself and child owe more than I can express, more than worlds could repay to that excellent man who is the bearer of this letter, and the advocate of my cause. May God grant that he may be successful. At least, turn not from him in anger, for he is a good and holy man, he raised me from the depths of despair, he told me of mercy, of forgiveness, when my heart was sunk in misery, and he lifted the veil which was between me and my God.—I am faint-I am dying-Oh injured friend of my youth, forgive me, and once more I implore you take my child.

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Some months after the above scenes, in that beautiful season when spring melts into summer, the balmy air loaded with sweets and nature wearing her fairest dress, an elderly gentleman who had the appearance of having recently recovered from illness,

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