reasoning throughout is so consecutive, as to require a close relish for devotion. It has paralyzed his Christian resoexercise of the attention. His mind is evidently imbued lution. And, altogether, he feels that when it throws its with a strong view of the selfishness and natural baseness shadow over him, it has been as the branch of the poisonous of the world. He is often pointed and severe on the follies tree-beneath its fatal leaves every flower decays, every and frivolities of the fashionable world, urging his hearers plant withers to the root. And if this be felt, even while rather to take a deep interest in the things that pertain to there is earnestness to maintain against it the ardour of reeverlasting life; to lay up for themselves treasures where ligious sentiment, what must be the consequence of wil. neither moth nor rust can corrupt, and where thieves do fully and eagerly exposing the heart to be acted on by the not break through or steal. He occasionally indulges in a untoward influence? Must not the vestiges of religion, bitter and sarcastic vein of irony against the amazing want which education may have left, be thereby effaced? Must of foresight in mankind neglecting this their highest and not every spark of devotional feeling be speedily quenched? greatest interest; and, in alluding to the vanity and deceit- Think what some of the means of cherishing the ardour of ceitfulness of the world, we remember him, in one of his religious sentiments are; and then, mark how opposed to discourses, making the caustic but too true remark, that the successful use of these means, are the whole habits of "the friendship of the world is affectation, heartlessness, worldliness. Is the serious reading of the Scriptures, for and selfish indifference." Strangers hearing Dr. Muir, for example, essential to maintain in us the very being of relithe first time, are generally much disappointed, viewing his gion? But do we come to the reading of God's word, with manner and delivery as artificial. In this they are some- the collectedness of mind needful for being improved by the what mistaken; for though Dr. Muir, when young, had perusal, after having so immersed ourselves in the pursuits been anxious to acquire a polished and oratorical delivery, of the world as to have yielded the heart alternately to coand thus originally formed his present manner, it is now at vetousness, and ambition, and sensuality? On the conall events natural to him, and the objection of affectation trary, what shattered thoughts, what a wandering imaginagives way after hearing him preach two or three times. In tion, what a blinded perception must accompany us, should his discourses, Dr. Muir takes the interesting view of our the force of early custom still bring us to the perusal of connexion with the Deity, of teaching his hearers to look the sacred page. Oh, again, is the duty of prayer, the pourup to Him with Love, as children to a parent, who is at ing out of the soul at the throne of grace, along with the once our Creator, Benefactor, and Friend. This is certainly exercise of self-inquiry and consideration, essential for inviinfinitely better, and more scriptural, than what some gorating in us the principles of religion? But, in how preachers are apt to inculcate, of regarding the Supreme many of the engagements, in all of the vain pleasures of the Being only with fear and terror. In this respect Dr. Muir world, is there not a direct incompatibility with the devo may be compared with the eloquent American preacher, tional frame of mind! I express what is familiar to the Channing, though of course at antipodes with him in his experience of every one of you, on returning from these, Socinian views. when I speak of satiety and dissatisfaction as the attenWhile minister of the parish of New Greyfriars, Dr. Muirdants on the observances of devotion in which you then try personally visited and sought to become acquainted with the lower classes, of whom the parish chiefly consisted; and he exercised a wholesome and salutary moral and religious influence over them. It may give some idea of the nature of the population he had to visit, when it is mentioned, that there were to be found among them people lending out their children to beggars for sixpence a-day, to aid them in their medicant or worse avocations. In St. Stephen's parish the population is chiefly of the higher and middle classes; here also he visits his parishioners and congregation; he attends to placing the children of the poor at school, and holds regular meetings in the church for catechising and instructing the children and adults of the congregation. Dr. Muir rarely attends meetings of the Presbytery or the General Assembly, having the idea that there are clergymen enough without his aid, to transact the business of the Church Courts, and preferring to hold on the noiseless tenor of his way, without mingling in these scenes. As regards personal appearance, Dr. Muir's countenance and features are very fine and engaging; and he is possessed of a well modulated voice, which, added to his excellent style of composition, sincere piety, and private worth, present nuch of the beau ideal of a Christian minister. Dr. Muir, in 1822, published, as a farewell legacy to his Glasgow congregation, a volume of " Discourses, Explanatory and Critical, on the Epistle of St. Jude ;" and in 1830 he committed to the press his " Sermons on the Characters of the Seven Churches in Asia, described in the Book of Revelation;" to which were added two excellent sermons on the distinction between secret and revealed things in religion. The following eloquent passage on the undue love of the world is from one of these discourses : to join. You have come out of a vortex of tumultuary and idle thoughts, after the whirl of which it is not easy to be reduced to sober reflection. You feel that you want the right tone for the exercises of devotion. There is then a chord touched by religion to which nothing in the heart answers. There are then representations unfolded by religion, which are too pure to delight the soul that has been accustoming its vision to the coarse objects of sense and sin. The forms of piety may still be assumed; but no sentiment of piety glows under them; and thus, the lukewarmness of the heart to religion is as fatal to moral improvement as the coldness of infidelity itself. "Be entreated, however, to weigh the whole matter well. You may find, by doing so, that you labour under a mistake as to the importance of the opinion of the world. The terrible thing which, on a general view, bulks so greatly, reduces itself when you proceed to touch it, and examine it, and try it in the scale of truth."-From Sketches of the Edinburgh Clergy, lately published—a handsome volume, with portraits. THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF SOPHIA IN the state of childhood, when no affection could be formed, or any just notions be conceived, of the nature and obligation of the connubial relation, was Sophia Dorothea obliged to enter into the most serious of all engagements with her first cousin, who was double her own age. Withfrom this preposterous and unnatural tie; but it was only in a year, however, the death of her spouse released her to consign her over to another, not less inconsistent and oppressive. A widow of ten years old, in one of the most enlightened parts of Europe, conveys an idea so ludicrous, "There is an influence arising from the evil that is in as scarcely to deserve credit, were not the fact upon record. the world,' which is directly fitted to damp the whole ar- But, what will perhaps appear equally extravagant, is the dour of the religious affections. Even the man who is most circumstance, that on the death of the husband of this insolicitous to cherish these affections, knows the disastrous fant, her father and uncle came to an agreement to unite nature of that influence. It casts around him an impure her in the bonds of marriage to her other cousin, Prince medium, through which he cannot see the spiritual realities, George Lewis of Hanover, then sixteen years of age. It i or rightly breathe after them. It operates on him as con- true the ceremony did not take place at Zell till the 28th of tagion, from the effects of which he does not soon re- November, 1682, when the bride had completed her sixcover, even when he has escaped its atmosphere. It teenth, and the bridegroom his twenty-second year; but it has enfeebled his desire of Heaven. It has abated his is no less certain, that the engagement was made by all the parties, soon after the death of the Prince Augustus Frederick of Wolfenbuttel. In the meantime, Prince George travelled, and made some campaigns; while the bride completed her education, and prepared herself, as well as could be expected for one of her years, for the important duties of a wife and a mother. On the 30th October, 1683, the Princess gave her husband a son, who was named George; and four years afterwards she brought him a daughter, named Sophia Dorothea, who became the wife of Frederick William of Prussia, and mother of Frederick the Great. To account for the distance of time between the births of these children, it must be observed, that Prince George Lewis, soon after his marriage, entered again upon the military career in Hungary, where he commanded the Brunswick troops in the imperial service, and soon after took Neuhausel, and raised the siege of Gran. In 1686, he was at the taking of Buda; in 1689, he was at the capture of Mayence; and the next year he commanded an army of eleven thousand men in the Spanish Netherlands, where, in 1693, he bore a distinguished part in the sanguinary battle of Neerwinden. Soon after this, the Prince returned to Hanover; but within a few months his temper was observed to be much altered, and he either looked upon his wife with an eye of jealousy, or his own affections were estranged from her, and transferred to some other object. A young German Count, named Philip Christopher Konigsmark, who held the commission of colonel in the Swedish service, happened to be then at Hanover, and upon him the suspicions of the Prince fell, but whether from secret information, or any particular observations of his own, has never been determined. His Highness, however, is said to have entered the bedchamber of Sophia Dorothea so suddenly, that Konigsmark, in his haste to escape, left his hat behind him, which confirmed all that had been surmised of an improper intercourse between him and the Princess, and a separation immediately took place. Another account of a darker hue, which obtained currency, was, that the Prince of Hanover actually found Konigsmark in the room, and in his fury ran him through the body. Though this last story appears to be incorrect in the principal points, certain it is, that the Princess was arrested, and sent off to the castle of Ahlen, where she lingered out a miserable life of two-and-thirty years in close confinement, without a trial, or being allowed to see any of her family. The fate of the colonel was never exactly known, any farther than that a report of his having died at Hanover, In the month of August, 1694, was transmitted to his friends, who were too much accustomed to such calamities in their family, to make any stir about the affair. That the count came to a violent end, seems to be put beyond all doubt by the manner in which be disappeared; and it is remarkable, that some years ago, when the castle of Zell underwent repair, the skeleton of a man was found beneath one of the floors, which revived the name and story of the unfortunate Konigsmark. With regard to Sophia Dorothea, her connexions prevented any severer measures from being pursued against her than perpetual confinement; to justify which, a decree was published at Hanover, asserting that circumstances had been produced in evidence before the consistory, of such a nature as warranted the belief that she had been unfaithful to her illustrious husband. The strongest of these circumstances, however, was that of the hat which the Prince found in the room; and the agitation which the discovery naturally produced in her Highness was at once interpreted into a demonstration of conscious guilt. To those who have been accustomed to the consideration of criminal charges, and the minute investigation of evidence, this case will appear more like an occurrence of an iron age, when feudal oppression and military despotism prevailed, than an event of the seventeenth century, in a country boasting o its jurisprudence. That no proof of adultery was ever brought forward, is certain; and, for the want of it, the parties could not be legally divorced, which they certainly would have been, had evidence existed of the criminality of the Princess. Some there were, even in Hanover, who not only considered Sophia Dorothea as perfectly innocent of what she was accused of, but as being actually made a victim to the prostituted affections of her husband. This opinion may now be adopted, without any hazard of refutation, or of giving offence; for neither before the accession of the Elector of Hanover to the British throne, nor afterwards, when such a proceeding became especially necessary, as a matter affecting the succession, was the conduct of the Duchess brought, as it ought to have been, under judicial investigation. Had Sophia Dorothea been really guilty of an adulterous intercourse with Konigsmark, or any other person, the public interest required a trial; but nothing of the kind ever took place, and the parties remained in the relation of man and wife till the death of the Queen in her prison, at the age of sixty, on the 2d of November, 1726. It is very extraordinary, and little to the credit of the times, that not the slightest notice was ever taken of the unhappy Sophia by the English Parliament or people, after the arrival of her husband. If she was guilty, a legal divorce ought to have been called før, upon public grounds; and if she was not, the honour of the nation, and the cause of humanity, required her liberation, and an establishment in circumstances suited to her high birth and royal station. Instead of this, though the mother to the heir apparent, and actually Queen of England, she was suffered to linger out her days in a dungeon, while the mistress of her husband shone as a peeress of the first rank at the English court. One person alone ventured to incur the royal displeasure, by advocating the cause of the afflicted and much injured Sophia Dorothea of Zell. This was the Prince, her son; who was so fully convinced of his mother's innocence, (and he was not ignorant of all that had been alleged against her,) that on many occasions he reproached his father for his injustice towards her, and openly declared his intention of bringing her to England, and acknowledging her as Queen Dowager, in the event of his succeeding to the crown while she was living. This virtuous resolution he was only prevented from carrying into execution by the death of his unhappy mother, six months before that of her husband. The Prince made several attempts to get access to his imprisoned parent; but all his efforts to accomplish this praiseworthy object proved unavailing, by the vigilance of the guards. He was so sensibly affected upon this point, that he had the picture of Sophia Dorothea painted in her royal robes, long before he came to the crown; and this portrait he caused to be so placed as to attract the notice of all his visiters, which gave such offence to the King, that he not only declined going himself to see the Prince and Princess, but forbade his courtiers from shewing them that respect. It was also owing to this sentiment of filial regard, that George II., when in a passion, always took off his hat, and kicked it about the floor, without considering the place or the company. Thus it is that early impressions once fixed in the mind, create habits; and circumstances, by an asso ciation of ideas with events long since passed away, excito either disagreeable or pleasing emotions. In allusion to this remarkable history, and the effect it had on the mind of the King, Dr. Hoadly, the physician, wrote his comedy of "The Suspicious Husband," the plot of which turns upon an incident similar to that which proved so disastrous to the Frincess of Hanover. With this play, George II., who had little taste for the drama, was much delighted. THE FARMERS' CENTENARY CONTRASTED In 1732. The MAN to the Plough And your Rents will be netted. Best MAN-Tally-ho! And Miss-Piano! And you'll all be Gazetted. ELEMENTS OF THOUGHT. SIGNS OF THE TIMES. The world is in agitation. All kings on earth, whose words were wont to be laws, are troubled. The calm repose of ages, in which thrones and altars were held sacred, has been broken in a moment. Ancient monarchies, which seemed long to defy dissolution and mock at time, pass away like a dream; and the question is not now of the death of a king, or even of the ceasing of one dynasty and the commencement of ano ther, but the whole fabric of government is insecure, the whole frame of society is shaken. Every kingdom, instead of each being knit together and dreaded by surrounding states, is divided against itself, as if dissolution were the sure destiny of them all. A citizen king, the choice of the people, sits upon the throne of the Capets; and, as if the signal had gone throughout the world quick as lightning, nations, instead of progressing slowly to regeneration, start at once into life. And from the banks of the Don to the Tagus, from the shores of the Bosphorus to Lapland; and, wide Europe being too narrow a field for the spirit of change that now ranges simultaneously through the world, from the new states of South America, to the hitherto unchangeable China, skirting Africa, and traversing Asia, to the extremity of the globe on the frozen north, there are signs of change in every country under heaven; and none can tell of what kingdom it may be told in the news of to-morrow, that a revolution has been begun and perfected in a week. Every kingdom seems to wait for its day of revolt or revival; and the only wonder now would be, that any nation should continue much longer what for ages it has been; or that the signs of the times should not every where alike be a striking contrast to those of the past.-Rev. A. Keith. THE FICTION WRITERS, OR MORAL INSTRUCTORS Let our moral philosophers (usefully employed though they be in arranging and digesting the science, and enlightened in modifying, from time to time, the manifestations of its eternal principles)—let our moral philosophers declare whether they expect their digests and expositions to be eagerly listened to by the hundred thousand families, collected, after their daily avocations, under the spell of the northern enchanter; whether they would look for thumbed copies of their writings in workshops or counting-houses, in the saloons of palaces, and under many a pillow in boarding schools. Our Universities may purify morals, and extend their influence as far as they can; their importance in this case runs a chance of being overlooked; for Scott is the president of a college where nations may be numbered for individuals. Our clergy may be, and do all that an established clergy can be and do; yet they will not effect so much as the mighty lay preacher who has gone out on the highways of the world, with cheerfulness in his mien and benignity on his brow; unconcious, perhaps, of the dignity of his office, but as much more powerful in comparison with a stalled priesthood as the troubadour of old-firing hearts wherever he went, with the love of glory-than the vowed monk. Our dissenting preachers may obtain a hold on the hearts of their people, and employ it to good purpose; but they cannot send their voices east and west to wake up the echoes of the world. Let all these classes unite in a missionary scheme, and encompass the globe, and still Scott will teach morals more effectually than them all. They will not find audiences at every turn who will take to heart all they say, and bear it in mind for ever; and if they attempt it now, they will find that Scott has been before them every where. He has preached truth, simplicity, benevolence, and retribution in the spicy bowers of Ceylon, and in the verandahs of Indian bungalowes, and in the perfumed dwellings of Persia, and among groups of settlers at the Cape, and amidst the pinewoods, and savannahs of the western world, and in the vineyards of the Peninsula, and among the ruins of Rome, and the recesses of the Alps, and the hamlets of France, and the cities of Germany, and the palaces of Russian despots, and the homes of Polish patriots. And all this in addition to what has been done in his native kingdom, where he has exalted the tastes, ameliorated the tempers, enriched the associations, and exercised the intellects of millions. This is already done in the short space of eighteen years; a mere span in comparison with the time that it is to be hoped our language and literature will last. We may assume the influence of Scott, as we have described it, to be just beginning its course of a thousand years; and now, what class of moral teachers (except politicians, who are not too ready to regard themselves in this light) will venture to bring their influence into comparison with that of this great lay preacher ?-Achievements of the Genius of Scott.Tait's Magazine for January. PARTIES. The fact is, that none but aristocratic parties endure. They are like rivers, that sweep in a continued course, more rapid and violent at first, and more large and calm at last, but increasing ever, until they reach the great ocean, where they are destined to dissappear. Democratic party, on the contrary, resembles now a huge lake, inundating and overwhelming the whole land; whilst the next season it dries up, disappears, and leaves not even the trace of its channel behind. Look through history. You will see York and Lancaster, Orleans and Burgundy, spill blood, and alternately monopolize influence for centuries; whilst the popular party break forth but in anomentary insurrec tion, quenched soon by the sword and the scaffold. More lately the Puritans were a popular party. They rose in 1640, and were irresistibly triumphant; they placed their chief upon the Stuart's throne. Yet in a short twenty years they were no more. It is said, that the wits and poets of the Restoration put Puritanism to flight by the arrows of their ridicule; but these were spent upon a body already extinct. In 1660, the English people had sent in their resignation, to use a phrase of their neighbours, and Charles the Second trod down the upper classes, merely because the lower ones were indifferent. As to Whigs and Tories, those were merely aristocratic parties. A popular one-where is it to be found throughout the last century of our history, except in applauding Sacheverel, and hissing Lord Bute? In 1790, indeed, our people began to awaken to political feeling. Yet how soon were they frightened or lulled. In 1830 they awoke again; and are still awake. But how long will they remain so? Not till 1835, that venture to prophesy. Radicals, look to it; and although now afloat, look for the time as possibly near, when the tide will ebb, and leave you on the dry sand. I AFFECTATION. Why, Affectation-why this mock grimace? Why that soft languish ?-why that drawling tone? THE STORY-TELLER. THE IRISH BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. "Oh! Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, They were twa bonnie lassies."—Scotch Ballad. THESE names are perfectly familiar to the inhabitants of the town and neighbourhood of Omagh, in the county Tyrone, and are given to two low mountains, situate on either side of the splendid demesne of Mountjoy Forest. During a late visit to that part of the country, I made it my business to inquire into the origin of these titles, guessing, rightly, that some legend of interest might be found to be connected with them. The result of my investigation I shall now commit to writing, doubting not that the narrative itself, independently of any powers of the narrator, will be found sufficiently engaging to justify me in the attempt. Concerning the date of the events I am about to relate, I have ascertained nothing accurately, further than that they were still fresh in the memory of some of the elders of the district, as either coeval with or shortly preceding their early youth. Mary Gray and Bessy Bell were two maidens, whose hereditary residences were placed near the foot of the respective mountains which serve to hand down their names to posterity. The former might have had the precedence in years by two summers at the farthest; and while they equalled each other in fascinations and accomplishments of the first order, yet these were in each composed of far different lights and shades, even as their degrees in life were widely removed. Mary's ancestors had long leased the considerable farm which her family now held, and which was justly looked upon as one of the most substantial and thriving in the neighbourhood. Bessy, on the other hand, was highly descended, and connected with many of the leading families around her. Mary's disposition was thoughtful, calm, and imaginative; Bessy's, again, was playful, capricious, and inconsiderate. The one could sit happily for hours, on the summit of her native hills, gazing on the beautiful scenes of lawn and woodland beneath her, and, lulled by the murmur of the river of the valley, conjure up a world of a thousand dreams around her, and trace in admiration the fair handywork of nature. The other, yielding to every passing impulse, fearless of care, and open to enjoyment, was apparently intended to figure only in the more sunny passages of existence, and was herself a potent mistress of the spells of gaiety. Mary's figure was tall, perfect, and commanding, and though her light blue eyes, and auburn tresses, seemed the very emblems of all that was tranquil, yet every fine feature was robed in inexpressible dignity, during her moments of excitement or enthusiasm. It was impossible, on the other hand, to withstand the laughing glances of Bessy's sparkling eyes, set off as they were by a profusion of raven ringlets that clustered down her dimpled cheeks, while her almost fairy form was cast in the finest mould of feminine loveliness. Such were the two fair creatures whose histories I am about to relate, when the one had reached her twentieth, ¡and the other her eighteenth year; and by what link those histories came to be united, it will be now necessary to explain. The reader has already, perhaps, felt surprise, that the qualities and attractions I have ascribed to Mary should be found in a farmer's daughter, in a "maiden of low degree." My information, however, accounted readily for the fact. Her family, as I have hinted, had long enjoyed an unusual, and an almost uninterrupted prosperity, and in consequence of singular industry and perseverance on their part-virtues which seldom go without their reward-were conversant with few of the distresses that annoyed and agitated their less-gifted neighbours. Her father, though in other respects a prudent and moderate man, seems to have indulged in overweeningly-ambitious views for his daughter's welfare. Her birth had been soon followed by the loss of an affectionate wife, and he appeared thenceforth to have teutred all his warmer feelings in her, whose uncommon beauty, and carlier indications of a superiority of mind, accounted, even in childhood, for all his fond partiality. Thus he was often heard to boast, that "his Mary should be as fine a lady as the best of them ;" and with this view he had intrusted her, when but eight years old, to the care of the most fashionable schoolmistress of the metropolis, desiring her to take charge of her until she was as accomplished as unsparing expenditure could make her. Mary was accordingly thrown at once among associates all higher than herself in station and prospects of life; and, save when the honest farmer paid his regular half-yearly visit, she never even saw, for a number of years, any that moved within her own natural sphere. But while her companions, as I have said, had the superiority in point of rank, she found few to rival her in innate elegance, in graces of person, and in thirst for improvement; and although it must be admitted that the arrival of her unfashionable relative never failed to excite a momentary titter among her playmates, yet it was speedily checked by the recollection of her own unassuming merit and extraordinary good nature, which had won, from the first, the affections of each individual of the little community. One of these, and inferior only to Mary in acquirements, was the second heroine of my tale; and, strange to say, although as different in tastes as I have described them, they soon formed for each other a fond and faithful attachment. They had been born and nursed amid the same scenes, and it was Mary's greatest delight, during her long exile from the midst of them, to freshen her recollections and multiply her inquiries from her very willing and happier friend, who twice, at least, each year, could draw her information from experience. They were the joint idols of the school, but so far were they either from envying the other's popularity, that they would sit conversing together in some quiet corner on the occasion of many a pastime, when there was the loudest cry for their aid and countenance of the general sports. Thus did each delight in the other's society, the very opposition of their charac ters enhancing perhaps the charms of intimacy. When Mary sung a pensive melody, Bessy would reply to it in some merry little native air: when Mary's imagination was attracted by the sombre and melancholy, Bessy would discover each lighter sentiment, as if by magic, in their common studies. Years flitted by, strengthening their attachment as they passed, and Mary was at length delighted by a summons to attend her father on his last expedition homeward. Bessy was to remain one year longer at the academy, and the friends parted with mutal protestations of regard, and threats of almost daily correspondence, which they afterwards put into very accurate execution, to the great pride and pleasure of the farmer, who was gratified by the connexion and intercourse in which his daughter had engaged. Not so with Mr. Bell. Naturally haughty and distant, he listened with little satisfaction to Bessy's account of her great intimacy with one so much her inferior in rank, although accompanied by the most glowing and enthusiastic praise; and when at length the period of her departure from school arrived, and she was to appear as his daughter in society, he sternly interdicted all future intercourse between them. Need I tell of the supplications, of the tears that attended so cruel a disappointment. He was resolute in his severity, and Bessy rode over to make the terrible disclosure, and wept for the last time on the bosom of her devoted and disconsolate friend. It was, indeed, a trying scene--they parted in the deepest affliction. When poor Mary was left alone, she had time to estimate fully the overpowering loss she had sustained. Even before this sad occasion, indeed immediately on her arrival from school, she had perceived, and almost regretted, the deep mistake her father had committed in-giving her an education so completely disproportioned to her rank-an education, which, if it added refinements, yet increased her wants, and unfitted her to take any interest in the pursuits or pleasures of her natural associates and protectors, while the fatal barrier of her birth seemed irrevocably to forbid the acquisition of that place in a higher circle, to which she was both entitled by her accomplishments, and which she could have filled with dignity. Her relations, indeed, had greeted her return with every demonstration of pride and affection, while her father doated on her with the most intense, nay, painful fondness; yet both they and he approached her with an involuntary betrayal of a consciousness of their inferiority, that, to her delicate sensibility, almost destroyed the satisfaction which should naturally be afforded her from the kind interest of kinsfolk, and the warmth of a father's love. Viewing her circumstances, therefore, with discreet and unbiassed penetration, she would have regretted, I say, her adventitious elevation above her fellows, had she not hitherto enjoyed a solace for all distresses in her "sweet communion" with her beloved Bessy, and felt how deep should be her gratitude for being so strangely enabled to preserve an equality and enjoy an interchange of feeling and affection with so much merit and elegance. Can any wonder, then, that this disappointment preyed heavily on her tender disposition; that she gave herself up for a time to a deep and wearing melancholy, and fancied that she was now left almost alone in the world. It was during the Christmas holidays that the unexpected shock came upon her, which seemed for the moment to stun all her faculties; and the spring had softened into summer, ere her mind regained ought of its natural elasticity. The honest farmer felt deeply affected, and, unable as he was to appreciate her sentiments duly, still endeavoured to sooth her too visible sorrow with unavailing fondness. Fearful of giving offence, by letting him see the inefficiency of his sympathies, she sought rather to retire into solitude; and, as the season advanced, she wandered up the mountain almost daily to some shady spot, and soon forgetting the subject of the book before her, was lost for hours together in her own bitter and crowding thoughts, until the evening's chill, or the gathering gloom, reminded her that it was time to return. It was on the morning of the 28th of August, that Frederick Montgomery also climbed that mountain, with the eagerness of a sportsman on the first day of the grouseshooting for the season. As he descended again, it was with no slight astonishment that he perceived, at a little distance, Mary Gray, as it were some fair spirit of the heights, moving slowly and musingly downward towards her father's cottage. It was the thought of a moment to follow cautiously and trace her steps; and at length his inquiries from a labourer in the adjoining field, convinced him that he had discovered her residence. Accordingly he resolved to return the next day to the same ground for sport, trusting to his ingenuity to invent some pretext for gaining admission at Farmer Gray's. Frederick Montgomery was a stranger in Ireland, and had come down to the neighbourhood to pay, as he had at first intended, but a short visit to a newly-married friendhimself a late settler. Although naturally of a frank and manly disposition, yet the dissipation of an Oxford life, and a subsequent unlimited enjoyment of the pleasures of the Continent during two years, now found him nearly as heart less as he was gay. Early the master of an independent fortune, and gifted with ready and showy talents, he had arrived at perfect self-confidence from his intercourse with the world, and was possessed of an address as insinuating as his person was striking and handsome. It was no wonder then that he boasted of some success with woman, who had been long his favourite study, as her favours were his darling pursuit, and that he now flattered himself with an intimate knowledge of the sex, and believed that he was accomplished in its passions and whims, its oddities and caprice, and every access to its softer feelings. displayed an air of unstudied elegance, that had the power for an instant to change Montgomery's delight into astonishment. Work-boxes, a writing-desk, music and drawing, occupied their various positions through the apartment; a piano-forte lay open, while one or two feminine ornaments had been left in progress on the table. Books of belles-lettres, instruction, and devotion, were arranged in spider-shelves around the walls, and a splendid portrait of their beautiful possessor hung over the mantel-piece. Every thing seemed to acknowledge the governance of a tasteful mistress, though all the occupations whose tokens were thus visible, had been neglected for months previous to the time of which we speak. Soon mastering his surprise, Montgomery, with admir." able tact, displayed his pleasure only so as to flatter the vanity, without exciting the suspicions, of the farmer; and having discovered she had gone abroad for some time, he contrived to carry on so successfully his insidious attacks upon the gratified father, that, won by the courtesy and bearing of his guest, and believing his daughter also might be pleased at the society of one who was evidently so fully accomplished, he invited him to return to his house that evening on his way homeward. Need I tell the rest? His visits were daily repeatedwhile his stay with his friend was further protracted, and each morning he started for the mountain with his gun and dogs, long after there had ceased to remain a single feather for his bag. He was a favourite alike with father and daughter, the one he continued to manage as artfully as at their first meeting-the other could not but be taken with a person who possessed so many attractions, taste, talents, and mutiplied, though showy and superficial, reading-who was ready to join in all her studies and amusements-who took such interest in every trifle that engaged her, and carried off all with those delicate and obsequious attentions, which, while they failed not to flatter and delight, could never for a moment appear obtrusive or alarming. They read, they sung, they walked and conversed together; Mary's disappointment at the loss of her friend was soothed, as her place was supplied; nor was she for a long time aware of the potent poison she was imbibing. And, strange to say, although it cannot be denied that his first intentions were of the basest and most infamous order, as his letters to a friend, of that date, attempted not even to disguise, yet the same testimony at a latter period declared him to be caught, as it were, in his own snare, and completely disarmed of his terrible purposes, by the gentle nature and glowing virtues of the fair being they were intended to assail. Time rolled on, and at length he ventured to speak openly of love and wedlock, and met with a reception, from both father and daughter, as flattering as his pride could desire. He was the first of his sex whom Mary had ever known, and in truth he was a favourable specimen, and it would have been unaccountable if the farmer had not been dazzled at the prospect of such a brilliant alliance. Such was the promise of happiness, which enlivened the little party at the cottage; when one noon, in the decline of the season, this young and interesting pair strolled on as they conversed of their prospects far into the enchanting scenery of Mountjoy Forest. Of the details of that fatal day nothing further was known, than that Mary returned alone, and late in the evening, in a state bordering on frenzy, and never recovered from the shock she had sustained, or regained the peace she had sacrificed. Happily indeed for himself, her father was then absent, and for several days afterwards, and came home to suspect no more from the change in his daugh ter's spirits, which all her efforts could not conceal, than a mere lover's quarrel, often but the enhancement of lovers' happiness. Such was the person who stopped at Farmer Gray's on the morning of the 21st, under the plausible pretext of remedying some accidental disorder of his gun. While a serMeanwhile, Montgomery appeared early the following vant was heating water for that purpose, perhaps it was morning at the cottage, and from that moment continually through some momentary feeling of vanity, that her father besieged the door, begging, supplicating, even fiercely de requested him to step into Mary's little drawing-room; al-manding to be admitted, and in vain. A thousand balletthough the furniture was plain and unpretending, yet it doux, addressed to Mary, he entrusted to her faithful nt |