Published by Longman. Rees Orme Brown & Green, Nov 1830.

Printed by Man

SEATED on a flowery bank, and overshadowed by noe of those luxuriant chestnut trees for which the south of France has long been celebrated, Adele,—young, beautiful, and a Countess, might have been mistaken for a happy woman. The surrounding domain, which evidenced the presence of refined taste, no less than the possession of wealth, together with the chateau in the distance, were entirely her own; and she had for her companion one who was also her bosom friend, considerably younger, and somewhat less lovely, but replete with sportive good sense, strong affection, and high-bred vivacity. In fact, she had more influence over the Countess, who, in her double character of beauty and heiress, was some

what apt to be unreasonable in her demands, and suspicious of motives; she had more influence, our romance

says, than her guardian the old Marechal de B- who was considered a very great man in the provinces; or than his very stately wife, who wore longer lappets than the queen, and whose notions of propriety were stiffer than her best court petticoat. Nevertheless, at the present time, Adele appeared ill at ease, and not unruffled in temper; or, as she had that very morning dismissed three suitors, torn up a dozen ballads in praise of her beauty, forbidden an old acquaintance her presence, and quarrelled with the identical lady of the lappets, it might be, that she was fatigued with her labours. Certain it is, she complained of every thing excepting herself; objected to the trickling sound of the fountain, the perfume of the flowers, and pleading a head-ache and bad spirits, requested Mathilde, the gayest of companions, to think instead of talk. Now Mathilde had a natural as well as national indisposition to refrain from the privilege of speech; she had, beside, a womanly suspicion as to the cause of her friend's ill humour, and the request only quickened her desire for conversation.

"Well, Adele, if your head really aches, and your spirits are as bad as you say they are, try to catch a slumber, and let me sing to you."

"I am weary of the troubadour strains:—when I have parted with my last jewel, I shall hear no more of "tes deux beaux yeux."

me, I pro

You shall hear nothing of the kind from mise you," replied Mathilde, laughing; "nor will I offend your ear with praises of your meek, and gentle, and most reasonable nature; but you need not listen unless you please;"-and with this generous permission she caught up Adele's guitar, and sang in a piquant manner, an impromptu of her own:

There once was a brave cavalier,
Commanded by Cupid to bow;

And his mistress, though lovely, I hear
Had a very Sultana-like brow;

In battles and sieges he fought
With many a Saracen Nero,
Till back to his mistress he brought
The fame and the heart of a hero:
But when he presumed to demand
The hero's reward in all story,
His mistress, in accents most bland-
Desired him to gather more glory!
Poor Camille!

So back went the young cavalier,
(Where dwells such obedience now?)
And he wove, amid pennon and spear,
A wreath for that fair cruel brow;
How crimson the roses he sent,

But not with the summer sun's glow;
"T was the crimson of battle-and lent
By a brave heart for ever laid low!
Now if such a lover I knew,

And if I might be his adviser,

I would bid him be tender and true,
But certainly bid him be wiser.
Poor Camille !

Mathilde gave the refrain of her madrigal with a particular emphasis-"What a pity" cried she, "that my memory should fail me just now! there were at least twenty-nine more stanzas, and all full of good advice,— to be sure, the burthen of 'Pauvre Camille!' came in rather too often, but people should always be tender-hearted in song

Mathilde, have done- and tell me at once how has De Valori merited that you should thus advocate his suit? the Camille of your foolish ballad was faithful, and died—but he, my Camille-where is the fidelity of him, who, on returning home after a long absence, allows six days to elapse without repairing to his mistress, when a bare league separates their domains?"

"And where is that mistress's good faith, who denies him her presence one hour, and reproaches him for nonappearance the next?"

"The cause

-the cause, Mathilde,” replied the Countess, and a tear started to her eye.

'The provocation-the provocation, Adele," rejoined Mathilde.

"Has he not," resumed the Countess, "lingered in Italy long after the wars had ceased to require his presence?-Was he not, when there, first and last at every revel? Did he not flutter in the train of a certain Marchesa, and, for aught I know, in the train of a dozen others? What care I for the vulgar homage of lance and brand, compared with the service of the heart?