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imposed on Lord Bristol of acquainting the unfortunate mother with the precarious state of her son.

At ten o'clock the Earl of Bristol requested the honour of an interview with Lady Cleveland; as the near approach of the carriage which bore Cleveland, demanded that she should be apprized of the circumstances previous to its arrival. She was surprised at such a visit, and at such an hour; but connecting it in some measure with her interview last night with her son, she admitted him, and immediately disclaimed all further political views, as tending only to alienate her from the best of sons. His lordship began by observing that there were very few who avoided in life those disputes which terminate unhappily for all parties; and that he could not but regret the circumstances which had led to the quarrel between himself and her son, satisfied as he was of the high honour and excellent qualifications which adorned him. It had been his fate to have been obliged to meet him personally, which had increased his esteem for him; but he was sorry to say it had been attended with consequences which must deprive him of much peace of mind.

The look of anxious inquietude which Lady Mary_directed towards him, rendered him incapable of proceeding. In a few moments, a low murmur and great confusion was heard, which, though it was distinct, seemed as if the greatest care was taken to prevent noise or bustle.-Lady Mary rose from her seat and violently pulled the bell-she waited with a look of anxiety for an answer-no one came-again she rung-still no one came.-She rushed to the door, and was followed by Lord Bristol endeavouring to detain her.

"What is the meaning of all this?" she exclaimed, fixing a a look of despair on him ;-" what has occurred?"

"Be patient, madam," was the answer.

She waited not, but hurried down the stairs-she met Cleveland's valet, pale and trembling. "Where is your master, sir?" she asked.

"In his own room," was the reply; "but he wishes to be alone."

"Thank God!" she exclaimed: "he lives then?"

"Yes, my lady; but the surgeon does not seem to think he will live long."

"Gracious powers!" she cried; and rushing forward, perfectly unconscious of all around her, she burst into the apartment of her son; who, reclining on a sofa, received her with a smile of affectionate pleasure. She clung round his neck and exclaimed, "Oh! I have had for the last ten minutes such thoughts." Then perceiving blood upon his clothes, she fainted-and awoke to the dreadful reality.

Miss Avondale soon learned the news, and reproached herself with the result she heard that Delaware was prevented by the

poor sufferer from exposing his life, and that he had become the victim of his friendship. The agony she endured was great: in vain she attempted to soothe the sorrows of the almost broken hearted mother, who invoked the medical men despairingly to restore her much-loved son: they enticed her from the room, and informed her that his life must depend upon the state of quiet in which he was kept.-She thanked heaven.-They spoke of hope, and were silent. (To be concluded next month.)

THE FIRST NIGHT OF WINTER.

BY F. A. CRANMER.

Hark! the northern winds are blowing,
See! the cheerful fire is glowing-
Lazy summer steals afar-

Winter mounts her frosted car—

Fleet the steeds, and fierce their strife,
All is action-all is life!

Lately when the sun, declining,
O'er the grassy carpet, shining,
Tinged each flower with yellow hues,
And made them thirsty for night dews,
How the sage, the cit, the lover
Loitered 'neath the leafy cover.

When the idle evening breeze
Slept among the thick robed trees-
When the song of Philomel
Triumphed through the silent dell-
Then the youthful couples roving
Faintly sighed, and called it loving-

When the moon at midnight hours
Silvered all the tranquil bowers,
Bidding every eye, to peep
Ere it sunk to sultry sleep-
Oh! how drowsy every eye,

Winked, and blinked, ere it could spy.
Now, though chill the moon appears,
Though the clouds are dropping tears,
Though the blossom's distant blown,
Though the country's shunned for town;

And the midnight's far too cold
For lovers' stories to be told:

Yet, though changed, how fresh and gay-
Evening seems to rival day-
Hearts and steps are equal light—
Cheeks are glowing, eyes are bright:
And all the world is gaily moving—

Sure, winter is the time for loving.

Then let all in passion crost
Heed nor hurricane nor frost-
Colder still as grows the weather,
Let them closer cleave together,

Till gay spring revives the sun,
And thaws their frozen hearts to one.

ADRIAN GREY.

BY M. A. S.

66
AUTHOR OF LILLA OF LAUTERBRUNNEN."

Oh! scenes of sad reality,—why,~-why must I thus record you?"

It was at that season when the hawthorn first lends its perfume to the fresh breezes of an early spring, that a couple of travellers descending from a vehicle, bound towards the grand western emporium, sought refuge in a small inn, situate in the lower confines of Wiltshire. The elder of these travellers seemed verging upon fifty, or it might be not so old, for the fading hue of sickness had spread itself over his countenance, which, though strongly marked and prepossessing, shewed many a withering trait of sorrow. He appeared to have grappled hard with adversity; but it was easy to perceive that the person who now, with difficulty ascended the steps of the little inn, was at once the scholar and the gentleman. The faded state of his apparel however, told a story not to be mistaken; it spoke of poverty and of bright days now gone by: so apparent indeed were the slender finances of the person thus seeking to obtain accommodation, that for a moment the good landlady hesitated-the next instant however, her better nature prevailed, she wiped her face with the corner of her apron, and exclaiming, "Ees, zure, zur," led the way to an apartment.

The invalid's companion was a lovely girl, pale indeed, and somewhat dejected in appearance, but of exquisite symmetry, and so touchingly delicate, that it was impossible to behold her without interest and sympathy.

Such were the pair now seeking refuge at the Salisbury Arms -he "the stern oak, shattered by the tempest"-she "the gentle lilly, bent, but not broken!"

Nor had they been unobserved: three persons were at the door of the inn on their arrival; the first two were the landlord and a gentleman, apparently about five or six-and-twenty, who had been for some time in converse with him; the third was a hale old farmer, who, setting age at defiance, was seated with his tankard and his pipe, loosing the tether of his garrulity, to the amusement of all who were within hearing.

In the instance of the new comers however, the reminiscences of the old farmer seemed more than usualy alive: mechanically he put down the mug he was on the point of raising to his lips, and as mechanically raised himself from his recumbent position, whilst an air of involuntary respect overspread his weather-beaten face, and turning to the landlord, he exclaimed:

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Why what do I see?-sure these old eyes don't deceive me. -'Tis Adrian Grey !-Adrian Grey come once more among us! and it may be to claim his own again."

"No such good luck," replied the landlord, "the clothes on his back don't savour much of riches, poor soul!"

"And who is Adrian Grey?" asked Tressylian.

"And are you, Master Tressylian, in ignorance of Adrian Grey, and his misfortunes?-But I forgot, you were not bred and born among us. Well, then-he was once the owner of the mansion westward of the church.-"

"Do you mean that desolate old house, so long uninhabited?" "As to its desolation," said Farmer Masterton, knocking the ashes deliberately from his pipe, and strewing them with his foot upon the ground, "why there's no help for that, d'ye see-things won't last for ever, and it's of very old standing.-Even brick and stone will crumble under the hand of time, as well as mortal man. -But that's neither here nor there; when Adrian's property was sold, that old mansion could not be touched, on account of some flaw or other; so that it was shut up, and of course, eighteen years without a soul to look after it, have done it no good." "But the private misfortunes of Mr. Grey?" asked Tressylian earnestly.

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They can be told in a few words, squire.-Woman-woman, was the cause of poor Adrian's misery. He had a wife-fair as the sun ever shone upon, and frail as she was fair. This woman had a brother-an arrant villain, who not content with inducing his sister to work upon the affections and feelings of her husband, introduced his profligate companions.-The seduction of his sister, and the ruin of his friend, soon followed, and poor Adrian, bereft of wife, comfort, and even home, for the sale of his property was greatly inadequate to cover the debts heaped upon him by his guilty relatives, was obliged to quit the spot which had hitherto been the scene of his greatest happiness. He had children-one, a fair boy, lies buried in a corner of the churchyard, with the simple initals A. G.' carved on his head-stone. You can see it any time you pass the west-chancel door.-T'other is, I suppose, she, that has been with him ever since he left the hall."

"And a lovely creature she is!" exclaimed Tressylian.

"So was her mother, Master Tressylian-far more beautiful, than this poor sinking child, who looks as though her father's misfortunes were dragging her to the same grave, to which, I doubt me, he is fast a going."

"I am much interested in their fate," said Tressylian, having mused for some minutes on the brief narration. "It is indeed a melancholy tale, and if you will call at my house on your way back to the village, farmer, we will converse farther on the subject in the mean time," turning to the landlord, "see that no attention be wanting, that will help to contribute to the comfort

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of your new inmates.-I will myself become responsible for any expence that may be incurred." Hereupon they quitted the inn. And Tressylian, having listened a second time to Farmer Masterton's relation, became more and more convinced that Adrian Grey was indeed the victim of duplicity and distress. But how to assist him, was a task of more difficulty than he felt likely to accomplish. Still he could not rest.-Day by day, he visited the little inn that contained the objects of his solicitude. Mr. Grey and his Ellen were not visible:-the one languished under an accumulation of disease, brought on by the fatigue of recent exertion; the other never quitted the couch of her father, or if she did, it was so rare an occurrence, as to render it very unlikely Tressylian might hit the happy moment. So passed several tedious weeks, tedious to the mind of one, in whom sympathy had aroused feelings every hour becoming more and more painful.

Whatever were the sensations by which Tressylian was thus actuated, they were undefinable even to himself. A thousand times did he ask his heart why, accustomed as he was to society, he should be so unaccountably attracted towards persons whom he had beheld but for a brief minute. Was it the wish to befriend the unfortunute?-The point was speedily determined, and he became satisfied, at least, with the purity of his intentions.

One bright evening, the sun fast descending below the hills, tinging the summits of the moss-clad downs with its golden presence the birds chanting their song of gratitude, and all nature sinking to that state of repose, that precedes a total oblivion ; here and there a distant sheep-bell which proclaimed the shepherd performing his latest task of night, mixed with the hum of the beetle, wafted to and fro upon the breeze.

Tressylian passed the silent churchyard, and thoughts that had for so many days maintained such powerful ascendancy, and had even then driven him to seek refuge in a solitary ramble, once more arose to his imagination. The child of Adrian lay buried there, and wishful to ascertain if Farmer Masterton's story were correct, he turned towards the spot, which did indeed contain the little grave he sought.-By its side knelt the being he most wished to behold, and fearful of disturbing her meditations, Tressylian stept cautiously behind a tomb, uncertain whether he should, or should not, accost her.

Ellen Grey had at length availed herself of the temporary slumber of her father, to steal where she might indulge the grief she dared not manifest in his sight. Her soft dark eyes were bent expressively, while, as if uncertain of the characters hewn on the long neglected stone, she traced the initials with her finger, and then, penetrated by some sudden overwhelming recollection, clasped her hands in anguish, and placed them on her bosom.

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