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him-that was my shame, my sorrow. He went to London, for three months, 'twas said; long enough, and far enough for me; but oh! what did I suffer, when I heard, abruptly, and from smiling lips, that he was going to make his fortune in India;' this would take years. I said I did not believe it, and I said no more before grandmother; I pretended to be very cheerful, and though a word's unkindness hurt me then more than ever, I bore it better than I used to do, because I knew my duty, and felt that Mr. George's going ought to be no thing to me; that is, no more than 'twas to the oldest man that ever looked on him; and that would have been enough. The report was contradicted, and I hoped again; then 'twas confirined, and I grew worse than at first. I kept in my tears, before folks, but while alone, do what I would, and I had much to do, I cried, and could not eat, nor sleep. I wonder if every body who has talked of a heart-ache knows what it is in reality? The restlessness, the weakness, the hot, swollen, sore, stiff throat; the eyes full of sand, the cold in the head, the heavy pain that stops one's breath, and takes away one's voice. If I had made a fuss I should have met more consideration; I had no pride to help concealment, but I did not wish to afflict any body. I had no right, and yet 'twas so sudden, every thing seemed changed for ever! How I wished that I was rich enough to give him all the money he could possibly get in India, and keep him here; for I knew he'd grieve to quit his home, his friends, his love. I wondered how she bore it; to be sure, she would not lose him without a farewell; she would be cheered by letters then I remembered that he might be well when he wrote, and dead before she got them. I had seen him for the last time, without knowing it. I might survive him in ignorance, or die of a false report that he was dead. I thought upon the thousands of miles at sea, and every mile a danger; in a house without foundation, a narrow prison, with freedom all around it, which he could only gain by death, and I thought how ill he'd

be, how weary of that lone little bed, rocked, but not to rest, by the sea, roaring through a thin plank, into his ear, for prey; no books, no society, no exercise; such a sameness, such privations and inconveniences; such bad fare! why even fresh bread and water is scarce, on such a voyage. Milk, fruit, honey, flowers! he loved them all; what had he done that he must lose them? Nothing on earth was good enough for Mr. George, and there was not a sight, sound, scent of shipboard, that I could have wished my bitterest enemy; and yet, if I had but been going with him, every thing would have seemed safe and delightful, but I was to be left; he would have bustle, novelty, an object. I had nothing; then that strange land, where there would be no welcome for him; black faces, uncouth accents, new ways, bad habits, horrid storms, a burning sky, reptiles, wild beasts, diseases, that slay the strong man at a blow. Must not England have even the dust of dear Mr. George? Who should ever dare say a word against him to me? Now I might speak; he could not hear me. I prayed for him, I blest him, as if I owed him more than life could pay. I had loved him long; and, before I knew it, had trembled at his slightest illness, because I loved him. I had tried to learn, but the little knowledge I had brought no comfort. There would be six hours difference between us, in the twenty-four; nearly one day in a week; his afternoon would be my night, his sabbath my day of toil. The stars he looked on I should not see. The moon would be full with him, and waning with me. His summer would be my winter; we should have nothing in common. The air was no longer sweet, for he did not breathe it with me. I almost hated the sun, fearing it would kill him; morning after morning I awoke in suspense-for no news came of himand at every waking 'twas a fresh shock; far from growing reconciled, I got more and more impatient, under that which I thought would never end. I starved for a sight of him! no more, never again, was I to enjoy it. Yet I could not have entered

his home, where his portrait hung; the sight of any face I had been used to see with his upset me quite; the tunes I'd heard played to him-nothing could happen that was pleasant, which did not mock me. Mr. George could not share it; he would forget England, become careless of every thing, but gold. I used to sit on Mrs. Joyce's grave, and envy her! I could not have borne this two years. Well! one evening the young ladies sent for me, to take orders about some new dresses. I went; a beautiful girl was with them; they named her, 'twas his love; yet she looked happy, how could she? I bore up bravely. At last the eldest sister said to me, 'the silk you are to make up, Margaret, lies on the library sofa.' 'Twas a summer twilight. I went there, some shawls were spread, but, above themmy God! a vision of him, stretched as in death. I did not scream, I could not move, but stood gazing on the pale features, the closed eyes, I don't know how long. I heard his sister's voice. What are ye at, all this while here?' He started up and caught me in his arms. I did not faint, nor go into a fit; but was led home, speechless, went to bed, in a fever; my hair fell off: when it grew again, 'twas as you see, but my flesh and colour I never recovered. The truth was this-Mr. George no sooner landed in India than he met a relation of his lady's, who, hearing of their engage

ments, settled his fortune upon them, and brought the lover back; he had arrived privately at home, to be married that day; and his sister, knowing him to be taking a nap in the library (of which his bride was no more aware than she was that I loved him)-'twas thought a pleasant trick

sending me to find him; he knew not what it was he clasped to his heart, on waking. I've never seen him since, except in my dream. I don't wish to, yet, at any rate, though 'tis ten years ago already; he is very happy with a fine family; but now I can't hope to serve them-my secret is betrayed-they know I did love him—I feel that I do still, and must as long as I breathe! Mrs. George's kinsman left me a hundred a-yearmy grandmother is in heaven-so you see me, a lone woman, with my time pretty nearly at the disposal of my friends." This homely narration had not been tearlessly told, nor tearlessly heard.

Reader! thou needst not weep; thou art a gentlewoman of to-day. We are in London; yet pray excuse a little sympathy in such hearers as an ignorant invalid and a country girl of fourteen, and beware how thou experimentalizest on the feelings, even of a rustic sempstress. If they be criminal, don't make them fatal too; if innocent, trust me they will be blessings to her, so thou wilt only spare them.

LINES,

TO A DEAR LITTLE BOY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, WITH A GARLAND OF WOODBINE.

BY MISS MITFORD.

OH! where to deck a spotless shrine,

A fitting wreath shall Friendship twine!
For, well-a-day, fair Spring is flown,
And spring-tide flowers are past and gone;
Even primrose pale, and violet fair,
And daffodil of presence rare,
And cowslip with her ambient air.
The wild rose, girt with thorns around,
O'er-dangerous coronal were found;
The stainless lily's wan and pale;
The azure harebell all too frail :-

Come then, ye woodbines, flaunting free
Around the oak's majestic tree,

Waving in fragrant garlands still,
Just where the boughs o'erhang the rill,
As if, within that mirror pure,
To view in darker portraiture,
Your yellow blossoms fully spread,
Your close-shut buds of dusky red,
And mark how passing fair ye seem,
Sleeping upon the silver stream.

Come, woodbines, from that lovely bower,
Oh, come to deck a lovelier flower!
One that, like you, 'mid Nature's charms,
Was cradled soft in Beauty's arms;
One that, like you, an English child,
Is fair, and free, and coy, and wild.
And ne'er, sweet woodbines, will ye grace
A cherub's head, or brow, or face,
So like what Reynolds loved to trace:
Where, pure and bright, the clear blue eye
Shines, as in lakes the summer sky;
Where, freshly delicate, the blood
I' th' cheek glows like the apple bud;
And where the lips of innocence
Curl dimpling into archest sense;
And mirth, and wit, and repartee
Lurk, as in roses lurks the bee!
Fair blossoms, to that boy more fair,
The ardent wish of Friendship bear:
May wisdom, virtue, health, renown,
His lengthened years with blessings crown!
And may he, (Love would ask but this !)
May he be all his father is !

LETTERS FROM LADY SOMEBODY IN TOWN TO NOBODY IN THE COUNTRY ABOUT EVERY THING IN THE WORLD.

LETTER 1.

Holdernesse House.

MA BELLE,-You cannot imagine how much you lose by not coming to town, and assuming a character. The marchioness declares it is quite dreadful-however, she tells me that I must not leave you quite ignorant of the horrors we perpetrate-pour passer le temps-and as she puts her veto upon all silence, I must, I suppose, begin to grow voluble. To commence then-in the true epistolary style, à tort et à travers. We went to the last May ball at Devonshire House, on the very Friday of your departure. I was introduced to a most superb creature-Madame de Rémusat-one of the most beautiful and graceful of all Frenchwomen. If you had seen her enter the room, you would not easily have forgotten it-so much grace and swan-like dignity-so lovely a representative of the elite of French society-and shedding so much lustre upon our own bright galaxy. Madame de Rémusat is the grand-daughter of that fine old veteran La Fayette-but we are all such horrid Tories that I suppose I must not praise him. Talking of Tories, I must tell you, ma mignonne, that there is no chance of getting our windows mended. The marquis does nothing but swear at that everlasting bill, and yesterday he asked Wellington where he got those dreadful iron blinds-I am sadly afraid we are going to be imprisoned! Poor Wellington-did you hear of that sad mob affair, on the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo! That JULY, 1832.

G

was entirely English-John Bull thinks he is nobody until he has shewn his consequence by throwing mud. "They manage these things better in France." How I pity you when I think you were not at the Birth-day Drawing-Room, it was so well managed; and pauvre Maradan almost killed herself with the dresses. We had a most beautiful display. All the diamonds of the East setting off all the stars of the West (end). Not a dowager but looked a divinity! Apropos, talking of dowagers, if you do not attack my loyalty, I will describe the costume of our gracious Queen. What think you of a net dress, embroidered in silver, the body and sleeves ornamented with a silver trimming, diamonds and blonde; a train of beautiful peach satin, richly brocaded in silver of Spitalfields' manufacture-(how I hate any thing English-but this did look pretty, so I forgive its origin)-and lined with white satin. Then her coiffure !-a splendid diamond diadem and feathers, with necklace and earrings en suite.

"Was not this a pretty dress to put upon a queen!"

Really, though, ma belle, these Drawing-Rooms do us some credit, and fulfil the prophecy of a certain lyrist on the Queen's accession. Ecoutez :"Yes, voices that were hushed,

Are raised in triumph now,

And joyous smiles are beaming forth
O'er many a lovely brow.

Ere long assembled crowds will form,

In splendour and parade,

A brilliant galaxy around,
The court of Adelaide !"

There have been more Drawing-Rooms since, but none like the Birth-day! I must tell you, however, that we are growing terrified about the unexclusiveness of the court. The marchioness is ever in fear that her train will be soiled with the imprint of the large foot of her jeweller's wife, or that her gentlemanly apothecary will condescend to make her a bow! It is too bad to give the entrée to people of that sort!

"Out of our own world no one lives!"

I have ventured three or four times to the Opera, but could not hear myself speak for the noise of Frenchmen talking their horrid patois dialect in some place below-I believe they call it the pit; and as to looking or listening to what was going on, that was quite impossible. You know, my dear, I have heard Pasta, and seen Taglioni! By the way, your charming colonel is dying for you-I never saw a poor fellow such a bore. He walked about the rooms at Alınack's, on the Wednesday after the duke's ball, like a moon-struck monster. Those tall guardsmen do look so ugly when they're dull. Do you know I had one of those Russian Poles, or Polish Russians, for my partner-Count Danniskiold. Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice, who had danced with him just before, declared that it put her au desespoir to pronounce his name. After all, we did not leave till four, and even then our carriages drove off under the most deliciously refreshing showers-a perfect April morning at the end of May! Our coachian, by the way, is expected to die-the rain gave him the agueQuel domage!

I went to Young's farewell, and saw Covent Garden turned into a Babel or a Bedlam-so much noise and confusion I never heard before. Poor Young played admirably, but he was never more mistaken in his life than when he addressed that audience of bears by the title of "Ladies and Gentlemen." What a beautiful play is the Hunchback! I never fancied any thing deformed could awaken so much interest. Fanny's acting positively made me weep; and as for Knowles, I begin to look upon him as a god! Kean has been acting the lion at the Haymarket; and Mrs. Waylett, that delightful ballad-singer, has got a beautiful little theatre in the Strand. I do not know how I ever got so far, but when there I was fairly robbed of my ennui. Quite a respectable

company; and, do you know, such a handsome man for an actor, in the Four Sisters, and clever too! They tell me his name's Forrester. Its a pity he's not in the guards! On dit-that the author of the Rent Day has been satirizing Berkeley Square in a comedy entitled the Golden Calf. How awful!

My dear creature, I dare say you marvel to hear me talk of these sort of things-but other people do the same now. Mr. Bulwer, for instance, has been quite theatrical in the House about Authors, and Theatres, and Patents, and Great Houses, and small, Olympic-like, little places. Besides, I may as well tell you all I know at once. Do you know, darling, rather than let you be ignorant of what passes I copy things from the newspapers; and here are a parcel of paragraphs now lying by me-Lisez et croyez. 1. The English Opera Company play at the Olympic. 2. Laporte has got Covent Garden, and opens with a French Company. 3. The Kembles are going to New York. 4. Wallack stays in England. There-I cannot positively write any more about these common-place, every-day matters. Let me look about me for something more interesting. Oh, now I have it! Maradan has just sent me a Statement of Fashions for the month. I shall send them for your edification -Les voici.

Promenade and carriage dress has at last assumed an appearance suitable to the season, though, owing to the uncertainty of the weather, not yet so light as it usually is at this time of year. We observe that the ladies' dresses in Kensington Gardens have, during the last few days, been more frequently of tissu de Chantilly, and other half transparent materials, than of silk or chaly. The former, indeed, is still in favour, and will, probably, be adopted in outdoor dress during the whole of the summer; but the latter is now but partially worn, and will, probably, be laid aside entirely by the end of the month.

The silks most in favour are watered gros de Naples for pelisses, and printed or plain gros de Naples for robes. The first are made with plain high corsages, and sleeves of immense width at the upper part, but fitting quite tightly to the arm from above the elbow to the wrist. Some have a cuff formed of long narrow points, others are finished by two or three cords of the same material, but close together at the wrist, and many have no ornament whatever. Pelisses are always worn with pelerines, and there are three or four different forms. Some are so very large, that they resemble a small cloak, and are more calculated for winter than summer; these are not very numerous. Others are rounded, and deep behind, with pointed or square ends, which pass under the ceinture, and descend a little below it. A third sort consists of three separate falls, cut in lozenges.

Robes for the promenade are worn with half high corsages, which are partially covered with shawls of Paris net, flowered in very vivid patterns, or else embroidered muslin canezous. The latter are coming very much into favour, but we do not perceive any novelty in their form.

Carriage bonnets have not altered since last month, but we have remarked a few, recently introduced, that are trimmed in a very novel and tasteful style. One of these is a hat of straw-coloured moize; the crown is partially covered behind with a blond lace drapery, the ends of which pass between the crown and the brim, and are lightly quilled on the ribbon that forms the brides; two .flowers of the iris, placed in the style of aigrettes, adorn the front. Another elegant hat is of rose-coloured gros de Naples, shot with white, and trimmed with two sprigs of white larkspur, divided by a cherry-coloured sprig of the same flower.

We have seen some dinner dresses of a new fancy silk, of a peculiarly elegant kind; the ground is lilac, or rose, and other light colours, with a small flower in white open work; this has quite the effect of lace let in. Half transparent materials are also very fashionable.

Dinner robes have the corsages variously made, some half high, and disposed in crossed drapery; others quite low, made to set close to the shape, and ornamented with quillings of gauffred tulle, or with four points, formed by

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