To-morrow came; but far from being better, she appeared infinitely worse. I was shocked beyond measure at her appearance: my soul staggered at the sight: I accused myself of being her murderer.

She detained me by her side.

"Lucy, dearest Lucy, what is the matter? what can I do to relieve you? Have I made you unhappy, my own darling? is it I who have done this? Oh, what a villain have I been ! Alas! what can I do to repair this injury?"

"Do not distress yourself for me, dearest; listen with patience. You see only the effects of a struggle between love and duty: the struggle is over, and its effects will pass away; I shall be better directly. You cannot marry me, Harry; I know it now. That world which smiles upon the crime, would condemn the atonement; and that society which now welcomes would then reject you."

"What care I for society?" said I, passionately; "I will marry you, dearest: my whole life shall be devoted to your happiness."

She was evidently not quite prepared for this outburst of feeling, and almost overcome. But she pressed me to her, and continued,

"Do not interrupt me, Harry dear; hear me out," and she spoke in a voice of wonderful calmness and decision. "Do not reproach yourself with my misery: had I not known you, I should never have known the happiness I have. My life was wretched before, it may be so hereafter; but the interval has been love and brightness, worth an age of misery. Let us think now of the future. You would marry me: I will believe you. But Harry, I love you too well to wish that you should take a woman to your bosom whose name is already tainted. Do not sigh, love; that at least was not your doing. You are not answerable for the scandalous words of the libertine who blasted my good name, and gave me to the four winds of heaven as Shall I deny your tenderness because evil resulted from it? Let me confess, that when I gave you all, I felt that I gave not much. I had left my good name at the door of the opera house fair fame was gone. What then remained?

་

"I alone am to blame : let me only suffer. To make me your wife, would be to destroy your own happiness, and add none to me. We may not marry: we must not live on in shame and open sin. For what is past, God will, I trust, accept my repentance; but my example shall not lead others into the same

error.

"No, dear Harry; you would be wretched in either case, for you love me well: and for your sake, to your happiness, I sac

rifice-not myself; I am not worthy mention-but one who will some day be dearer to me than all beside. Our child will be marked with the brand of illegitimacy: but better far to contemplate the possibility of his discontent, than the certainty of his father's misery. We must part, at once and for ever. My plans are fixed: I will accept from you £100 a year, which will keep us in affluence in the country, to which I shall retire If any occasion arise, I will write; if not, do not seek

at once.

to see me."

I tried to persuade her, that even if it were too late for marriage, we might be happy in each other's constancy, and retire from that world which we could not set at defiance. Even then I felt that my heart was not large enough to brave the scorn of society, and make this noble creature my wife. She stopped me, saying,

"No more: I am lost here, but not I trust hereafter. Unceasing repentance will surely, in the eyes of an all-merciful God, atone for a fault which was the offspring of love. Oh, do not think me capable of setting at defiance all the laws of him whom I have reverenced from my cradle, on whose benevolence my hopes are fixed. I will so far confess the credulity of love as to admit that I believe you would keep your promise of probity to me without marriage, and that, could my conscience sleep, I might be in every other way happy with you; but to yourself the obligation would soon become an intolerable burthen. And shall I, who have already felt so acutely the agony of shame, by my example induce others to incur worse evils than mine? What right have I to brand with infamy a race of innocents, the result of my own crime?

"No; though we should be indubitably miserable, I would sooner marry you. You love me better than you will ever again love woman: you see, I make no disguise from you, though I am not the first, or perhaps, the best loved. But let that pass you have raised me from poverty, you have saved me from death; you must not, dearest, preserve me to infamy.

"For what is past, may God forgive us. Do not think I blame you the fault was mine. By education and early habit, woman is put upon her guard against the snares which will be laid for her: her virtue is almost concentrated in one point, over which she is to watch with jealous care, and when she yields, it is to her own inclination, not to the solicitations of man."

My tale is nearly ended. I could not move her: we parted. She would accept no more than the sum she had already stated, and I never saw her again in life.

Some months after I received this letter,

"When you read these lines, my own dear Harry, your Lucy will be no more. My time is near at hand: I feel that I shall not survive it. If it please God to spare my child, remember its helplessness, protect its innocence. I do not ask fortune or position in society for it: let it love God. I cannot tell you all I feel: may you soon find one who will love you as well as I have done, and make you happier than I could. If any recollection of me shall cause you a moment's pain, forget me: but oh! Harry, by all that we have felt, by all that I have suffered, forget not those helpless little orphans, who have no friends but you."

Her presentiment was fulfilled: she died, and happily the child of misfortune did not survive her. The note was sent to me with another from the people with whom she lived, detailing the circumstances of her death.

From thence hitherto I have lived unfriended and alone, nursing and fostering vengeance against that society to whose poisonous influence I was a victim. Remorse for injury inflicted, regret for happiness lost, have made up the bitterness of my reflections, and through all the weary course of time I am working out my punishment. It cannot last much longer. The three little children I have already provided for, and I trust they are in the hands of persons who will watch over them with all the tenderness of their own parents. They are beyond want, and I hope beyond danger. I dare not see them."

Within three months from that time Hertford broke his neck out hunting. He had made no will, and his fortune was divided among relations whom he had scarce ever seen, and of whom not one bore his name.

September, 1849.-VOL. LVI. NO. CCXXI.

18

THE WALK TO THE FORGE.

(A BALLAD FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.)

A gentle page was Fridolin,
In fear of God lived he;

He served to love well nigh akin,
Count Savern's fair ladye.
She was so mild, she was so kind,
That e'en her wildest hest he'd find
A way whereby to gain a smile,
And thus in joy his hours beguile.

Soon as the early morning shone,
Till the late vesper bell,

He lived for her mere nod alone,-
Could never serve too well.

And quoth the dame, "O work not so!"
Then would his eyes with tears o'erflow,
As if in duty he had failed,

Or 'fore a hard command had quailed.

'Twas thus the countess deemed him well

Above her train to raise,

And from her lip for ever fell

His inexhausted praise.

She held him not like other knave,

But as a child her heart she gave;

Her liquid eyes a pleasure took,
To melt upon his comely look.

For this, in huntsman Robert's breast
Most direful hatred came,

His soul with envy was opprest,-
He nursed the vengeful flame-
And to the count, a hasty man,
The knave his lying tale began,

As once from chase they homeward sped,
And sowed suspicion,-thus he said :-

"Great Count, your lot is wealth and weal," (His wile to hide he sought,)

"Nor in your golden dreams doth steal The poison'd tooth of doubt:

For

you possess a noble spouse,

And modest shame unites the vows;
The smooth seducer strives in vain,
The pious fair one's love to gain."

On which the count did foam and chafe :
"What say'st thou now, bold knave?
Think'st thou I build on women's faith,
As restless as the wave?

She's weak to brave the flattering sound,-
My faith is built on firmer ground.
Unto Count Savern's wife, I ween,
No smooth seducer e'er hath been."

The other spoke :-" And you are right,
The fool but wants your scorn;
Who, though a simple vassal wight,
And one most basely born,

Must to the dame he serves aspire,

And breathe his thought of mad desire." "What!" cried the count, with angry cheek,

"Is it of one who lives you speak?"

"Surely, can that as day is clear, Have quite escaped my lord?

Yet, since it hath not reached thine ear,

O list not to my word."

"Sirrah, thou speak'st the words of death!" The other screamed with gasping breath; "What fool has dared thus tempt my rage?" "I spoke of Fridolin, the page."

"He's not ungainly in his form,"

The wily Robert cries;

The count grew cold-the count grew warm, Confounded by his lies.

Surely, my lord, can you not see

That in her eyes alone lives he?

That he avoids your board with care,

And posts him near his ladye's chair.

"And then the verses which he penn❜d,
Confessed the unholy flame-"
"Confessed !"—" And with a lowly bend
The boy besought the same!