void upon his departure. Her voice no longer trilled so lightly-her smile was less bright and less frequent-and she lost, in great measure, that habit of springing forward with the elastic bound of a deer, which had been with her a peculiar characteristic. In all she did, in all she thought, she felt that her heart was far away with Everard Delaval. Such being the case, my readers will doubtless be surprised when they learn that on Midsummer-day, two years after his departure, the old hall at Arlescot was prepared for high festival, and that the festival was the marriage of the Lady Emmeline with the eldest son of the Lord De Vere, the richest and most powerful man of the county in which Arlescot stood. It was to take place in the chapel at noon. And was she then fickle ? Had she forgotten the first affections of her youth, and all that they had caused her to feel, and, above all, all that he, towards whom they were directed, had felt ?-Far from it. She still looked back with bitter, bitter regret to all the hopes of past years she shed heart-scalding tears over their utter extinction. What then caused her to act thus ?-Simply, the constant, ceaseless entreaties of her father, and all who surrounded her and a want of boldness and firmness to avow aloud that she loved another, and who that other was. These motives may appear too feeble to operate such an effect:-alas! I am certain that many and many who read these pages will draw a long sigh as they repeat to themselves their knowledge of how true they are! The history of this poor girl's heart during the eighteen months that she had undergone the persecution-for though arising from the kindest motives, such in truth it was which had led to the present issue, is, I am confident, what many a lady of our own time, who seems prosperous and happy in the eyes of the world, would recognize as her own. Her lover far, far awayno one near from whom she could seek consolation, advice, or support-her own family, above all, the very last to whom such a confidence could be made-the consciousness, perhaps, that her affections were bestowed in a manner the world would condemnthese feelings within, and without, the constant urging, sometimes almost violent, but for the most part excessive only in fondness, of her father-the persuasions, kindly meant and kindly made, of her sisters-and, above all, the ceaseless remonstrances of her friend, her half-confidence in whom had given such power over her—and she never spoke, nor would hear Emmeline speak, openly on the subject, but was ever giving dark hints, and, at the most painful moments, causing her to tremble for her secret,-subject to a situation such as this, is it to be wondered at if the fortitude of the unhappy girl sank under it at last, and that, with despair and agony in her soul, she consented to become the bride of Lord De Vere's son ? The hour was come: the old chapel was garlanded with flowers, and all the peasant-girls of the country around scattered roses for the bride to walk upon as she approached the altar. Emmeline Meynell was a very different being at this moment from what she was when I first introduced her to my readers. Her countenance was still most expressive-but its expression was that of calm, subdued agony. The aspect of springing wit and irrepressible buoyancy of temperament was extinct-utterly. A sunken cheek, and an eye of which the glassy absence of active expression spoke perhaps more than all else the sense of suffering-such were now the characteristics of that face whose brilliancy and beautiful life and motion had been so irresistibly enchanting. The contrast of a rich and vivid spirit of this description, with the despairing prostration into which it is so apt to fall under misfortune, is one of the most awfully painful pictures of human misery that it is possible to contemplate. The bridal party approached the altar. Sir Richard, habited with due splendor, seemed the gayest of the group; for the sisters of the bride could not be blind to the fact that, from whatever hidden cause, the match was distasteful to her, and their countenances wore an expression of anxiety at least, mingled with sympathy for their sister's suffering, which now was becoming at every instant more apparent; and the bridegroom naturally was little pleased with the reluctance of his bride assuming so visible a shape. Still the ceremony was proceeding, when a loud noise was heard at the entrance of the chapel-and THE PAGE rushed in, his dress disordered, his face flushed, his eyes blazing, and, rushing towards the altar, he attempted to utter some few words. The sound which at that instant issued from his lips was probably the most awful to which human organs ever gave utterance. The frantic energy of the moment overcame his physical imperfection-but his total ignorance of spoken language caused what he did speak scarcely, if at all, to approach the form of words. The terrible yell which burst from him struck every heart with awe and horror. Emmeline, the first to recognise him, forgetful of all save him, sprang towards him-but as he opened his arms to receive her in his embrace, he staggered under her weight, and fell backwards upon the pavement. When they raised them, they found them both covered with gore. The crisis had been too much for Everard a bloodvessel had burst-and he was dead. The fate of Emmeline, alas! scarce-ly needs the telling. Hearts that have received such wounds as did hers, never long survive. All the sweet counsel, the communion high, The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, Pour'd full and free? A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give, To shrine my name in hearts where I would live And Memory answer'd me :-"Wild wish and vain! I have no hues the lovliest to detain The place they held in bosoms all their own, Soon with new shadows fill'd, new flowers o'ergrown, Is theirs no more!" Hast thou such power, O Love?—And Love replied, "It is not mine!--Pour out thy soul's full tide Of hope and trust, Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain, "Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, Wild words on dust!" Song! is the gift with thee?—I ask a lay, Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away From the still breast; Fill'd with a tone-oh! not for deathless fame, But a sweet haunting murmur of my name Where it would rest! And Song made answer: "It is not in me, Though call'd immortal-though my power may be All but divine: Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil? -And Death, the strong one, spoke :-"I can but still Each vain regret: What if forgotten? All thy soul would crave, Then did my soul in lone faint sadness As from all Nature's voices one reply, "Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a To give thee back the spirit of thine own— THE "INTELLECTUAL CAT." do! My pretty little Puss, it is high reasoned more clearly than you time that I should pay a just tribute to your merits. We often talk of people who do not esteem you; therefore, why should I blush to give publicity to your perfection? You are exceedingly well made; your fur boasts of the delicate varieties of the tiger; your eyes are lively and pleasing; your velvet coat and tail are of enviable beauty; and your agility, gracefulness, and docility are, indeed, the admiration of all who behold you! Your moral qualities are not less estimable; and we will attempt to recapitulate them. In the first place, you love me dearly, or at least you load me with caresses; unless, like the rest of the world, you love me for yourself's sake. I know well that you like me less than a slice of mutton, or the leg of a fowl, but that is very simple; I am your master, and a leg of mutton is as good again as one master, twice as good as two masters, &c. You possess great sense, and good sense too, for you have precisely such as is most useful to you; and every other kind of knowledge would make you appear foolish. Nature has given you nails, which men unpolitely call claws; they are admirably constructed, and well jointed in a membrane, which is extended or drawn up like the fingers of a glove; and at pleasure it becomes a terrific claw, or a paw of velvet. You understand the physical laws of good and evil. A cat who strangles another will not be more culpable than a man who kills his fellow man. My dear Cat, the great Hobbes never You forget the past-you dream not of the future; but you turn the present to account. Time flies not with you, but stands still, and all your moments appear but as one. You know that your muscles will give action to your limbs, and you know no other cause of your existence, than existence itself. My dear Cat, you are a profound materialist! You flatter the master who caresses you, you lick the hand that feeds you, you fly from a larger animal than yourself, whilst you unsparingly prey on the smaller ones. My dear Cat, you are a profound politician! You live peaceably with the dog, who is your messmate; in gratitude to me, you regulate your reception, good or bad, of all the animals under my roof; thus, you raise your claw against such as you imagine mine enemies, while you prick up your tail at the sight of my friends. My dear Cat, you are a profound moralist! When you promenade your graceful limbs upon a roof, on the edge of a casement, or in some situation equally perilous, you show your dexterity in opposing the bulk of your body to the danger. Your muscles extend or relax themselves with judgment, and you enjoy security where other animals would be petrified with fear. My dear Cat, you perfectly understand the laws of gravity! If through inadvertence, blundering or haste, you lose your support or hold, then you are admirable; you bend yourself in raising your back, and carry the centre of gravity to wards the umbilical region, by which means you fall on your feet. My dear Cat, you are an excellent natural philosopher! If you travel in darkness, you expand the pupil of your eye, which, in forming a perfect circle, describes a larger surface, and collects the greater part of the luminous rays which are scattered in the atmosphere. When you appear in daylight, your pupil takes an elliptic form, diminishes, and receives only a portion of these rays, an excess of which would injure your retina. My dear Cat, you are a perfect optician! When you wish to descend a precipice, you calculate the distance of the solid points with astonishing accuracy. In the first place, you dangle your legs as if to measure the space, which you divide in your judgment, by the motions of your feet; then you throw yourself exactly upon the wished-for spot, the distance to which you have compared with the effect on your muscles. My dear Cat, you are a skilful geometrician! When you wander in the country, you examine plants with judicious nicecety; you soon select that kind which pleases you, when you roll yourself on it, and testify your joy by a thousand other gambols; you know also the several grasses, and their medicinal effects on your frame. My dear Cat, you are an excellent botanist! Your voice merits no less eulogium; for few animals have one so modulated. The rhyming purr of satisfaction, the fawning accents of appeal, the vigorous bursts of passion, and innumerable diatonic varieties, proceed from your larynx, according to the order of nature. My dear Cat, you are a dramatic musician! In your amusements, you prefer pantomime to dialogue; and you neglect the pen to study the picture. But then what agility! what dancing! what cross-capers! The difficulty never impairs the grace of the feat. Oh, my dear Cat! you are a delightful dancer! Lastly, my dear Puss, show me a man who possesses as many kinds of knowledge as you do, and I will proclaim him a living cyclopædia, or concentration of human wisdom. But, what do I see? I am praising you, and you are fast asleep! This is still greater philosophy. THE LONGEVITY OF TREES. Are not these woods More free from peril, than the envious court? THE study of astronomy, almost at But there is a contemplation also connected with elevating thoughts, that yet keeps the mind more at home in its earthly sojourn: I mean objects subjected to continual visible changes, like man himself; things that he sees grow, flourish, and decay; appearing even as his contemporaries in life and dissolution. Though he may seldom witness all these mutations in any single object of his notice, still he sees them happen to some of the species; and that is sufficient to make him feel its fellowship with his transitory human nature. One of these occasions of bosomspeaking meditations is to be found in walking amongst our country's old woods. We there turn our eyes upon venerable trees, that have been coëval with our ancestors of ages back; and we look up to the thriving branches of others, which our own hands have planted. I need not expatiate on the thoughts which will suggest themselves to every reflective mind, when gazing on either object; they connect it, at that moment, with generations gone down to the grave; with a progressive posterity yet unborn. When those young firs, smooth and green, are become rough, dark, and sternly bent to the blast of two or three centuries, what may be the risen fortunes, or the depressed destinies of the sons or daughters of your line? or, when that slim oakling, you might now snap between your fingers, like an osier twig, has become a father of the forest-where may then be the name, nay, the very existence of your race? All may be swept away; to the world, extinct. Winter sears the unperishing leafspring renews its freshness; years, centuries, roll on, and still the noble tree is found in its place; while men -men who sat merry-making under its branches, are gone, vanished-forgotten, as if they had never been! These musings were suggested lately, in an evening stroll through a woodland part of the long celebrated park of Esher Place. The muse of Pope, and of Thomson, have given it to poetic fame; but the reverse of fortune which befel the great Cardinal Wolsey, who resided here after he had made a present of Hampton Court to his sovereign, has endowed this spot with a peculiar interest, more penetrating than all the charms of the most exquisite descriptive poetry. Shakspeare's divine genius has indeed made the muse and the moral speak the same language. For it is impossible to stand under the shade of Esher's ancient oak, looking down into the green valley upon the sole remaining tower of Wolsey's overtopping greatness, without associating the cherished image of our noble bard, the oracle of nature, the "beloved companion of every Englishman's soul," with the memories of the fallen minister of Henry Tudor. Shakspeare's gifted eye beheld, through the backward avenue of time, that statesman touch the highest point of all his great ness; And, from that full meridian of his glory, Under this tree, now more than three hundred years ago, that same proud Cardinal, then flourishing in all his full-blown honors, may have walked, smiling, by the side of his secretary Cromwell, and pointed, exultingly, to the princely gift he had bestowed upon the loftiest monarch in Europe. And under this tree, hardly ten years afterwards, he may have leaned his failing strength upon the arm of his secretary, and in the agony of a disgraced favorite, exclaimed "Oh! Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal Have left me naked to mine enemies!" The age of the tree referred to was estimated by a friend at the time I went to see it, at six hundred years at least; and even now there is no appearance of decay in any part of it.It is a particularly broad tree, rather short in the trunk, with widely extending ramifications, and of an abundant foliage. The sight of this fine old oak, and the memory of the times it recalled, led to the subject of the longevity of trees in general; their appearances when at maturity and in decay and my friend (who owns a noble estate in Warwickshire, and whose genealogical tree might compete with that of any family in England, for antiquity of descent and worth of stock!) showed himself so much master of the history of the sylvan world, that I had only to listen, to be impressed with increasing admiration of that branch of the beautiful garniture of our globe. And when I looked up to the lofty-headed woods on the heights, and traced their deeply-struck roots in the valleys, I almost ceased to marvel, that the years of their growth, from the acorn in the earth, to the |