flowing sweetness with pain: he was so sensitive and pure-minded a being that he often lived in the deepest religious fear and hum. blest anxiety, that he was committing deadly sin in loving the adored wife of his bosom too well: he feared placing the creature before the Creator, and that she would be taken from him as a just punishment for his passionate idolatry.

She, indeed, looked up to God through him alone; and worthy he was of such homage, even from such a mind and heart as hers, if ever man existed whose perfections could excuse it. A perfectly christian gentleman, of refined habits and the most courtly bearing, to which he added the rare gifts of deep and profound erudition, to lighter and more fascinating accomplishments: and then the purity, the unselfish generosity, the yearning tenderness and passion of his nature-a manly, noble, nature, too; the sublime devotion to the blessed Redeemer's written word. No wonder that the pastor of Springside was adored by the poor, respected by the profane and idle, and the courted counsellor and companion of all the great and powerful in the neighbourhood, as well as of the humble few: no wonder that Melicent found her home an earthly paradise. Indeed they rarely, very rarely, even left it, though their own hospitality was judicious and abundant.

Of Melicent how shall I speak? I loved her so fondly, and love is ever partial. Mankind had called her lovely, pre-eminently so, in her days of youth, but sorrow had dimmed and worn away her lustrous beauty; it had indeed been partly restored by the sure balm of happiness and peace, the calm succeeding the long, long howling tempest: still to me it was the spiritual and deeply intellectual gaze of her black, night-black, eyes, with their melancholy tenderness, contrasted by the clear pallor of her cheek, that sank into the soul, and formed her principal charm. There was unspeakable grace in her every movement elegance, perhaps, too refined and sensitive, in her every thought and action. Yet she combined a rare strength of mind and depth of thought with child-like belief and a most unworldly creed, composed of superstition, romance, and fervent love, all regulated and kept in order and abeyance by the master hand she revered and adored. They were each the first love of the other. Ah! surely the heart can never own second love; fancy may hold its sway, but love-sacred, yearning, passionate, love— can come but once in man or woman's life-man and woman nobly formed after their Maker's image.

There were none at Springside to ridicule the peculiarities or peculiar pursuits of the pastor and his wife: they were too much respected and admired, and all criticism was disarmed; indeed, I think it doubtful if it would have been at all heeded by them.

After the regular and scrupulous household duties were overlooked by Melicent, for every arrangement was refined andgn of tiful, she had her poor to visit ; the children to instruct; $oluntary

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heartfelt, real sympathy to offer for Jesus' sake; advice and assistance ever humbly tendered, to bestow. Her own past afflictions taught her this, and truly she mourned with those who mourned, aud rejoiced with the happy.

A light step and a right merry laugh had she,—a laugh that said in its tones it had been little exercised during her early days; but that was all unknown and a mystery. In the midst of their various duties and occupations, religious and secular, they yet found time for intellectual attainments, and all the sweet adornments of life, and they both added somewhat to their not very large income by their united literary efforts. Indeed, some of the ladies of the vicinity used smilingly to say, that when their beloved pastor's sermon was more flowery than usual, they knew whose hand had assisted, and that the dark eyes had been playing more havoc than usual with his heart, on the nights of moonlight, amid the terraces and fountains of the paradise garden.

Ah! rarely, rarely, on this earth doth God permit such a realization of love, faith, and charity!

That garden was to Melicent a recreation of perfect enjoyment; she could fancy nothing beyond her own blissful lot, and to him— her husband and lover-she helplessly left all scruples, fears, and anxieties, as to loving too well; for her love was abandonment, and she looked forward to heaven joyfully and fearlessly, in the certainty they would pass eternity together. She was as a pure sinless child in this belief, and death had no terrors for her, save that it might separate her for a while from him.

Perhaps that which follows is almost too sacred for repetition; it never was intended for mortal ears, other than their own, and it is only because they have long been angels of heaven that I dare to intrude thus on their secrets,-hallowed to me, even at this great distance of time.

Let me tell you, there stood on a pretty shaded bank of mossy turf, a white moss-rose tree. A most rare and peerless tree it certainly was, for the unutterably pure and perfectly formed white moss rose is a rare and peerless gem, priceless as diamonds and pearls. Amongst many touching and quaint superstitions which were inherent in Melicent's inmost nature, hidden, but not obliterated, there was a wild but sacred one attached to this fair blossom. This it was that being a flower peculiar to the soil of Paradise, blooming beside the everlasting waters of crystal, beneath the spreading branches of the trees of life, it could only be transplanted and flourish here as a token of favour and grace, rarely seen od coon passing away, degenerating and blushing for the sins and that I t onarth. The winged messengers of Paradise in passing over

this troubled world of ours are sometimes arrested in their flight, and stay to gaze on their favourite flowers in their queenlike majesty, purity, and pride: and then the veiled blossoms-all pure and holy as they are-bend and droop suddenly, as if in shame and awe each stem trembles, and becomes utterly powerless to support bud or full blown rose, until the angelic contemplation is withdrawn; but when the spirit passeth by, then it regains, as suddenly, its proud, calm, stately bearing. Ah! how often Melicent watched that tree of beauty! and it was on a summer night, -one of those nights when heaven seems drawn nearer to earth, and the moon was streaming down its mystic radiance, and there reposed the lovely, quiet garden, bathed in silver, sparkling, radiant, and shadowy! It was a holy and a touching scene which these eyes beheld on that night. Melicent was reclining on her favourite seat by the fountain side, contemplating with more than her usual earnest tenderness, the pride of the garden. Gorgeous and unearthly it surely looked, beneath the starry skies. His arms were around her, and her head rested on the supporting shoulder. I know not what they had previously been speaking of, but it had been one of those hours of mysterious interchange and communion of the inmost thoughts of the soul. I,was passing, sheltered by the thick-set hedge which bounded the fairy lawn, when these words, spoken by Melicent in accents of subdued tenderness, arrested my footsteps, and I became rivetted to the spot-unwilling to listen, but fascinated and unable to move:

"My life," she murmured, "should it be decreed by our heavenly Father that I am to pass away the first from the face of the earth, I will, if so permitted, come again on a night like this, hover about this beloved spot, and unseen glide by your dear side, and list to the sighs I know you will breath for your departed Melicent. And when you see this fair rose-tree shivering and awe-stricken, then remember, my beloved, that her happy spirit is very near unto you, that in heaven her love is changeless, and that she impatiently waits your spirit's flight to the glorious regions of everlasting day."

He did remember this. It was but a short twelvemonth from that time, on the following summer, that he stood alone on just such another night, on the same spot. The paradise tree was in full and splendid bearing: but she, the fondly adored, the idolized, wife, was no longer there to watch its beauty. No, she had slept for some months in the old churchyard, on the sunny hill-side.

The wan cheek and sunken eye of the bereaved husband, alone had told the anguish of his stricken soul: for no outward sign of sorrow had he permitted to be visible, save these mute, involuntary September, 1847.—VOL. L.-NO. CXCVII.

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ones; but it was evident to all that he was wasting away: yea, that the proud majesty of mind was inadequate, the strength of the mighty man was but as the reed before the devastating blast, and that of a broken heart he was dying. Aye, world, laugh as ye may, and deride, and scorn; there is such a disease as a broken heart; but being unseen, and not understood by physicians of the flesh, is therefore disbelieved and unexplained. Yes-he was dying -and there he leant alone, earnestly and fearfully looking on her favourite tree. Fearfully he gazed, with starting eyes and panting heart, for it was shivering, bending, and collapsing: each bud, each rose, in listless helplessness hanging down, till all, all, swept on the mossy bank. With outstretched arms he advanced a few paces, as if to clasp the transparent air in his yearning embrace; suddenly he darted forward, as if to stay some retreating form, and fell heavily, heavily, on the ground. How still he lay-how very still-in the moonlight! and the bowed tree gradually arose, and recovered its stateliness. But death was by the living tree.

He was laid by the side of Melicent, and the last roses that ever shed their mysterious fragrance around that well remembered spot, I flung into the open grave, on the coffins of those whom I had warmly loved and revered in life.

The white moss rose tree withered away, and never bore leaves or blossoms more.

C. A. M. W.

CHATELAR'S PRISON SONG, TO MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

Air.-" Tell Her I Love Her."

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

Have I not loved thee? by these burning tears,-
By the scathed blossoms of my blighted years,—
By all I was, and am not,-'twas my sin,
To love where love no recompense could win.

Have I not loved thee? ask the breathing stars,-
The bright moon beaming through my prison bars;
For they have witness'd what none else might see,
The rapt devotion of my soul to thee.

Yes, I have loved thee;-and in after years,
Chatelar may win the tribute of thy tears;
When thou hast found, how faithless hearts can be,
Oh! then thou'lt own none ever loved like me.

Yes, I HAVE loved thee, and do love thee yet,
Though thy last act might teach me to forget:
But love survives what friendship could not brave,
And wreathes its myrtles round the martyr's grave!*

The harsh conduct of Mary to Chatelar, the bard of her favourite France, is all the more remarkable, considering her subsequent conduct to David Rizzio. The handsome and accomplished Chatelar was one of the many unfortunate beings who were sacrificed at the shrine of Mary's beauty. From historical records, it appears, that this youthful martyr to his affections, (who had accompanied the lovely Queen of Scots from France, as her private secretary, and futinist,) was condemned to death, for his too devoted attachment to his queen; a sort of high treason fallen into desuetude. Chatelar met his fate with the greatest fortitude, and ascended the scaffold, divested of every sentiment of fear. On the scaffold he made a short address to the spectators, and turning towards the window of the chamber usually occupied by the queen, and which commanded a view of the spot, he still professed his unalterable passion, and gloried at meeting death in such a cause. He then repeated some lines from the works of Ronsard, which were applicable to his own situation, and with a dauntless demeanour, gave his head to the block, which was severed by the executioner at one blow. Perhaps Mary, despite her exquisite beauty, never had a heart so sincerely her own, as that of "the martyred Chatelar."