I answered, 'Yes, Sir; but not equal to Fleet-street.' Johnson replied, You are right, Sir.' "

I do not know how it is, but with all the freshening of feeling which the simplicity of our ancestors brings on me, I am rather disposed to be melancholy on the occasion. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth, is, we have ceased to be a poetical country. We are, in serious prose, a nation of stock-jobbers, political economists, and shopkeepers. Let us take a spring back a few centuries, when Spenser, Shakspeare, "Rare Ben," Middleton, Beaumont, and a host of lesser lights, spread a charm over the face of nature, softened the harsh shadows of reality, and gave immortality to the joys by which they were surrounded. Let us compare a May morning as they described it, to the one usually spent by us.

Early after midnight, troops of youths and lasses, donned in their holiday attire, repaired, ere the sun gave them light, to the nearest wood. Here the hawthorn was plundered of its choicest blossoms, and the young votaries of love and nature, decorated with flowers and May-buds, bent their steps homeward, making their windows and door-ways bear testimony of their early rising. A Maypole was then erected, adorned with garlands of flowers-the merriest man was lord of the revels, and the prettiest girl queen of the day. Dance, song, and glee, lent wings to the hours, and the hushing twilight discovered our forefathers in all their ignorance and all their happiness.

Oc

casionally, the sports would be varied by trials of skill, in pitching the bar, or the more national and ambitious display of archery. This was not all confined to the male part of the revellers-the ladies had their share of the entertainment. Although they took no part in the contest, they were present as the arbitresses, and awarded the prizes to the victor. Each youthful aspirant felt his sinews braced, and his blood flow in a warmer current, by each kind and encouraging look

thrown on him by his lady-love, as she admired the athletic turn of his limbs, his manly grace, and vigorous energy. Then would the days of merry old Sherwood come across the recollection of the party; and Robin Hood, Maid Marian, and his foresters green, find willing and efficient representatives in a rural masque. The sports of the evening would generally finish under the May-pole ;-the young would dance round it to the enlivening sounds of the pipe and tabor, while the old, as they sat looking on, and passing to each other the cheerful bowl, would, in recounting their youthful pranks, feel the sun of revelry thawing the frost about their hearts, and, remembering they were once young, forget entirely that they had grown old :

"O thou delicious spring! O ye new flowers, O airs, O youngling bowers, fresh thick'ning grass,

And plain beneath Heaven's face; O hills and mountains,

Vallies and streams and fountains; banks of green

Myrtles and palm serene, ivies and bays:
And ye who warm'd our lays, spirits o' the

woods,

Echoes and solitudes and lakes of light;
Satyrs and Sylvans all, Dryads, and ye
O quivered virgins bright, Pans rustical,
That up the mountains be, and ye beneath,
In mead or flowery heath-ye are alone."

Alone! well may we say "those days are gone." The civil wars of the revolution, while it stained our soil with their crimson tide, dried up the spirit of romance and poetry in our ancestors' veins. As we have become enlightened, we have ceased to be poetical; we have lost poetry, and we have gained steam-engines. The peasants of the most romantic and secluded of our counties would rather spend their holiday at a dog or a manfight, or in the smoky kitchen of a public-house, than join in the gayest sports of the loveliest of May mornings. And it is not they alone from whose hearts the bloom is gone. Our modern ladies and gentlemen would faint at the vulgar smell of a hawthorn bush in bloom, and would rather be suffocated in a select party of three hundred fashionables in a crowd

ed drawing-room, than join a masque in which the Sydneys and Raleighs, and the fine spirits of the olden time loved to mingle. We no longer regard our fields and meadows with the love of nature, but look upon them with an eye to the rent-roll ;-not with the thought of their flowers and glades, but how much they will bring an acre. A sigh and a farewell for the days that are gone, and

"Back to busy life again." May! thou art still as fragrant and blooming as when nature first formed thee, the young year's favorite! Thy fields are as green, thy flowers as fresh-thy skies are as blue, and thy streams are as clear-but, oh! thou art become the shadow of a name! It is our hearts, and not thou, which are altered.

But if we are so grown the slaves of circumstances as not to be qualified to enjoy the luxuries of a May morning in reality, let us do so in imagination. If our readers want assistance, let them get to heart the following verses, in which is endeavored to be infused a little of the freshness and simplicity of the olden

time :

Song for May Morning.
It is May, it is May!
And all earth is gay,
For at last old winter is quite away:
He linger'd awhile on his cloak of snow,
To see the delicate primrose blow;
He saw it, and made no longer stay-
And now it is May, it is May!

It is May, it is May!
And we bless the day,

When we first delightedly so can say ;
April had beams amidst her showers,
Yet bare were her gardens, and cold her bow-
ers;

And her frown would blight, and her smile betray,

But now it is May, it is May!
It is May, it is May!
And the slenderest spray

Holds up a few leaves to the ripening ray,
And the birds sing fearlessly out on high,
For there is not a cloud in the calm blue sky;
And the villagers join the roundelay-
For, oh! it is May, it is May !
It is May, it is May!

And the flowers obey

they;

The beams which alone are more bright than
Yet they spring at the touch of the sun,
And opening their sweet eyes one by one,
And of perfume-'tis May, it is May
In a language of beauty seem all to say,
And delights that lay
It is May, it is May!

Chill'd and enchain'd beneath winter sway,
Break forth again o'er the kindling soul,
And soften, and soothe it, and bless

whole.

Oh! thoughts more tender than words convey, Sigh out-It is May, it is May!

WITHIN a quarter of a mile of one of the most secluded sea-side hamlets on our western coast, stands its parishchurch, a picturesque old building on the most romantic site-the brow of a richly wooded cliff-the burial-ground forming a sort of table-land of rich sheltered verdure, surrounded by noble elms, through the boles of which one may look down on the rolling ocean, so majestically contrasting with its ever restless billows, the unbroken silence and undisturbed tranquillity, which reign alone within that village of the dead. I visited that church and churchyard about sunset on a rich autumnal evening, when the very soul of repose and harmony, pervading

earth, air, and sky, seemed to breathe over the holy ground a more holy consecration. There was not a cloud in heaven-not even one purple cloud in the whole flaming occident, when the great glorious orb was slowly sinking into the waveless sea, whose mighty voice was hushed into a lulling and delicious murmur, as the long liquid ridges advanced and receded with caressing gentleness on the broad silver sands. As I entered the lofty burying-ground, its western screen of noble elms stood magnificently dark, in undefined massiness, between me and the glowing sunset; but the golden glory stole in long lines of light through the arches of that living co

lonnade, burnishing the edges of many a tomb-stone, its quaint tracery of cross-bones, skull and hour-glass, and brightening many a nameless turfen heap, as if typical of the robes of light reserved in heaven, even for the lowly righteous, who have passed away from earth unhonored and unknown.

The church itself stood in deep shadow, except that here and there a glittering beam darting through some chink in the dark foliage, kindled the diamond panes of a long narrow window, or gilded the edge of an abutment, or the inner groining of the fine old porch; and on one particular spot, (a thickly ivied gable,) one golden ray streamed like an index, immediately attracting my attention to the object on which it centred, a small

oval monumental tablet, wholly unornamented, but well proportioned, of the purest white marble, and to my taste strikingly elegant, from that extreme simplicity, and the singularly beautiful effect of contrast, afforded by its rich frame-work of dark green ivy. Of the latter, not a vagrant tendril had been suffered to encroach over the edge of the small tablet, which had been affixed to the wall through a space just cleared to receive it in the verdant arras; and I found, on a nearer scrutiny, that little more than a twelvemonth had elapsed since the insertion of that monumental record. The inscription was still sharp and clear, as if fresh from the chisel, and its purport was framed thus remarkably :

I cannot tell how long I had been gazing on that strangely touching record, when the sound of an approaching footstep caused me to look round, and I saw advancing towards me an old grey-headed man, bearing in one hand a bunch of ponderous keys, his insignia of office, for he was no other than the parish-clerk, who, from his cottage window which opened into the church-yard, having observed the entrance of a stranger within its sacred precincts, and the apparent interest and curiosity with which I had been surveying the exterior of the church, came courteously forward, (doubtless not without some latent view to "a consideration,") proffering admittance to the interior of the venerable edifice, and his services as Cicerone; and a far more agreeable one he proved, than many a pompous guardian of more magnificent temples; and far more pleasingly and profitably I spent that evening hour, within the comparatively humble walls of the village church, listening to the simple

annals of that aged chronicler, than I have passed various portions of time among the proud tombs of the mighty dead, rich in all the splendor of architectural ornament, and imperishable memories, over which all the yearnings of the heart to meditate in solemn silence are effectually marred, by the intrusive chatter of the magpie hireling who follows from tomb to tomb-from chapel to chapel, with voluble impertinence. My rustic Cicerone was very differently qualified; and, as he told me, in brief and simple phrase, the history of the few monuments-of some from personal recollection of the individuals to whose memories they were inscribed, each story acquired additional interest from the venerable aspect of the aged historian, on whose bald uncovered head, thinly encircled by a few white silky locks, the sun-beams darting through some panes of amber tinted glass in the great west window, shed a halo of golden glory. The deep shadows of evening had almost blended into pro

found obscurity, ere I left the church, and bade farewell to my venerable guide; but from him I did not separate, ere I had in some degree satisfied my curiosity respecting that small tablet on the ivy wall, on which I was gazing so intently when he courteously accosted me. The old man shook his head in reply to my first query and accompanying remark on the singularity of the inscription.

“Ah, sir!” said he, "that was a sad business—I am afraid some folks have much to answer for. But God only knows all hearts." And then he told me just so much of the story of that poor lady, whose fate was so affectingly recorded, as served to enhance my pleasure at hearing that I might obtain the full gratification of my curiosity, by introducing myself to the faithful old servant, who had caused the erection of that singular memorial, who still lingered in the vicinity of a spot to her so sacred, and was never so happy as when encouraged by some attentive and sympathising hearer, to talk of "days lang syne ;"'—of the departed glory of her master's house; and above all, of that beloved being, whose motherless infancy she had fostered with all the doating fondness of an Irish nurse, and whose fortunes she had followed through good and through evil, even unto the death, with that devoted attachment, so characteristic of her class and country.

That very evening, the sweet hour of gloaming, witnessed the beginning of my acquaintance with Nora Carthy, and two hours later, when the uprisen moon showered down its full radiance on the jasmine-covered walls of her low white cottage, I was sitting with my new friend on the bench beside her own door, still listening with unflagging interest to her "thick-coming" recollections, and even to the fondly unconscious repetitions poured out from the fulness of long pent-up feelings.

Many were the after visits I paid to Nora's cottage, and more than once I stood beside the faithful creature on

the churchyard sod, under that small marble tablet in the ivy wall; and I shall not easily forget the speechless intensity with which she gazed upon its affecting record, nor the after burst of bitter feeling, when pointing to the green grave beneath, she passionately exclaimed :-" And there she lies low the flower of the world !-laid there by a broken heart!"

I would not venture to relate the somewhat uneventful, but not uninteresting story of Millicent Aboyne, exactly as I heard it from the faithful Nora, whose characteristic enthusiasm and strong prejudices, combined with her devoted affection for the deceased lady, made it almost impossible that she should afford a fair statement of the painful circumstances, which, in her firm opinion, had consigned the unfortunate Miss Aboyne to an untimely grave. But I had opportunities of comparing poor Nora's relation with information derived from less questionable sources, and so gathered together, with impartial selection, the details which I shall now attempt to arrange, in memory of my visit to Sea Vale Churchyard.

The father of Millicent Aboyne was a descendant of one of the most ancient Milesian families, whose genealogy, had I listened to Nora, I might have given in uninterrupted succession from Brian Borou. But if the royal blood had flowed uncontaminated from generation to generation into the veins of late posterity, a very inconsiderable portion of the royal treasure had been transmitted along with it, and Colonel Aboyne, the last lineal descendant, had still to carve out his fortune with his sword, when the French Revolution dissolved the Irish brigade in the service of France, as an officer of which corps, and a most accomplished gentleman, he had already been flatteringly distinguished at the Court of the Tuileries. To Ireland, where the young soldier still possessed a few acres of bog, and the shell of an old tower-the wreck of bygone prosperity

he betook himself on the first overthrow of his Gallic fortunes, with the

intention of resuming his military career, as soon as circumstances should permit, in the English service. But a chain of causes, which I shall not take upon me to detail, combined to procrastinate the execution of this purpose, and, at length, so fatally influenced the enthusiastic and highspirited character of the young soldier, that, without having calculated the consequences of his unguarded zeal in what he considered the cause of the oppressed-far less having contemplated actual rebellion-he found himself deeply involved in the schemes of desperate men, and, finally, sharing with them the penalties of imprisonment, and probably approaching condemnation. The horrors of his fate were bitterly aggravated by anxiety for a beloved wife, to whom he had been lately united-whose very existence seemed bound up with his own-for he had married her a destitute and friendless English orphan-a stranger in a strange land-affectingly cast upon his compassionate protection, in her hour of extreme necessity. For her sake, life was precious to him on any terms not incompatible with a soldier's honor; and he ventured on a plan of escape so hazardous, that none but desperate circumstances could have made it other than an act of madness.—It fatally miscarriedfor in the act of lowering himself from a wall of immense height, the frail cord to which he trusted failed him, and he was precipitated to the ground ―re-taken—and re-conveyed to his dungeon with a fractured arm and thigh, and such other material injuies, as made it more than doubtful whether his life would be prolonged to pay the probably impending forfeiture. He was, however, spared by divine mercy, and by judicial lenity. Colonel Aboyne was proved to have been almost unwittingly involved in the guilt of great offenders, from whom Justice having exacted the dread penalty, was content to relax from her rigorous demands, in favor of the comparatively innocent; and the almost hopeless prisoner was re

stored to liberty, and to his young, devoted wife, too blest to receive him back, as it were from the confines of the grave, though he returned to her, and to their ruinous home-the wreck-the shadow of his former self, with a frame and constitution irreparably injured by the fatal consequences of his late enterprise. The heavy charges of his trial had compelled him to mortgage his small patrimony, on which (thus burdened) it became impossible for him to maintain even his moderate establishment. Ireland was become distasteful to him, and the languishing health of Mrs. Aboyne requiring a milder climate than that of their northern residence, he lent a not unwilling ear to her timidly expressed longing, once more to breathe the balmy air of her native Devonshire; and disposing (not without a pang) of Castle Aboyne, and every rood of his diminished heritage, with the small sum thus realized he departed for England; and with his gentle wife, and two faithful servants

Nora Cartha and her husband-was shortly established in a small dwelling at Sidmouth.

More than one season of pensive tranquillity, rather than of positive happiness, was permitted them, in that beautiful retreat-but the fatal blow had been long struck to the heart of Mrs. Aboyne, and her lifethough sinking by almost imperceptible degrees, was not to be prolonged beyond the sixth summer of their residence in England. During that interval she had given birth to two children.

One only a little girl, in her fifth year, survived her mother, to be the comfort of her afflicted father, and, as she grew up, the support and blessing of his infirm and solitary state. The faithful Nora had lost her only child about the time of the young Millicent's birth, and she had taken the latter to her bosom, with all the tenderness of a mother, Mrs. Aboyne being unable to nurse her own infant.

Nora was widowed also, before her mistress's death, so that her whole