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after. By this time Mary's fears, as well as those of her aunt, had subsided. In fact, Mary's spirits and her courage were very much improved with her health, which was now quite reestablished; and here the baron, having tendered any farther services in his power, left them to pursue his journey by Rome to Naples, which was his ultimate destination.

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CHAPTER VII.

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone,
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long night of revelry and ease.
The naked savage, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine;
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Nor less the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first best country ever is at home.

The Traveller,

Preferment.

Oh, England! what is it that makes us love thee so? I have seen lands rich in sunshine, clad with the olive and the grape, spontaneously abundant, and smiling in unlaboured luxuriance. But, oh, how much sweeter has it been to behold thy white cliffs rising in beauty above

their native waves, in calm and simple majesty! Small spot of island ground, thy skies are humid and thy climate rough -thy soil scarce tamed by all the labourer's toilthy people unfashioned in the arts to please, with innate worthiness thine only dowėr; yet still my country, and still loved beyond a world. To the Arab of the desert, dear are the sands on which his eyes first opened; and the snowy fields and frozen seas are more congenial to the Icelander than Italy's flowery kingdoms. Nature tempered our hearts to our countries, and implanted in our breasts an irrevocable attachment for those lands in which the first bright impressions of youth, the first warm affections of the heart, the first gay dreams of existence, opened upon our early sight, before our skies were clouded with a doubt, or our blasted hopes bedewed with a tear; and shall we call it nationality, what was one time patriotism? Give it what name you will, England, my country, I am thine, heart, and soul, and

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mind; and even in writing of thee, and about thee, I find a greater pleasure than in describing the gayest scenes of other lands.

It is sometimes less difficult to get up high than to get down easily, and many people find an inclination, when they are on a height, to jump down at once, rather than run the risk of tumbling in the descent. This is as much the case in wri. ting as it is in climbing; for when one has worked themselves up to a high pitch of large words and fine sentiments, it is more difficult to crawl gradually down to the level of common language and ordinary ideas, than to jump at once, like Mr. Southey, from the greatest elevation of the sublime to the utmost profound of the pathos; and being in this scrape at present, I must even come down the best way I

can.

My, scene then is England -a drawingroom in the house of sir Charles Melville: lady Jane Evelyn, sir Charles Melville,

Miss Melville, tables and chairs. Ențer a servant, announcing doctor Malden.

Doctor Malden!” said sir Charles. “ Our good friend has got some new honour, I suppose.-Malden,” added he, advancing to the young clergyman as he came in, " are we to call you doctor, or was it a mistake of the servant?”

“ I am afraid,” replied the other, “ that I have in reality taken that grave degree; but, along with it, I have received a conșiderable advancement in my profession.”

“ I am glad to hear it-heartily glad to hear it !” exclaimed sir Charles. “ But what is it? let us partake your good news.”

“ It is my advancement to the deanery of said Malden ; 6 and I will own that there are some reasons why it is at present highly gratifying to me.”

“I congratulate you most sincerely, doctor Malden,” said lady Jane Evelyn, who was paying a morning visit to Miss Melville," and hope you will hold it hapF 5

pily,

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