Whoever has visited South Devon must often have found occasion to admire the picturesque beauty of its cottages. Some one or other of these must surely have given rise to that sentimental adage, “Love in a cottage," for it is impossible to see them, with their tidy thatched roof, jessamine covered walls, trim flower garden with its small sunny grass-plot, bee-hive, and wooden porch redolent of wild roses and honey-suckles, and within whose shelter an English Juliet may sit unobserved, and murmur melodious nothings in the ear of her Romeo, while a blackbird in a wicker cage sings with kindred sweetness above her head; it is impossible, I say, to see peaceful picturesque snuggeries like these, without instantly associating them in idea with that blissful and unsophisticated period, the honeymoon. In the hamlet of South Zeal these cottages are cele brated for their unassuming beauty, and it was from one of the neatest and most attractive in the whole district-the dwelling evidently of one above the peasant class that, early on a summer morning, a young girl issued with stealthy and trembling steps, as if she feared that "the very stones" would prate of her "whereabout."

On reaching the garden gate, she just halted an instant and looked timidly about her, and then made an abrupt dart down one of those famous Devonshire lanes which may vie in length with the longest story ever told by a club-proser, till she reached the moor, where she made a second halt, as though in momentary expectation of some one's arrival. But that "some one" came not. Far as the eye could reach, not a living thing was discernible-nothing but a bleak interminable expanse of desert, here swelling up into gradual hills, round whose heads the mists of night still clung; and there dotted with gloomy granite tors, or a few half-starved superannuated elms and oaks, which looked-to use the forcible expression of one of our ablest divines-as though they were set up there by Nature for "signals of dis

tress."

There is something very impressive in the idea of standing, the only living being, on a vast desert like Dartmoor. To hear no sound or stir that can remind you of a cheerful animated creation, no bird singing, no cattle lowing, no sheep-bell tinkling; to see nothing but dead masses of granite, or the giant wrecks of oaks that speak of life gone by, and carry the mind back into the solitudes of the past;-this far more affects the imagination than standing alone in some huge sleeping city, for there, though it may be dormant, you have still humanity at your elbow; but on Dartmoor hours may elapse before you get sight of the human countenance; 'tis like being severed for a time from the social world, to which you, and I, and all of us, gentle reader, are but too apt to fancy we should have no objection, till we found ourselves really in solitude, when we feel, with Robinson Crusoe, that we are gregarious in our nature, and that it is not good for us to be alone.

These, however, are reflections that occur to the mind only when it is at leisure; a pre-occupied fancy has no taste for such abstract speculations, and our young village lass was evidently absorbed by thoughts of far more immediate interest, for she kept walking to and fro a prescribed distance, now looking before and now behind her, with a countenance expressive equally of fear and disappointment, till at length, as she was preparing with reluctance to quit the spot, a low subdued voice called her by name, and, turning round, she saw with a blush a young man hurrying towards her. In an instant he had reached her side, and they advanced together in silence on the moor, where for a brief season I will leave them, while I explain what were the imperative circumstances which thus compelled two young folks to leave their snug warm bed, and go billing and cooing on a desert, with a wind whistling about them, sharp and searching enough to set the goose skin roughening beneath the bristles of a hedge-hog.

John Trevanion-such was our hero's name was the youngest of two sons of a Devonshire baronet of old descent, whose ancestral seat bordered on the village of South Zeal. His mother was also of "gentle blood;" but, unlike her husband, who was a rough, jolly, ignorant country gentlemen of the Squire Booby class, posses. sed a mind of a superior order, and a disposition remarkable for its evenness and good nature. To educate John seemed to be the sole business of this lady's life; he was her favourite son, and exhibited from early youth a quick ness of apprehension that well repaid his mother's solicitude, whose highest ambition it was to see him holding as proud a station in the world as many of his ancestors had held before him. But her wishes were doomed to disappointment, for she died ere he had completed his eighteenth year; but not before she had formed his tastes, which exhibited a bias towards the romantic and imaginative. No one, for instance, placed more implicit faith in all the legends and traditions of perhaps the most superstitious district in England-especially those bugbears of the age and country, sorcery and witchcraft. The well-known Dartmoor witch, who about this time (the middle of the seventeenth century) terrified the neighbourhood with her conjurations, was invested by John with higher supernatural attributes than even the ignorant peasantry gave her credit for; but this was less the result of weak credulity than of that wild poetic temperament which in the early days of Greece peopled the banks of the dark Acheron with appropriate ghosts and fiends. But though fond of lone sitting by the shores of old romance," young Trevanion, unlike the generality of such dreamy enthusiasts, was of an energetic, enterprising character, and never cast a glance at the portraits of his gallant ancestors without regretting that he had attained his twentieth year and had yet signalized himself by no one act worthy to be held in remembrance.

It was at this period of his life, when panting to enter the world where he felt assured he should achieve renown, that a circumstance occurred which

changed the whole current of his ideas. He fell in love, a malady to which youth is peculiarly liable. The object of his sudden idolatry was the only daughter of a Somersetshire gentleman, of retired habits and straitened means, who had lately come to take up his abode in one of those picturesque cottages in which, as I have before ob. served, this quarter of South Devon abounds. It was while wandering alone one evening near the ruins of an abbey which bordered on the moor, that John first encountered this lovely apparition. She was leaning on her father's arm at the time, and flushed with exercise, and radiant with health and youth, presented as attractive an image as lover's eye could desire to gaze

on.

From this moment John felt him.. self a changed man. Hitherto, he had been all for ambition; thenceforth, he was all for sentiment. And this alteration was not gradual, but instantaneous. His passion was not the result of reflection, but of impulse. It was first-love in all its frenzy. Though he had seen her but once, yet his memory retained a vivid impression of the charms of the fair unknown-of her dark earnest eyes, her luxuriant tresses, the classic outline of her countenance, her swan-like neck, her graceful buoyant tread, and the perfect symmetry of her form, while his fancy, equally vivid, invested her mind with corresponding

attractions.

For a whole week afterwards, Trevanion could think of nothing but who the unknown was, and when he should see her again. She was his reverie by day, his dream by night, and so worked upon his imagination that he did not rest until he had not only acquainted himself with her name and place of abode, but even established himself as a visitor at her father's cottage.

The rest follows as a matter of course. The young couple became deeply enamoured of each other. From talking together they got to walking together, reading together, and, it might be, sighing together-for firstlove is apt to be exceedingly hysterical, while Mr Mordaunt, Mary's father, who was a widower, neither encouraged nor checked their intimacy, but let it take its course, unconscious ap

parently-so incurious and unsuspicious was his nature that it passed the bounds of ordinary acquaintance. And so months rolled on, happy months which passed with the speed of thought. Seldom a day now elapsed but John was a visiter at the cottage; he had always some new book to lend or to borrow, or some new walk to propose to Mary and her father. Evening after evening found them loitering along the edge of the moor, or, in the gloom of twilight, when none were likely to discover them, through the leafy grove that skirted Trevanion Park, where they would wander for hours, weaving brilliant fancies to the diligent exclusion of all probability, till the hooting of the night-owl warned them that it was time to separate.

It has often been asserted that first love is blind. I am inclined to doubt this aphorism, and to believe that it is particularly quick-sighted. In the present instance, at least, it was so to a surprising extent, for not one mental grace did John's imagination endow Mary with, but he found, on becoming acquainted with her, she possessed. She was indeed not less attractive in intellect than in person, having been educated by Mr Mordaunt, who doated on her, with a care by no means common in the seventeenth century. But it was not merely a refined, well-instructed mind that John recognised in Mary; he was, if possible, still more struck with her firmness and strength of character, and the depth of her devotion to her father. In fact, so completely did this young girl enthral his heart, that he became almost wholly estranged from his family, seldom joining the convivial parties at the hall, and when he did so for appearances' sake, or to avoid the coarse insinuations of his brother Edward that he felt himself too good for them, hurrying away from the table at the earliest possible opportunity.

The time, however, was at hand when John and Mary were destined to realize the adage that "the course of true love never did run smooth." During the early period of their acquaintance, Trevanion, well knowing his father's prejudices on the score of rank, and also how prone a country village is to scandal, was cautious of parading his intimacy with the Mordaunts, and usually contrived to meet them, as if by accident, on the moor,

which was one of their favourite walks. By degrees, however, as he became more and more interested in Mary, he laid aside this caution, and even seemed to take a pride in displaying his attachment to her, resenting the jests of his brother-who, having frequently seen the parties together, half-suspected the state of their affectionswith a bitterness that soon produced a coolness between the young men, the more marked on Edward's part, because he too had often cast an admiring glance at Mary, though not with hymeneal eyes. He regarded her merely as an humble village beauty; and being something of a libertine in his habits, without any of his brother's refinement of mind or feeling, thought it far from unlikely that he might be as successful with her as he had been in many of his other rustic amoursat least if John was removed from the scene of action, which accordingly he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of bringing about.

It was not, however, by his brother's means that John's hopes were blasted in the bud, and the full measure of his delinquency made known to the Baronet, for before he could mature his plans, a more subtle spirit had been at work, in the person of a lean, sour old maid, a distant connexion of the family, who happening one evening to overhear a conversation between the lovers of a decidedly matrimonial turn, hastened to acquaint the old man with the full particulars of her discoveryhow his son had formed a clandestine attachment to a girl far beneath him in rank; how she returned it; and how, unless he promptly interfered, a nuptial catastrophe would take place, and the blood of the Trevanions be for ever dishonoured.

Though rough and blustering in manner, the result of his long established authority over the district, the Baronet was any thing but irascible; but this was precisely one of those communications calculated to call up all the devil within him. If there was one thing beyond another of which he was proud-I except, of course, his hounds and horses-it was the antiquity of his family. An emblazoned genealogy hung up in his hall, and as he cast a hurried glance at this, on his way to the library, where his son, when at home, was usually to be found, his face crimsoned with passion, he reproached John in the bitterest terms for

what he called his ingratitude in presuming to talk of marriage, without first asking his permission; contrasted his conduct with that of his brother, who would never have dreamed of such heresy; reminded him of his an. cestors, not one of whom but had mated with their equals in rank; and concluded by insisting on his giving up all thoughts of the "insolent baggage," as he styled Mary.

"Never," said John, boldly, when the Baronet had concluded the longest speech he had ever been known to make; "if I owe respect to you, sir, I owe it also to myself, and I presume to think that in this instance

"Think! What right have you to think, when you have got me to think for you? But this comes of the booklearning that your poor mother was always cramming your head with. But I'll burn every book in the house; such rubbish is only fit for wadding. There's your brother has never read a line in his life, I'll warrant; no more have I, for that matter; and your great ancestor, Sir Hugh, who died in his stirrups at Bosworth Field, could not write his own name. And yet you, forsooth, must presume to be wiser than all of us! But I'll tell you what it is, young sir-either give up this wench, or give up me."

"At least allow me some time for reflection, sir."

"Time!" shouted the indignant Baronet; "not a day-not an hour you've had time enough, and to spare, already. Yes, yes, a pretty time you've had of it, I'll be bound, gadding about with that artful hussey, and making yourself the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, when you should have been fulfilling your duties as a son and a brother."

"I am not aware, sir, that I have been remiss in either capacity."

"Oh, I dare say not. You never thought yourself too good company for my friends; you never looked down on your brother Edward, because he had not as much book-learning as yourself, though he shall ride, or hunt or shoot with any man in Devonshire."

"Father, father," replied John, with deep feeling, "you are unjust, ungenerous; is it my fault that my habits are not those of my neighbours, and that I cannot, strive as I may,

enter into their convivial enjoyments? As respects Edward, it is he that looks down on me; not I on him."

"And well he may, seeing the disgrace you were about to entail on your family. However, to cut this matter short-either consent to give up all thoughts of this girl, or prepare to leave the hall within the week. I am lord and master here, and no child of mine shall dare to fly in the face of my authority."

But John respectfully, though firmly, persisted in his refusal to resign Mary, upon which the Baronet, after consulting with his eldest son, of whose sagacity he had a high opinion, applied to Mary's father, who was his own tenant, and so worked upon his apprehensions-for he was a quiet timid man-that Mr Mordaunt, whose eyes were now for the first time opened to the nature of the intimacy between the young couple, and who had no idea of forcing himself into an alliance with a family that despised him, that very night exacted a promise from Mary, whose pride was deeply wounded by her father's communication, that she would not see John again.

Trevanion mean time, having no notion of the efforts made by Mr Mordaunt to keep his daughter from his sight, wandered about the neighbourhood day and night, hoping to get a glimpse of Mary; but finding this to be impossible, and that whenever he called at the cottage its inmates were sure to be absent, he became quite disheartened, attributing that to caprice on Mary's part which was the result of bitter necessity.

But perseverance does wonders, and as a last resource, the young man had recourse to writing. With considerable difficulty he managed to get a letter conveyed to Mary, wherein he implored her to grant him one last interview, stating that at daybreak, near the Abbey, he should be anxiously waiting her arrival, and that if she failed to come the disappointment I would be fatal to him. The letter was penned in such a distracted style that the poor girl was alarmed by it into acquiescence. "It is the last time I shall ever see him," she said— and accordingly, at the appointed hour, made her appearance at the place of rendezvous, as I have already shown.

"So you refuse to agree to my proposal, Mary?" said John, as they walked slowly across the moor. "Unkind girl, is this the affection you have so often professed for me?"

"Unkind, John? If I am so, 'tis for your welfare. God knows how willingly I would pass my whole life with you;

but it must not be."

"Who shall prevent it, if we are resolved?"

"Our fathers, John. We are bound by every strong tie of duty, of affection, and of honour, to sacrifice our will to theirs. These were principles instilled into me from earliest infancy; and shall I now swerve from them, and bring a parent's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave? Never. But do not suppose that I have come to this determination without a struggle. Often and often have I prayed to be taught my line of duty, and strengthened in my purpose to fulfil it; and even now my rebellious heart". And she paused.

"Go on-go on, Mary," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Sweetest girl, I could listen to you for hours."

"Oh spare me, John; I must not -dare not-say more. I have said too much already."

"You have, indeed, Mary," replied her lover, gloomily; "too much, I fear, for your own happiness, and far too much for mine. Think better of it-pray, think better of it, my love. What though my father cast me off? Have I not hands? Have I not youth, strength, perseverance, and fixedness of purpose? And Oh, Mary, with you by my side, in some place far removed from this, to cheer and feed me with your smiles, what task is there that I could not succeed in ?"

Affected by the energy with which he spoke, Mary made no reply. Trevanion pressed his advantage.

"Think, love, of the happiness that is in store for us, if we do but dare to obey the dictates of our heart. Every thought, every wish, every action of our lives show that we were born for each other. Our tastes are the same-the same, or nearly so, our ages. Why then should we be divided?"

claimed Mary, while the tears, streaming down her cheek, told far more emphatically than words the struggle that was preying at her heart; "I dare not act as you would wish. I cannot ally myself with a family that casts me off, or plant a dagger in my father's breast. No, John; I have pride and".

"Heartless girl!" replied John, interrupting her impetuously.

"Heartless? Oh, John, I thought you knew me; but you do not, or you would respect the sacrifice I am making for your sake. Do you think I have not suffered as well as yourself?

When my poor father knelt in tears before me, and besought a solemn promise that I would abandon for ever all thoughts of an alliance with your family,-when he adjured me, on pain of his lasting displeasure, to tear that hope from my breast, which I feel is become entwined with life itself,-even then I hesitated; but when he added that not only would my disobedience inflict a certain curse on him, but as certain ruin on you,— then, John, my mind was made up, and for your sake I consented to a sacrifice which I half denied to a father's entreaties; and yet you call me heartless! John, John, I can die for you, but I cannot, I will not, become the means of thrusting you from your home, and consigning you to remorse without hope, and poverty without end or limit. Ask me any thing but this. I will wear out my life single for your sake; but I will not bring down the curses of two pa rents on your head."

In a woman who truly loves-the remark is trite, but will bear repetition-there is a holiness, a purity, a disinterestedness-say rather a total, unhesitating abandonment of selfwhich a man can never reach, and not often appreciate. John was affected, but he was not convinced by Mary's generous devotion.

"Mary," he said, and not without sternness, 66 you told me but just now that your father had made you promise to hold no more clandestine meetings with me. Have you obeyed him?"

Mary hung down her head.