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'It is, indeed!' cried Almira; but who is it that I have the honour to address ? for something tells me I ought to make this enquiry, and to prize this meeting as the only incident of good fortune I have ever met with.'

'My name, since you are pleased to ask it,' said the youth, 'is Rinaldo; my country, Sardinia. My father died some years ago, and left me under the care of my uncle, the count Antonio, who, with myself, were thrown out of a hunt this morning, in which the king himself partook.- How I came here, or where I am, I am yet to learn.'

'Let me then conduct you,' said Almira, to a place where you can be in safety, and take some rest. My father and I have a little home not far off. Such fare as we can give, you will have with a hearty welcome. My father will pity your misfortune, and commend me for recommending you to his care.' Rinaldo, who appeared not a little struck with the figure of Almira, could not avoid discovering how much he had become enamoured of her. Good heavens! thought Rinaldo, what a difference between the studied manners I have been accustomed to, and the artless simplicity of this fair-one, in whose way so strange an accident has thrown me.

Rinaldo would fain have possessed himself of every little particular concerning Almira, but she delayed satisfying his curiosity until another opportunity, and offered to accompany him to her father's hut, an invitation which he most readily accepted.

Nothing could equal the astonishment of Rinaldo upon entering the hut. Every thing around him was

viewed as the effect of inchantment. - 'Surely,' exclaimed he to Almira,

this is some fairy castle allotted for the residence of some beautiful goddess, for certainly you can be no other. Your very air denotes you to be more than mortal. The simplicity of your manners, the virtue of your mind, and beauty of your person, must endear you to every one who has the happiness to behold you. What palace is there I would not leave to live with you in the humblest cottage!'

Alphonso being from home, the greater opportunity offered itself to Rinaldo for pursuing his discourse. Much he pressed her to give him her story, confident there must be something marvellous in it, and that her birth bad given her a claim to a situation very different from that he found her in; but Almira, as often as she was urged to it, excused herself on account of her father's absence, not thinking herself justified in giving any relation of herself and family until she had obtained his consent so to do. She therefore conducted him to an inner apartment at the back of the grotto behind the hut, where having supplied him with some fruit, and several cakes of bread, made from an inferior kind of wheat that grew on the forest, she begged to leave him to his repose, rather wishing to avoid introducing him to her father until she had informed him of the adventure that had befallen her, and received his approbation of what she had done. Rinaldo accordingly withdrew to the place Almira had prepared for him, and pressing her tenderly in his arms, exacted a thousand promises of an early visit in the morning, to which Almira pledged herself with equal fervency, and sighing heavily, bade him adieu.

(To be continued.)

ON the opening of the piece, Mr. Sickle, a rich Gloucestershire farmer, arrives in London, and at the inn encounters an old friend, Mr. Briers, a hop-merchant in the Borough, to whom he recounts the motive of his visit to the metropolis, from which we learn that he has married a second wife, a young woman whose vanity and ill-temper have banished his son and daughter, and in search of whom he has undertaken his present journey. The farmer conceives he has some clue to the retreat of his daughter, as she was brought up with her foster-sister, Lady Mary Import, who is now married, and resides in London. Briers promises to assist him in his search, and offers every friendly interference. Mrs. Sickle, who is of a romantic turn, supposing her busband to have journied into Westmoreland, takes this opportunity of visiting London, under the protection of young Willow,

a platonic cicisbeo; but arriving at the same inn, she is surprised by her husband, and left fainting in the arms of her pretended friend, while the farmer flies the scene, doubtful of the evidence of sight. The farmer's son, Edward, has found an asylum in the service of Sir George Dapple, an extravagant young man of fashion, whose affairs are in the hands of Jews, brokers, and money-lenders; while Jane, his daughter, meets the protection of her generous foster-sister. Sir Sampson Import, a banker and a city knight, has entered into a se-. cond marriage with the daughter of a ruined peer, without a portion-a woman of benevolent mind and polished manners. The old knight, proud of his choice, wishes her to be the object of universal admiration, and by opening his doors to men of fashionable levity, gives frequent opportunity for calumniating report. The farmer's wife is removed, by young Willow, from the inn to a private lodging, where he throws off the mask of friendship, and assumes the professed lover. Deceived in the confidence she had placed in him, and indignant at his advances, she flies the house, and rushes into the street, imploring protection, which she receives from the very step-son that her conduct had driven from his father's habitation. In this dilemma she is encountered by an Hibernian Serjeant, who had just returned from the house of Sir Sampson, whither he was dispatched on the business of his captain, nephew to the knight. Jack Melunge, a generous eccentric, offers pecuniary assistance, which is rejected by Mrs. Sickle; in which he is surprised by Briers, of whose daughter Melange is a professed admirer. Briers misconstrues the motives of Melange, and enters the house in search of Willow, determined to demand satisfaction for the injuries of the Farmer. Mrs.

Sickle here accepts the good offices of the Serjeant, who conducts her to the house of Sir Sampson, where she is most honourably secreted and protected by Lady Mary; from which circumstance several embarrassments arise, to the injury of this generous woman's fame, which ultimately involves Captain Import in a duel with Melange and Sir G. Dapple; but chance placing the two latter parties in the power of Lady Mary, she prevents their meeting until proper explanation restores them to their for mer friendly intercourse. Mr. Bou bere, the partner of Sir Sampson, proves to be the younger brother of Lady Mary, who, on his return from the Indies, had adopted that mode of observing his sister's conduct, on which (the affinity unknown to her) he often ventured to comment with an asperity displeasing to her feelings. The piece concludes with the rescue of Sir George's estate by the generous interference of Melange, with a conviction of the purity and honour of Lady Mary; the marriage of Jane with Captain Import, of Melange and Maria; and the reconciliation of the farmer and his wife. Throughout the play there are several episodical characters and situations. The general design of the piece is to shew the inconvenience and distress that often arises from matches of unequal years; and that the best actions cannot insure us the good opinion of the world, if accompanied by a careless apparent levity of conduct. The Irish Serjeant is a principal agent throughout, and his actions stimulated by the most benevolent motives.

This piece is the avowed production of Mr. CHERRY, the author of the Soldier's Daughter, &c. It is, however, entirely of the mediocrekind. The author is highly indebted to the performers for the best efforts of their

art. Miss Duncan's acting, both in the play and epilogue, saved the piece. Miss Mellon and miss Boyce merited much commendation.Bartley acquitted himself as well as possible in a prologue which earnestly solicited patience and forbearance. It had its desired effect.

One of Bannister's pleasantries was very successful. As Melange he was asked, whether he was not going on a shooting party? No (replied he), I never singed a bird's feather in my life, I went once indeed a shooting, and then I made but a bad hand of it. The allusion to his late accident was instantly seized, and the audience shewed their feeling sense of his value, by three distinct rounds of applause.

winding my way towards a plantation, I with pleasure viewed the rising of the sun crowned in transcendant brightness.

- Beneath thy parent beams, The queen of gentlest beauty earliest comes; Sweetly she smiles, and gladsomely she trips, And sings the song of joy.'

Before I had reached my destined spot, the sun had risen far above the distant hill, and clothed the sur

rounding prospects with enlivening

beauty. The primrose and the

violet adorned the ground, the grass was yet wet with the dew, the sport

ive flocks were scattered over the

distant] meads, the plowboy whis

tling drove his team to yoke, and all nature seemed to rejoice at the return of Spring. As I walked

on enjoying the gentle zephyrs, the spangled fields, and verdant lawns,

and thinking of thousands who were yet in their bods, or, perhaps, wasting the early hour in wantonness and luxury (which, in the modern fashionable phrase, is termed pleasure), the thought recalled to my recollection the following lines :

'Ye pallid tribes, who breathe a stagnant air!
Ye sons of sickness, or corroding care!
And you, ye fair, whose radiant eyes impart
Delicious poison to the enraptur'd heart!
Here on the banks of willow-shaded floods,

Inhale the morning's aromatic breeze,
Or with the Dryads of the groves and woods,
That wafts delight, and banishes disease;
Here woo the power that swells your balmy
sighs,
And kindles loves and graces in your eyes;
Here cheerful youth's serenest tints resume,
The genial glow of love, and joys perennial
bloom!

In an adjoining field stood a temporary lodge for the accommodation of the cattle. A gentle shower that began to fall quickened my steps towards it for shelter; when, entering it, to my great surprise, I found a man asleep on some straw, with his face downwards. He was dressed in an old soldier's coat and blue trowsers. I

stood and gazed on him for some time, not willing to break his repose, which he seemed much to enjoy. At length he awoke, and my surprise was not a ittle increased, when, arising from this bed of straw, I beheld an old Indian. I was about retiring, when he accosted me with - Me, massa, no hurt you!'-I turned, and viewed him again. I found he had lost his leg. I asked him many questions, which he answered me as well as possibly he

could. I learnt that he had been in

the English service, and lost his limb in an engagement with the enemy, and for his support had

learnt to make nets and rush-baskets, which were concealed in a corner of this hut, covered with straw. An old

knapsack served him for a pillow, I put a pittance in his hand, for which he blessed my goodness.

crutch was all his defence.

The check'd tear, Dimming his dark eye's lustre, seem'd tosay, This world is now, to me, a barren waste, A desert full of weeds, and wounding thorns, And I am weary; for my journey here Has been, though short, but cheerless."

I walked by his side until we reached the road that led to the next village, and, by his conversation, found that he acknowledged and adored the Deity. He told me the many dangers and miseries he had endured, and though at an advanced age, hoped once inore to behold his native land. I reasoned with him, and bade him not repine though fortune frowned: every one that liveth hath more or less his portion of calamity.

'Exiled man, Be cheerful! thou art not a fugitive! All are thy kindred-all thy brothers, hereThe hoping, trembling creatures of one GOD!'

By my watch, I found that it was near eight o'clock; so pursued my way across the fields home, having a

One kiss, enchanting maid! I cry'd; One little kiss! and then adieu!"

We then in lively array repaired to the sacred fane. As we approached the altar, a modest blush adorned the beauteous maid, while purest love with all its gentle emotions kindled in her eyes, and soon I gave her white lily hand to him who is worthy of the prize;

• Who with noble mind, To modest worth his nuptial hand resign'd; Each action dignified, each word serene, Love's tend'rest thoughts still bright'ning o'er his mind,

Graceful he decks her with the mystic sign, That bids their souls in endless love combine. Then leads her kind to feasts luxurious spread,

Where all the graces deck their nuptial bed; While youth with new-blown flow'rets strew the way,

And round their steps soft hymeneals play.

We had scarcely quitted the church when the merry bells begun the cheerful peal, and the day was spent with innocent mirth and pleasure. Gentle reader, you will doubtless allow the single state, under some situations, to be a source of comfort, and the marriage one much its inferior when minds are not correspondent

Though not proudly recorded in the annals of gallantry, nor too passionate in my affection, yet lives there one to whom my heart would fain acknowledge an esteem: my intentions, dictated by honour, wait for an avowal, and then will I acknowledge the secret fondness I bear.

Yes, it is true, I utter'd not my tale; But didst thou never hear the bitter sighs That swell'd my breast, ne'er see what deadly pale

Spite of myself, the grief-wrung tears would Stole o'er my cheek; how often to mine eyes, rise, When by thy side some youth, than me more bold, Made blest in all those charms that wealth supplies, With ready tongue his artful story told? Hast thou not seen my passion, ill-controul'd, For thee in thousand nameless actions shewn? Seen that in others nought could I behold;" That still I spoke, mov'd, breath'd, for thee alone?

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