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Jerningham. As he continued the novel for the Baroness Flamingo's weekly journal, its errors, as a first effort, soon became apparent. His taste altered, with less experience to produce the change than is usual in authorship; and though it pleased the readers of the Court Echo, it failed to give him satisfaction. So he planned a great work that was to embody all the learning of his studious years; all the knowledge of life that the world had yielded him; all the poetry and wisdom that burned like volcanic fire within his mind, yearning for utterance. A work that should sound rich depths for the thinking, and strike a chord in the lightest fancy. Seneca should not be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. As yet, however, the vision was vague; the creation was not called forth from intellectual chaos. Ere it reached its nascent time there were many occupations to engage our hero. Led insensibly by Revel to the drama, and by Greville to newspaper literature, Jerningham gradually found his leisure turned to profitable employment, for both these friends were powerful agents in his favor. It was after a lengthened conversation one morning with Greville, who had spoken long and tenderly of his father, and the splendours of the old Hall of Jerningham twenty years before, that the young author walked back pensively to his lodging in Westminster. And there, amid scattered books, and a negligent mélange of printers' proofs, half-finished manuscripts, and countless incongruous materials too sacred to be put to rights, sat as fair a form as ever he had pourtrayed in his dreaming fictions. It was Marie.

Driven from the old house with drunken blows by strangers, who grew weary of continued charity, where was the stricken foundling to find refuge where, save with him who had saved her life. So late at night, some weeks before, when the snow lay pall-like on the empty streets, and the wind howled in fearful moans its wintry hymn, came a low beseeching knock at Jerringham's door; and in another instant, pale, trembling, humble, "fearful of offending," her frozen frame bent supplicating at his feet. Her tale was soon told, and food and raiment provided, while Jerningham kissed the tears of gratitude from her violet eyes. It was strange to him, poor as he was, that any one should seek protection at such hands as his; and so, in the fullness of his heart, he told her she should be his little housekeeper, and manage his home. As time passed on, he was pleased to see her features soften from their former sorrowful harshness to the gentle contour of girlhood. The traces of famine and ill-treatment soon disappeared. With the small sums he gave her she restored her dress to gracefulness in feminine, though untutored taste. Her hands grew thorough-bred in their natural whiteness; her eyes full of light; her voice of gladness; and now, with her silken hair waved away across the chiselled cheek, she sat by Jerningham's fireside, a household spirit that made all look beautiful.

"I knew you were coming," she exclaimed,

with flashing eyes, as Jerningham entered. "I seemed to hear your footsteps whole streets away, hurrying homewards. Give me your coat-there; your hat-ah! now kiss me, my protector."

He pressed his lips upon her violet eyes, and she sat down beside him innocent and sisterly. "So kind of you," she continued, "to return so soon: and yet, I felt that you were nearthat you were thinking of home."

I have been thinking of you,” said Jerningham: "but how could you tell that, my little

seer?"

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Oh, love knows all things; I cannot tell how: words ere they are uttered-deeds ere they are done-and I love you," she added, after a pause, during which she had gazed on him wistfully, "more than tongue can tell. I would toil for you or starve with you; aye, die for you, if it were only to save your noble heart a single pang!" And she kissed his hand with tearful fondness.

Dangerous accents these from female lips, when the speaker is young and fair, and the listener filled with passionate imaginings. So you do love me, then, Marie ?"

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Ah, yes!" she replied, nestling up to him. "Then you shall come with me to the country to-day. You see what I am-poor, penniless, insignificant. You shall see what my father and forefathers were-you shall look upon the lofty towers, once theirs, -the domain they owned, stretching across an entire county. I have need of such a sight: I must remember my ancestors, that I may know what their last child should be."

Rather overawed by these words, which made Jerningham in her eyes quite a hero of romance, but still so happy, so proud of the invitation, Marie was ready for the journey in a very few seconds. And so they walked together to the coach office, and taking places outside the stage, were wafted, after a three hours' ride through the crisp, clear, wintry air, to the door of the Crooked Billet Hotel at Violetdale.

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typed remarks as ever, who should it be but Hiccup, grown ancient in years but youthful in spirits.

"What, you here still?" said Jerningham. "The king of landlords, like the king of France, never dies. Le roi est mort: vive le roi !"

"No, sir, not dead yet, though my poor wife is-Mrs. Hiccup as was. Ah! she had an uncommon loud voice to be sure, but she died like a christian, sir. Parson Pringle come and consoled her when she took ill arter the tripe that Sunday night; and she only said she should like to lay hands on that ere butcher as sold it, and then had a glass o' 'hot with,' and went off like a babby."

"Not married again, eh? are you, Hiccup?" said Jerningham slyly.

Hiccup's face turned pale, and his nose more purple at the notion; and, as if it had disturbed his equanimity, he showed them the state apartment in silence, and bowed himself out.

The neighbourhood around was as familiar to Jerningham as the old hostel. He had made many a stolen journey to both during his schoolboy days; and now, feeling an indefinable desire to see the old haunts once more, he hastened with Marie towards the ancestral home of his fathers.

No alteration in the quaint, old village of Violetdale. The doctor's house was as much like a pill-box as ever: the young lady boarders paraded two and two in their daily walk from and to the select seminary, quite in the Noah's ark style, with the same dresses and sashes; the governesses, who taught "all the extras,' prim and proper in the rear.

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Up the one straggling street; along the winding lane; beside the skirts of the forest for a little distance, and they entered the park. Jerningham's heart beat quick; his eyes fell to the ground; and when he raised them, they stood in front of the noble dwelling where luxury had fostered his infant years.

"How beautiful!" said Marie, gazing on the regal pile. But when she looked on Jerningham's face, she almost regretted having intruded even that brief remark upon one so overcharged with sadness as he had suddenly become.

If change had come upon the Hall it had not deteriorated from its massive splendour. The retired alderman from Bucklersbury, who now rented it, was as proud of its traditional glories as if he had bought them, and lavished his civic wealth to keep up the appearance of the old regime.

"This was our dwelling-place," said Jerningham; "where mine is you know. But I have not come here, like a driveller, to repine. Enough for me to remember my father's sorrows, not brood upon his faults: to think of my mother's loving gentleness, not her wrongs." Marie's voice was too choked for utterance: nor, indeed, dared she have interrupted that sad soliloquy, which seemed like a commune between the living and the dead.

"When I was a schoolboy," continued Jer

ningham, taking Marie's hand, though without looking at her, "this was my seat at holidaytime; and here I have lain, at the foot of this old oak, from sunrise to sunset, thinking of many things-the past, the present, and the futuredreaming, if you will--and yet those dreams were sweet-of what did I dream, think you?" "Of great things, I am sure," said Marie, simply, "you are so noble."

"Of great things, indeed," he replied, laughing scornfully. "I dreamed of winning it back; I dreamed of fame bought by the sabre's edge, and at the cannon's mouth; I dreamed of dominion won by the talisman, knowledge; I dreamed, like a fairy-tale-teller, how soaring spirits rose, by their innate power, to wealth and rule. Ah, ah! childlike I dreamed of returning, after long years of toil, to buy the old Hall back-was I not a fool, Marie?"

"No," said Marie, with enthusiasm in her violet eyes, "rather think that you were a prophet!"

"I will think so," he exclaimed; "have I not youth and strength to bring into the arena? If I succeed, my forefathers will smile on me from their canvas on the old walls for restoring them to honour; if I fail, no matter, the dream has lit my path with splendor, though it dies at last!"

As he ceased speaking, a servant appeared, descending the age-worn steps towards them. It was to inquire their business so near the house.

"Tell your master, the Alderman," replied our hero, still swelling with lofty thoughts, "that Edward Jerningham is here, to see the home of his fathers."

Before the man, who looked rather abashed, could reply, Jerningham was striding back, on the way to the Crooked Billet. Insensibly, however, the excitement of his feelings waned into tranquillity; he sank into a reverie, and gently begged Marie to pursue her path to the hostel alone for a short distance, that he might indulge his reflections undisturbed.

With a delicacy peculiarly feminine, she gave no unkind interpretation to his request; but appreciating his motives in an instant, moved on in front, deeply affected in her artless spirit by the scene she had witnessed.

Jerningham followed through the Park, marking every slight declivity and moss-grown tree, until he left the precincts of the Hall; and then his eyes fell again, and he was proceeding thoughtfully along the road through the forest, when a tap on the shoulder from a light ridingcane caused him to look up. He could scarcely believe his sight; before him stood Lord Haverdale.

"Well met!" said his lordship; "you are the very person I sought-but did not look for here. What brings you to Violetdale ?"

"I came to see the Hall," replied Jerningham. Lord Haverdale's countenance grew a shade more marble-like; but he soon recovered himself.

"No help for the past," he said; "fresh

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glories may be won while you are dreaming of those that are gone. I have need of you. Will you follow where I lead? It is not for small stakes that I risk the hazard of the die." Jerningham looked into Lord Haverdale's pale, cold features as into a book; and for once seemed to read truth.

"I will!" answered Jerningham; "what is my task to be?"

"You shall know anon," answered Haverdale; "but first I have business with one who--" "Is here!" added a voice behind them. They turned, and, leaning against a tree a few feet from them, Jerningham saw a female figure in gipsy garb, whom Haverdale knew too well it was Ayesha. The meeting seemed so strange, that our hero was about to withdraw in wonderment, but Haverdale beckoned him to remain. And there they stood once more face to face, the wronger and the wronged! In the natural costume she now wore, her beauty seemed still in some measure to have survived the ravages of time and sorrow. Her head was thrown haughtily back-that small Madonna-like head which years before, and almost in that very spot, had lain upon his breast in loving peacefulness; her cheek-never again to recline beside his-was sunken and worn, but yet flushed, as she stood before them, with many emotions; while her eyes gleamed wildly with a kind of derisive scorn.

"I knew you would obey my summons!" she said; "I felt that we should meet again on this side of the dark deep void of death-though this is but a poor trysting place; a strange confessional for the luxurious Lord of Haverdale to recount his sins in!"

"What would you, woman?" he exclaimed, half angrily.

"I ask for my own!" she replied. "I do not ask you for my lost honour, which nothing can ever restore; I do not ask you for my lost happiness, which you won like the lightest feather, and destroyed like the vainest toy; nor seek I to gain back the proud untainted thoughts that once were mine; I ask you not for wealth,

nor love, nor virtue; I ask you for 'my own!""

"What mean you?" he answered.

"My child!" she responded falteringly; and a mother's weakness seemed to triumph for a space over her haughty spirit; "where is she? Shamefully as you have wronged me, and beyond redemption, I could still almost forgive if you restored me my child!"

dale. "I have sought her myself in vain. The "You ask what is impossible!" said Haverservant to whom I entrusted her when-"

"You deserted me," interposed Ayesha. "When we parted," continued Haverdale, without noticing her interruption, "died somewhere in England between the coast and London; the child disappeared beyond all trace; her fate is a mystery I cannot explain."

"Then you will not give me even this consolation," said Ayesha incredulously.

"I can not," he replied; "great as is the gulf that separates your path from mine, and keeps our hearts asunder, I would still give much to look upon one face again-to call it my daughter's, for I am childless."

And as he spoke, Marie passed near them, with an imploring look at Jerningham to join her; but he waived her away hurriedly, and she returned to the hostel alone.

"So thus we part again!" said Ayesha; and, as I warned you, perhaps for the last time. The only tie between us is severed; it passed away with her. Look to yourself, my Lord of Haverdale; you have scorned the peace-maker, be prepared for the avenger!"

A flash of fire from her night-black eyes, a contemptuous gesture from her thin worn hand, and she was gone! Jerningham and Lord Haverdale stood alone in the leafless forest.

(To be concluded in our next.) [ERRATA.-In October number of "Edward Jerningham," page 205, 2nd column; for "Dies irær, dies illa, solvet cælum in favilla," read "Dies ira, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla!" Page 204; for "succeed or triumph," read “sueceed or fail." Page 206; for “Maringoué read "Maringoné."

The leaves are falling on the ground,
The vale is damp and chill;
The wheat is gathered to the store,
Which waved upon the hill:
The summer birds have taken wing,
The sky looks wan and grey;
And from the coppice calls the crow
Through all the gloomy day.
The joyous bee is heard no more
Amid the faded bowers;
Low lying in their silent graves
Are all the gentle flowers:

VERSE S.

BY ADA TREVANION.

The azure fount is choked and dumb,
And 'neath the rivulet

The water-blooms have left the stalks
On which they late were set.

The fall of leaves, and wane of flowers,
Make sad a lonely heart;
They, like the loveliest of our race,
From this world soon depart:
But as the dark is changed to light
When morning's dawn-beams pour,
So death's long night shall turn to day
When Time itself is o'er.

Ramsgate, Sept. 9th, 1851,

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This slight drama of Metastasio is a very good specimen of the sort of labour perpetually required of him while resident with the court at Vienna. "The pieces," says Dr. Burney, "written for the celebration of the birthdays of the Emperor and Empress, were a species of birth-day odes, but always in a dramatic form, in which the praise was delicately disguised in a fable or allegory." ASTREA PLACATA was written in 1739 by command of the Emperor Charles VI., to celebrate the birth-day of the Empress Elizabeth, and, with music by Predieri, was performed in the royal gallery before the sovereigns. It has considerable didactic merit, and its delicate introduction of the customary laudation is doubtless very ingenious. But, for the Olympic Interlocutors, it must be owned they talk excessively like mortal arguers; and how Astrea became acquainted with the details of watch-making is a mystery about which I suspect most readers will, as Grumio says, "return inexperienced to their grave."

Ast. and Chorus of Virtues.

'Tis the swift bolting thunder
Gives greatness to Jove.

Apol. and Chorus of Deities.

'Tis the mercy of Jove that
Exalts him above.

Jove. Great is the cause indeed that to such

height

Apollo's pity and Astrea's wrath

Hath power to raise. I will resolve. But first
Let Mercy speak, and Rigour too be heard,
Who of my throne the best supporters are;
For without these doth Jove ne'er raiu down grace,
Nor grasp the angry thunder in his hand.
Rigour. Destroy the guilty ones! Sin suffered
grows.

Let burn the earth in thine avenging fire!
Mercy. Ah no! more worthy of the sovereign sire
Is pity. Use correction and make blest
The wretched sons of men. If my advice,
As still 'tis wont to do, with thee prevail
Myself will find a way to this.

Rig.

Mild punishment perchance!

What way?

The headlong doom Of the down-stricken Titans and the flood Of Pyrrha's age corrected not mankind. Ast. Hop'st thou by benefits to make them blest? Each gift they now have they contaminate And turn (poor fools!) to their own proper curse. Jove. No more! This thought of Mercy's likes

me well.

Let each propose some plan to put 't in act.
Ever remains a time to punish men—
Vengeance is last of all my ministers.
To blaze within my lifted hand
Full oft the bolt is seen-
But many a time I drop the brand,
E'en while my wrath is keen.

"Tis not that Rigour pleads in vain,
But gentler ever of the twain,
Soft Mercy stays within my hands

The bolt that Rigour stern demands.
Apol. Worthy of bounteous Jove the mandate is,
And worthy of each god the noble strife.
Behold I enter first the lists proposed,
And brace each mental sinew to obey.
"Tis true, great Father, that thy liberal hand,
With gifts for mortals laden, grants them all
That needs to make them happy-honour, wealth,
Power, wisdom, beauty, valour, fame, and wit;
Yea, all that human wishes could devise:
But, with Astrea's leave, the error lies
In their division: they are parted ill.
She, that with equal scale should fairly weigh
To each and all these goods his proper share,
Leaves this to For une's arbitration; hence
Thy gifts unjustly still divided are.
Who can contentment know the while he sees
Another proudly surfeiting in that
Of which he lacks? The wisdom of the weak
Becomes the strong man's envy; while the weak
Longs for the strength and prowess of the strong.
The poor with a malignant eye regards

The stores of Fortune's favourite, who in turn
Burns for the fame or knowledge of the poor.
Hence springs one general hatred: open wrongs
And treacherous snares from out this hatred spring,
And all the numerous ills that whelm mankind
In misery and guilt. Take but away
From the blind goddess, who of all thy gifts
Dispenser is, her office-give the scales
Into Astrea's charge, and let her still
Deal out to every man his equal share;
The cause of guilt and woe will cease at once;
And all rejoicing in thy sovereign love,
Great Jove, will just and good and happy be.

Drive Fortune from her wonted sway-
Let now her empire cease!

Too long her wiles have lured astray

The unthinking world from peace.
Through her the plain and forward path
The unwary souls have left;

Of Love, and Innocence, and Faith
By her alone bereft.

Ast. Useless to mortals-nay, a very curse,
Apollo, this thy counsel. Do but note
How that this very inequality

Which thou believ'st the cause of every ill
And strife and pain of mortals is the chain
Most strong that binds them each to other. This
Without no care would be of man for man.
This 'tis that breeds the mutual need-that need
The mutual love. The strong thus seeks the weak
To guide him, and the weak the strong to guard,
So each finds need of other for his help.
Hence springs the wish for unity; hence faith,
Peace, honesty, and friendship, and the rest
Of the domestic virtues, by which men
Grow knit together by a common bond.

The busy clock, by which man's fruitful mind,
Day-god, hath learned to mark thy steps through

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Ast.

No, not more than all the rest
Is he unhappy. If he knows the less,
The stings of pain to him less poignant are!"
If he have less of strength his wit is more;
And if his goods be less his wants are so-
So, too, are his desires. The good and ill
Of life have still their compensation just,
And hope and fear are rendered thus alike.

The wretch within his misery's home
Sees hope before his eyes;
And while he waits the good to come
The evil, lessening, dies.
While fortune's fool, how great soe'er
Delights his hours employ,
Lives side by side with envious care
That poisons every joy.

Jove. Another remedy behoves ye seek
Contending gods, since to the orders fixed
This mere equality which ye propose

* Quéry. (Trans.)

Would be too adverse. Differences there are
Betwixt the elements, and differences
Betwixt the spheres-from which diversities
Harmonious concord springs-the sovereign law
By which the universe is ruled and swayed.

Mercy. If of all ills the first prolific fount,
Thou fain would stop, great Jove, from mortals take
The love of self. Through this do they become
The fools they are-the miserable men-
The dire offenders 'gainst thy holy law.
Fools for they blinded thus know not to choose
'Twixt good and evil-miserable men
Because they ever lack the good they deem
Their true desert-offenders 'gainst thy law
Because each one the things which others have
Conceiveth falsely taken from himself.

Through this one fool, puffed up with self-conceit,
Condemns the faults of others--to his own,
Stone-blind the while-and loves himself alone-
Decides 'twixt others' and his proper merits
Still to his own advantage, and to all
Gives the contemptuous smile himself deserves.
Through this another, querulous and vain,
Believing all things should by right be his;
Taxes and blames both nature and the world
That they conspire unjustly to his wrong.
Through this malignant vipers crawl the earth
That gnaw for ever 'gainst each other's fame.
Liars and murderers through this are born-
And one, to gain his own peculiar end,
Uprears his fabric on another's fall.

Pluck from the world, great Jove, this baneful root,
Or blame not man if to the end of time

The world from day to day grow worse and worse.
'Tis this that leads poor souls astray-
This guide impervious to the day-
That wrecks cach virtue once they had,
Betrays their steps and makes them mad.
'Tis this that breaks the downy rest,
Confounds each thought within the breast,
And, darkening all, forbids the wise
To see the truth before his eyes.

Jove. This love which thou condemn'st, when
reason guides,

Is aye the fount of every noble wish.
Who loves not self can never love mankind.
From love of self is love for others born.
That restless love, once waked within the soul,
Stays not, but propagates and spreads itself
To love of offspring, kindred, friends, and soil-
Until at last it grows so vast and wide
That all the human race it comprehends.
So falls the stone into the peaceful lake
Spreading a circle round about itself
From whence a second grows-from that a third
The last for aye the greatest-each meanwhile
Enlarging and dilating more and more.
Leaving the centre whence it took its rise,
Until the water to its full extent

Is rippled o'er with these expanding rings.
There is not in the soul a noble love
From self that spreads not and to self returns.
The soldier in his country's cause,
That risks his limbs and life,
Loves there the laurel and applause
That crowns his proper strife.

So, in the love 'twixt sire and son,

The love of self doth reign,

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