self should take. In this view, he directed his conversation into such a line of banter, as might elicit something in the character of a solution to this other nice point. Accordingly, the rally was com menced, but his fair antagonist fought shy-at least, he thought she did. This caused him to press a little more hard toward gaining his point and although he could not lay hold of any thing which she said, that clearly and indubitably admitted of the construction he wanted,—yet his reflections afterwards upon what had passed from his lips brought him under the impression, that he had gone too far, not to go now the extreme length, without impeachment upon his honour, and put to her the categorical question, which must needs have a categorical answer, "would you choose me?" Snatching the first opportunity that left him alone with his friend, and directing towards him an anxious look, he said with some agitation in his manner, “Edward, I fear the die is cast-irretrievably cast."

"And you fear that, Henry! I supposed you rather feared that you would not get the length of casting it—but haste and tell me how it is done, and what it shows-for it may be that I too have a stake at hazard in this lottery."

In answer to these inquiries, the conversation held with Mary was circumstantially detailed, and after it had thoroughly undergone the ordeal of critical examination, the conclusion was come to, that in order to realize expectations which must have been excited in her sensitive mind, and to maintain himself in the credit of a man of honourable bearing, it ought to be no longer a matter of doubt which he would choose. After this verdict was delivered, he sat for a few seconds in a very thoughtful mood, like a criminal ruminating upon a sentence of condemnation newly passed by his judge: but instantly assuming a brighter cast of expression, he sprang as if convulsively from his seat, exclaiming with energy, "And it is not longer a matter of doubt-the dear Mary is mineshe is mine, Edward, if she is willing to make me her's."

666

"O noble judge! O excellent young man!' for less praise than Portia's for such a decision you do not merit, and it is no Shylock who gives it. And I," added he exultingly, "ask the heart and hand of Eliza, for I have loved her long, though for your sake I have loved her in secret. Do you approve of my choice?"

This declaration of Morton's seemed on its announcement to excite in Talbot more of startling surprise, than satisfied delight. It had unexpectedly touched various chords, and set into operation a variety of jarring feelings. Doubtless, if he could not make Eliza his own, he would wish to see her in the possession of a valued friend; but as yet he did not feel that he was so self-approvingly

established in the propriety of his choice, as to yield up with perfect resignation, every species of title to his two rejected sweethearts.

Recovering from the surprise occasioned by the disclosure now made in his hearing, and trying to answer the question by which it had been followed, he exclaimed with much feeling, "O Edward, she is a sweet lady!" A pause succeeded, and then he added with an expression of evident concern-" true I have made my choice,-I do not, I must not regret,-I cannot have more than one-yet she is a sweet, dear lady too,-Edward, I say, Edward, she will make a good wife-but grant me one request; it is not very reasonable, but grant it: do not ask her-that is-let her be as she is, till I am united, ay, indissolubly united to Maryperhaps she will be bridesmaid to Mary-no, that won't do-I cannot see either Jane or her at our nuptials."

Such a request was not truly very reasonable, but it was readily complied with, and Morton reckoned himself under the greater obligation to this, in consequence of his having by Talbot's agency been brought into acquaintanceship with Eliza. Besides, it was from feelings partly connected with this view, that he was so very backward to give his friend any direct help in forwarding the determination of his choice. From the deep regard he had for Eliza, he felt most anxious that Talbot should not make her the object of his selection, and thereby blast all the fond hopes he had long cherished in secret: but from a very high point of honour, would not, at the same time, endeavour to lead him past her, by saying such things of the other two as might relieve his mind of what he had most to fear. His virtue in this was amply rewarded, for while retaining the "mens conscia recti," he first saw Talbot the husband of Mary, and shortly thereafter, himself the happy husband of his beloved Eliza.

On Talbot's finding himself a married man, he was at liberty to tell his friend of the circumstances which laid him under the necessity of entering into wedlock within a definite period. By the will of a maternal uncle,—a man of many odd humours, as the greater number of old bachelor uncles are-Henry was written legatee to a considerable sum of money, but upon a condition somewhat singular. The old man having been led to attribute some misfortunes which befell him in early life, to his not having entered into matrimony at a particular period of his existence, took it into his head that he would provide against any evil of a like description occurring to his nephew, by so framing his will, that only in the event of Henry being married at a time specified should he inherit the legacy. There was yet another singularity in the old man's arrangements.

None knew of

the terms of the deed, as it regarded this point, save Henry, to whom it was communicated in a private letter left him by his uncle for the will was delivered before his death, in a bottle hermetically sealed, to three confidential friends appointed as executors, with the instructions that it was not to be examined till the day of such a date, and only then in the presence of his nephew. When the day arrived, Henry felt all was right, for he was a married man; but his curiosity was all alive to see the whole contents of a document, that in some measure had made him such, and especially was he anxious to know what was to have become of his uncle's money had he forfeited his claim to it; for this was a piece of information he had not. Judge of his surprise when he found that the whole sum was to revert to Mary Fenton, had it fallen from his possession. And it gratified him not a little to think that, though his Mary was nearly related to his uncle by her being the daughter of a cousin, his great partiality to the young lady had led him to prepare for her this possible good fortune. He almost wished that the good old fellow would just lift his head from the grave to see that he had taken to his bosom his own dear favourite girl, as he was wont to call her.

In all this there was cause of rejoicing; and Talbot rejoiced as long as the union lasted; but alas! the period was of no great duration. It is true "man never is, but always to be blessed," for the sweet lady fell a prey to pulmonary consumption, within eighteen months of her happy union. Thus soon she left her beloved Henry, and he the only one of the two who lost by the sad change, for she went to a better world-having died as she lived, a bright example of the power of christian faith. It was long that her mourning and bereaved husband "refused to be comforted;" but after remaining a widower for more than three years, he was persuaded, through the entreaty of friends, to think of wedlock for the second time. When he yielded to their counsel he had no difficulty in deciding which to choose, for the only one of his former admired ladies who remained unappropriated was Jane, and, singular enough, she became his bride, and lived long and happily with him. Such was Talbot's fortune-and on the faith of it, I may take it upon me to advise most seriously all bachelors, who can only account for their remaining such, from sheer inability to decide, "which they would choose," to begin by taking one of their lady-loves, and they may find in the end, that they have the good luck, like him, of getting two out of every three.

A. J.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WHEN spring to woods and wastes around
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murder'd traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;

And many a verdant blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away;

And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,

When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarm'd, and hard beset;

Nor how, when, round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole,
To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dress'd the hasty bier,

And mark'd his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoisten'd by a tear.

But long they look'd, and fear'd, and wept,

Within his distant home;

And dream'd and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they look'd-but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died,

Far down that narrow glen.

BRYANT.

THE DISAPPOINTED POLITICIAN.*

BY MRS MOODIE.

I have more subjects, "How! I was not

Surely you are too prudent to

"SHOULD you like to be a queen, Christina ?" said Count Piper, in a tone of affected carelessness, to his beautiful young daughter, who was reclining upon a couch, nursing a lap-dog. "Queen of Hearts," said the petite Venus, without raising her head. "That empire is your own already," returned the politician. "Then I have no ambition to extend my dominions. at present, than I well know how to manage." aware, madam, that you had lovers. encourage their addresses." "Indeed! I am not so obligingly grateful for homage which I consider as my due. There is only one man in the world for whom I feel the least tender regard." The brow of the prime minister of Sweden darkened. "And pray, who is the favoured Adonis?" Christina blushed, looked enchantingly simple, and redoubled the caresses she was bestowing upon her dog. The Count repeated the question. 66 My cousin Adolphus Von Hesse." "You have not been so foolish as to fall in love with that boy?" 66 Boy, indeed! No, I walked into love with him; for I cannot remember the day when he first appeared lovely in my eyes." "Nonsense! You have been brought up together. 'Tis a mere sisterly regard." "I should be very sorry if Adolphus were my brother." "But the youth is portionless;-has no other maintenance than his commission and my bounty." "He is handsome and brave; and, when I discovered that he had fine eyes, and that they spoke the most eloquent language in the world, I never examined the depth of his purse." "My dear girl, you must forget him," said the Count, passing his arm tenderly round her waist. 66 My good sire, I don't mean to try. You are not indifferent to his amiable qualities, and love him yourself." "Not well enough to make him my heir." "And you will not render us the happiest couple in the world," said Christina, her fine eyes sparkling like sapphires through her tears. "Christina, you have been a spoiled child. I have given you too much your own way; and now you demand impossibilities. You are not old enough to choose a husband for yourself, Be a good girl, and your aunt shall introduce you at court; and then you will see our brave young King." "The rude monster! I have no wish to see him. Besides, he hates women." "'Tis a libel. He is in love with you."