the coquette of the season, Lord St. Maur had heard the name of a Flora or Florence Leslie. Startled and annoyed, for never hearing that name, save from the lips of his wife, it seemed to have imbibed a portion of her own purity and excellence. He listened still more attentively: he heard them mention Woodlands, and its misanthropic mistress, Mrs. Rivers, and felt convinced it must be the same, Florence's last letter to his wife flashing on his memory as still stronger confirmation. He heard her name bandied from lip to lip, sometimes contemptuously, sometimes admiringly, but always most disreputably to its object. One young man --Ensign Camden-swore to her constancy, and challenged any one who dared deny that he was her preferred lover, offering to bring written proofs in the last letter he had received from her before he had quitted England; and drawing it from his pocket as he spoke, it was seized upon, with a burst of uproarious laughter, and in mock-heroic tones read aloud for the benefit of the whole company. Lord St. Maur had been near enough to notice both the hand-writing and the signature, and had unhesitatingly recognised both. Camden, indignant at this publicity of what he vowed was a treasure too precious for any gaze but his own, had become more and more enraged, drawing his sword at length upon all who ventured to approach him, till he was dragged off to his quarters; and Lord St. Maur, in utter disgust at the scene, at length effected a retreat, not, however, before he heard many voices declare, that loveletters from Miss Leslie were no proof of preference, as every unmarried, good-looking officer of Winchester had, at one time or other, received them. Lord St. Maur had purposely refrained from telling this to his wife, waiting till she might hear again from Florence, and thus clear up what certainly appeared a mystery. He found it difficult to believe that any person who could act thus could ever have been sufficiently worthy as to attract, and indeed rivet, Lady Ida's notice. But when time passed, and still no letter came, it argued unfavourably, and Lady Blandford's information, to Lord St. Maur's mind, so removed all remaining doubt, that he entreated his wife to banish Florence from her recollection, as wholly unworthy of her continued regard. But this was impossible. Instead of convincing her of Florence's utter unworthiness, Lady St. Maur's previous supposition returned, that some mysterious agency was at work, and that the strange letter she had received was not from the Florence she had loved, and that it was not to her these disgraceful rumours alluded. That there should indeed exist two persons of exactly the same name, whose hand-writing was so similar, did appear unlikely, but yet not so impossible as such a total change in Florence. She did not speak much on the subject, because she saw that neither her husband nor Lady Helen could feel with her; nor was it likely, as they had never known Florence, that they should; but her active mind could not rest satisfied without making one effort to clear up the mystery. She knew it was useless to write to Emily Melford, whose representations that it was Florence's fault which had occasioned the cessation of their intercourse now involuntarily returned as proofs strong in confirmation of the reports against her. She therefore wrote to Lady Mary Villiers, requesting her to make every inquiry concerning Florence Leslie, purposely avoiding all allusion to these reports. Anxiously she waited the reply; but when it came, it told nothing she wished to hear. Lady Mary, through her father's confidential steward, had made every inquiry concerning the Leslies in very many quarters of London without any success. The house which they had formerly occupied in Bernard-street was in the hands of strangers-the very landlord changed; her brother himself had undertaken the inquiries at Winchester, but there the result had been more confused and unsatisfactory still; so much so, indeed, that she hardly liked to write it, for how even to make it intelligible in a brief detail she scarcely knew. It appeared that a Miss Leslie, whose Christian name was Florence, or Flora, rumour could not agree which, was constantly residing with Mrs. Rivers at Woodlands; some said she was an orphan, others that her parents were both living in London, that she had made herself notorious at Winchester by the grossest impropriety of conduct, causing at length Mrs. Rivers to restrain her to Woodlands, but while there she still continued her intrigues. So far all the rumours agreed, but after that they differed, some declaring an elopement had actually taken place, and the young lady was united to a gallant Major Hardwicke, and resided with him on the Continent; others, allowing the truth of the elopement, averred that Mrs. Rivers's steward had pursued and overtaken the fugitives before the completion of the ceremony, and conveyed Miss Leslie back to Woodlands, whence she was speedily sent under strict ward to her widowed mother. The only positive facts then were these, that Mrs. Rivers had quitted Woodlands, which was now occupied by strangers, and that Miss Leslie had never appeared at Winchester again. "What they mean, or to whom they relate, I leave you to determine, my dear Ida," wrote Lady Mary in conclusion, "but if to the Florence Leslie of your creation, we must never speak of reading character again. I should fear, as you have not heard from her so long, it is shame, not Fortunately, you pride, which keeps her silent. have too many nearer and dearer ties for this to affect you much, but it is very disagreeable; it lowers our opinion of human nature, and creates a doubt even of the fairest promise; and worse still, it gives such a triumph to worldly unromantic people.” So wrote Lady Mary, and confused and contradictory as the reports still were, yet there was no mention, no hint as to there being two Miss Leslies. Ida had not asked the question, imagining Lady Mary's reply would make it evident. Our readers know enough of the truth to remove at a glance all that was false; but, unfortunately, Lord St. Maur's family could not do so, therefore decided as presumptive evidence warranted. The subject was never resumed; Florence 140 Leslie's name never mentioned. Lady St. Maur could not defend and believe as her own heart still prompted, for she had no contrary proof to bring forward. "Oh that Florence would but write again," she felt continually, "and thus disprove the scandal, or enable her to ask its explanation.” But Florence did not write, neither then, nor during the whole period of Lord St. Maur's residence abroad. What effect all this had on Lady St. Maur, and its consequences to Florence, we shall discover in a future page. ON A DROOPING ROSE-BUD. BY MATILDA L. DAVIS. Sweet flower! why droop thy crimson head? By the rude gaze of mid-day sun? Is thy fair head weighed down with tears, Why is thy head thus bowed to earth? Dost muse, poor babe, that soiling clay Too soon will stain thy glorious birth? E'en lofty man must death obey! See! how sweet sunlight visits all, Lift thy round cheek of painted red, It MY PICTURE GALLERY. BY CALDER CAMPBELL. No. IX. ELENOR. is thy natal day; brief space hath fled Since mine was hallowed by thy dulcet lyre: Yet, ah! how short a time may dim the fire That lights with love the poet's eye! We tread A devious path, in this wide world of oursNow in a labyrinth of fragrant flowers, Now in a thorny waste-mists overhead, And noisome weeds around! But tho' thy spirit Hath failed me, in my need, leaving the bowers Where the lone minstrel weeps, for pleasure's track, I still shall bless thee! Oh! may'st thou inherit The peace that waits on virtue; and, when back Thou turn'st thy fickle heart to by-gone years, Think-think of one whose love was bought with tears! Yet no!- A thought of me! The pool of memory-stirred And from its troubled waters sounds are heard That gender subtle terrors in the brain! We are not what we have been-we no more Can tread together life's perplexed shoreNor bathe our brows all fervently again In the rich rill of poesy; for o'er The dream, that lapped us in so sweet a madness, A change hath passed, to wake us into sadness! TO ELIZA. Oh, believe not, dear girl, those deluders audacious, Who'd tell us that love's but a dream of delight; For those who could teach us a tale so fallacious, Show they ne'er can have felt the dear rapture they slight. No-the basis of love is a deathless devotion, Which time cannot change, nor adversity shake; And the heart that has felt the delicious emotion, Is entranc'd in a spell which no magic can break. To the lov'd of the past, it will ever stay clinging, Tho' the recreant world should forsake as it will; Like the tree," which, when young leaves luxuriant are springing, Keeps the sear'd and the time-honour'd wreath'd round it still. * The Beech. "LOVE'S OWN" FORGET-ME-NOT. Spurn not the flower that wildly grows "Love's own" forget-me-not. Crush not that flower beneath thy feet, From those I love-to wander far- "Love's own" forget-me-not. When doom'd to roam 'neath other skies, O'er Love's" forget-me-not. When 'neath the sod where willows wave, Plant me, sweet flow'ret, on my grave Bristol. HOME SLAVERY;* OR, Against us! I say "closed," because the hour THE VICTIM OF "LATE HOUR SYS- And then what comes? Why, taverns in their TEMS." BY W. M. KIRKHOUSE, 'Tis past! the mourner throng retrace their steps But he was one Oh! Woman! Then list Can no plea be found to change this system dread? By tread of native slaves? Her sons, are they * See the Prize Essay on this subject. turn Become frequented, and the noble youth Their tastes, prostrated mind, and hurled high From her lofty throne. The aged father's And there are others, too, whom Genius hath Endowed with brilliant talents, souls of noble worth, Yet doomed to labour their young lives away Aspirations to be GREAT in the full sense And sheds forth genial rays; but these are martyrs, On the piles their young hopes raise; but even they May yet be saved if time is granted them THE YOUNG PHYSICIAN. (A Tale of the Day.) BY MRS. ABDY. Milburne was a young physician; he had a small patrimony, few friends, and fewer patrons; therefore it is needless to add that he enjoyed the goods of leisure far more abundantly than those of fortune. He had been induced to settle in the pretty country town of Riverton, because the early friend of his father, Sir John Rowland, a married man with a family of ten children, resided on his estate at the distance of about a mile from the town, and had promised him an introduction to all his acquaintance, and an unlimited authority in the medical department of his household. The former part of this promise was scrupulously fulfilled; but, alas! Sir John knew not what he said when he held out the hope that his family were likely to be ill. They were all, from the eldest to the youngest, in a state of the most provoking and determined good health; and yet they all did things which would have affected the health of any body else. Sir John patronized French dishes, luxuriated in turtle and lime-punch, and quaffed champagne as though he had never heard that the gout was an hereditary complaint in his family; Lady Rowland prided herself on her skill in driving, and daily took the air in a little phaeton drawn by two skittish black ponies, who had thrice run away with her, but who she persisted in declaring were only "full of play!" Mr. Rowland, the son and heir, followed the hounds on a restive hunter, sold to him as a particular bargain by a particular friend; Mr. Adolphus Rowland sat up half the night reading for honours; Miss Rowland waltzed half the night at winter balls; Miss Belinda Rowland wrote poetry by moonlight, under the shade of a weeping willow on the margin of a fish-pond; and Miss Araminta Rowland had a waist like a wasp, and had nearly brought herself to subsist on a diet of hard biscuits and soda water. What admirable materials for a medical man were here collected! Apoplexy, indigestion, fractured limbs, nervous seizures, consumptive attacks, and spine complaints, ought to have been as household words in the establishment of the baronet. Health, however, is a capricious goddess, and frequently favours such families as the Rowlands, in preference to those who sit evoking her with Buchan in their hands, and a battalion of pill-boxes and phials around them; and the inhabitants of the hall continued to bloom, smile, and flourish, notwithstanding all their efforts to the contrary. Once, indeed, Sir John was so obliging as to catch cold, gave a guinea to the young physician, and suffered him to write a prescription for him; but it was on the principle which made Hawthorn, in "Love in a Village," take a solitary draught of medicine in compliment to a cousin who had just set up in business; and the cold disappeared the next day, although the baronet honourably did all he could to encourage its stay by getting his feet wet through in a rainy morning, and driving in an open carriage to a gentleman's dinner-party in a foggy evening. Milburne had frequent invitations to dine at Sir John Rowland's house, and many pleasant introductions to the neighbouring families; but none proved profitable to him. Neither had he better fortune in the town of Riverton. There was a "general practitioner" already settled there, who fully verified his designation; his practice was so general that he left no open ground for a rival. Mr. Collett was full of anecdote and compliment, caressed all the children of his patients, and admired all the lap-dogs; and Mrs. Collett was an indefatigable morning visitor, and an unwearied giver of tea parties, and had the enviable tact of talking and even gossipping from morning to night, without ever saying anything to commit herself or her husband. Their assistant, too, Mr. Dilton, who was treated as "one of the family," was a pretty-looking pink and white young man, who put his hair in curl-papers, played the flute, understood the language of flowers, and wrote album effusions, which the young ladies of Riverton considered very little inferior to the lyrics of Haynes Bayly. The family were universal favourites, and the learning, literature, and refinement of the young physician were valued at nought by his neighbours; or, at all events, very seldom valued at a guinea. Milburne would unquestionably have sought a speedy change of locality, but he had a source of perpetual attraction in the immediate vicinity of Riverton. There, in a pretty little_rose-encircled villa, resided Ada Woodford, a beauty and an heiress. Milburne had lost his heart to her; he would have done the same had she been penniless. She had expressed herself favourably inclined towards him; she was an only child, her father was kind and affectionate, and not at all ambitious. And yet the love-suit of the young physician was not by any means so prosperous as might have been anticipated from these very desirable premises. Mr. Woodford was a man of easy fortune, but Ada's fifty thousand pounds were derived from another source. Mr. Woodford had a very rich maiden aunt, very exacting, very irritable, and very unforgiving, as very rich maiden aunts are but too apt to be. Mr. Woodford and his sister were both disowned by her, because they had married imprudently; or, as she colloquially expressed it, "did not do the best they might have done for themselves." She predicted that they would have very little comfort in wedlock; and, unfortunately, her prediction proved true. Mrs. Woodford was amiable and excellent, but soon after her marriage, she fell into a state of decided ill health, suffered for five years all the troubles and trials of a confirmed invalid, and died at the end of that time, leaving one little girl, four years of age. Miss Woodford had still less agreeable experiences of matrimony than her brother. Mr. Sutton spent all his own money, and then had recourse to that of his wife (for Miss Woodford was one of those romantic young ladies who "cannot endure the idea of a settlement"), and would ultimately, no doubt, have broken her heart had he not broken his own head in a fall from a tandem. Mrs. Sutton, like her brother, was left with one little girl; and the house of that |