ments, retained her dignified deportment, rising from the midst of the chaos of ropes, sails, flags, booms, bowsprits, mainsheets, foresheets, halyards, chains, and anchors, with her bonnet unbent, her dress and composure alike unruffled- -even the "Times" uncrumpled, and taking her accustomed place in the bow, in the same attitude as she would assume if seated in an easy chair in a drawing room. Valerius, whose legs had long been hopelessly entangled under one of the thwarts, succeeded in extricating himself, and all, anticipating a calm sail home, turned to their books. Marianne perused the leading article; Ridenta giggled over Mrs. Gamp; our dear Valerius smiled and sighed alternately over the waning favour and baffled pride of the great duchess. canvas, and was now exulting in her treachery, making fast for Rayton Bay. The Captain hauled tawt his main-sheet, and steered upon the enemy's track. Ridenta uttered an exclamation of anger; while Valerius, turning his reproachful gaze from the deceitful Nonpareil to her expressive face, demanded-" And if, Ridenta, this boat is to be known as Thundering Tom, what name wilt thou bestow upon yonder flying craft?" "Ob, let us call it "Sneaking Jack !" And so from thenceforth the Nonpareil became Sneaking Jack. To make matters worse, we lost at least ten minutes while going about next tack; for though Thundering Tom answered splendidly to the helm, yet the going about was rendered sadly awkward on account of Marianne's being somehow entwined in the foresheets. Things were righted at last, but at the expense of Marianne's gravity, she and the Now, do you really think that Jonas Chuzzlewit did poison his old father? And didn't I always say that old Chuzzlewit was humbugging"Times" together being flung, by the sudden ac Pray, Ridenta, do not talk about what you are reading: I have not read the last number."-From the solemn Marianne. "I sincerely hope"-from Valerius, in an earnest tone of voice-" I sincerely hope that the Sergeant may marry Mrs. Plumpton-that deceitful Tipping!-to think of her flirting with Bimbelot, and the Sergeant abroad, too!" "Neither have I read the magazine for the month"-reproachfully from Marianne. -- "you "Then, Marianne" from Ridenta should not be so slow. Why, here we are, in the middle of the month, and you have not read the magazine." "How can I," retorted Marianne, "when it is in such requisition? Whenever I want it, some one else gets hold of it; there ought to be two numbers, at least, taken in such a large family as ours." "What is that a-head ?" shouted the Captain. Sergeant Scales, with the colours."-Loud laughter from all on board stopped poor Valerius in the midst of this speech. He sank back into his corner, blushing deeply he murmured-"I meant to say Gibson, with the passage-boat and his red flag." Poor Valerius, thou wert indeed far in the clouds ! tion of the rope, to the bottom of the boat! Sometimes, however, virtue meets its deserts; so it was with Thundering Tom; for, after a hard struggle, we overhauled Sneaking Jack, and entered Rayton Bay a-head of our shabby antagouist; and though our dear Valerius (who, though a perfect treasure of a man, is very awkward) twice missed the buoy, thereby nearly causing us to be wrecked on our own shore, yet the noble seamanship of the Captain brought Thundering Tom safely through all dangers; and, moored at last, he was left to ride in graceful rest, while his cargo took their way up the green shrubberies of Rayton to the expectant door of the hall. All that left that hospitable roof in the morning, returned in safety to its evening shelter; only the grave Marianne discovered that she had lost overboard a very oldmaidish reticule, containing a much-valued purse, a handkerchief edged with real Valenciennes, and a set of ivory tablets; all else was preserved-the "Times," Mrs. Gamp, Proddy, the beloved Sergeant, and the proud duchess-that favourite of our dear Valerius: home, also, came the many cloaks, the plaids, the shawls-home came the large family of umbrellas: these were placed in their accustomed stand; the beautiful duchess, and her train of followers and foes, were allowed a short repose upon the library table; while her faithful admirer found room for his length of limb beneath the well-spread board at Rayton Hall, round which were also assembled the remainder of the crew of Thundering Tom, together with the crest-fallen occupants (magnanimously invited) of The Nonpareil is an unpretending-looking vessel; white, with a scarlet stripe; a simple lugsail and foresail, and little scarlet and white pennant. Just opposite Belgrange we came alongside of it; its occupants apparently busily engaged in fishing, its sails lowered, bearing altogether a most peace-"Sneaking Jack!" ful and unsuspicious aspect. We slackened our speed, loosening our main-sheet; and falling off from the wind, we engaged in a pleasant, airy-kind of conversation with the handsome-looking occupants of the Nonpareil. Perhaps our manner was a little too patronizing, for mark the result. Unthinkingly, we sauntered (if such a word may be applied to sailing) on our way, half-turning from the white, unobtrusive craft, which was scarcely visible among the white dancing waves, when suddenly we heard a rushing noise; a towering sail shot past us. The Nonpareil had taken advantage of our unsuspecting disposition, had hoisted her IMPROMPTU; (On being offered a Pansy.) Forbear, forbear, too lovely Rose, Beside our path the streamlet goes murmuring on its way, And the tall banks on either side with summerflowers are gay; [As the remains of Campbell were being lowThere, violets and forget-me-not, and fragrant blue-attended his funeral, took a handfull of earth which ered into the grave, a Polish gentleman, who bells look, Narcissus-like, at their sweet selves, reflected in the brook. The air is fill'd with perfume of the snowyblossom'd May, And through the limes that shade our path the dancing sun-beams stray; And see! the gray church-tower appears, and there the village throng Are gathering-youth and hoary age, the feeble and the strong. Come, let us join our voices !-here is no crowded aisle, No fierce declaimer thunders out; no courtly word and smile Are launch'd to lure the Dives-throng, who tread in purple state, And strive to enter easiest within the narrow gate. Kosciusko, and scattered it over the coffin of him had been brought purposely from the tomb of who had so warmly pourtrayed the woes and wrongs of Poland.] There sweepeth through the abbey proud A mourning train, in sorrow bowed, They venerate the name Of him, the gifted son of song, And dared its friend to be. To scatter with a trembling hand And o'er the cold and senseless clay The honour'd shower fell, A passing gleam, a vision bright, Hath sung the mighty dead? A union still in death! 102 WORDSWORTH'S LUCY. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT, Author of "The Price of Fame." &c. "The most belov'd on earth, Not long survive to day; And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, HENRY KIRKE White. than the dazzling radiance of mere earthly loveli- "She trod among the untrodden ways A maid, whom there were none to praise, "A violet by a mossy stone, Is shining in the sky. "She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh! The difference to me!" It was a glorious summer noon when a group of young and merry-hearted girls, wearied at length with their own mirth, sat down beneath the shadow of the trees to rest; while the conversation, as it was natural at such a time, took a somewhat romantic turn; and each agreed to choose some chaA whole volume could have told us no more than racter in fiction which they could have wished to we learn in this simple and pathetic ballad of its be. One, a dark-browed girl, with a proud eye sweet heroine; of her gentleness and retiring disand curved lip, chose that of Rebecca, in Sir Wal- position; and how she existed not for the world, ter Scott's "Ivanhoe." Another, who understood such strange pathos and touching eloquence, winbut the one whom grief for her loss has gifted with something of German, and was as yet half bewil-ning for her under her assumed name an immordered with its beautiful mysticisms, identified herself with that exquisite creation of a mighty genius-the Margaret of Goethe's "Faust." While the youngest of that fair group, lifted up her dark passionate eyes and declared she would be Juliet, only that she half feared she might never find a Romeo to her liking, looking in her girlish beauty the very ideal of the bard's conception. But there was one there, a pale, sickly-looking girl, who sat with the hair swept back from her hot brow, smiling faintly when they spoke to her, and assuring them that she was not very tired! lest, for her sake, that merry party should be broken up; for they all loved her dearly, as well they might, for she was the sweetest, gentlest, and best natured girl in the world. And when it came to her turn to choose, she lifted up her weary head, and, after a moment's thought, wished to be Wordsworth's Lucy; at which some smiled, while others recalled to mind, with a sad forboding, that Lucy had died young. And, after a time, they all rose up and continued their walk, the feeble girl accompanying them; although she would rather have remained behind, for she was wearied out, but had no heart to spoil their pleasure by saying so. For ourselves we were less unselfish, and lay dreaming beneath the shadow of the trees, long after the sound of their joyous voices had died away in the distance. A chord had been struck which awoke a thousand sweet and tender recollections. We were thinking of Wordsworth's Lucy. The young and holy child, whom nature took to make a "a lady of her own"-breathing into her soul its own wild yet sweet spirit—sportive as the fawn-moulded into unconscious symmetry by the clouds and trees-bending down her meek head to the song of the waters in secret places"While beauty born of murmuring sound shall pass into her face." That is the beauty of sympathy with the pure and good-the sunshine of the divinity within, rather love of the beautiful and the true; and how she tality of glory which shall pass away only with the died, and was laid in her early grave, even as she had lived, unknown but to that passionate and bereaved heart she left behind to break. That the for an instant doubted, abounding as it does with character of Lucy is not an ideal one can never be the mystery ever be cleared up? Shall we learn exquisite touches of nature and reality. But will in very truth who the simple-hearted girl who dwelt "Beside the springs of Dove" actually was? And the one who mourned for her with such deep grief? We hope not; for it is far pleasanter to imagine for ourselves all that the bard has left untold, and dream of her as we are doing now amidst the haunts she so loved. There are many Lucys in the world, as meek, and gentle, and worthy to be loved, as our favourite Wordsworth's; but there is little notice taken of them, and they pass from among us, few knowing when they cease to be" "The violet by a mossy stone," whose motto is, "I must be sought." Let us seek them, then, in their silent haunts-amidst the crowds through which they glide unrecognized; in the homes gladdened, and made bright by their presence; and in their, for the most part, too early graves. And here our hearts and memories must be our guide, for fame knows them not. They are to be found in every rank of life, but are rarely talented, or even beautiful, in the common acceptation of either term, and seldom very strong. Their distinguishing characteristic is simdaughters of England go to die, they abound in plicity. Amidst those fair Italian cities where the fearful numbers. The fragile form which we have watched pass our windows with a step that every day grew feebler, and more dependant on that sup port which was so eagerly offered; the lip which, | although it might be pale with suffering, never failed to relax into a smile when it caught the too anxious glance of despairing love; the wasted cheek, flushed into crimson beauty by disease; the glittering eyes, that had more of heaven than earth in them all disappear on a sudden from the gaze of the stranger who may have felt a temporary interest in marking them, and he knows that the lamp hath burned out at length, but cannot even guess at the utter darkness it may leave behind; while some such announcement as the following and how often do we wander over them with a careless eye!-tells the brief tale in her native land; "Died on the 21st inst., at Florence, of consumption, Caroline, only daughter of Robert Tracy, Esq., aged 19." And we think we hear a voice exclaiming, "Poor thing! It was hard to die so young. I remember meeting her once or twice last year in society, but we did not speak. She seemed very quiet!" "Was she pretty?" asks another. "Scarcely; and yet she had a very sweet smile, but wanted manner and confidence, which was not to be wondered at, considering how little she went out. Her mother was blind." We believe there is not one who would not lay And yet how happy she would still be at home, if they would let her! But the high-born motherthe flattered and beautiful sister, whose affections society has already dimmed, if not wholly alienated, have only time for lectures or reproaches. While her father, who loves and understands her best of Thus, and in like manner did the world lament all, perhaps absorbed by the affairs of a mighty naher. But how was it in the home she left deso- tion, only finds a moment to part the hair upon the late, when the broken-hearted father returned pale brow of his "wild girl," as he calls her; and alone; and the sightless woman, stretching forth tells her, that after a time she will get used to all her hands, asked him for her darling-her child-this, and be as much admired even as Grace herher only child; and missing the music of her kind self; at which his daughter shakes her head, and voice, went down mourning to the grave! while sighs heavily. the solitary man lived on for many weary years afterwards, but never found her like again? Our simple-hearted Lucy may also be found among the proudest aristocracy of the land, but languishing like a wild flower transplanted into a bed of forced exotics. Her governess complains that she can never make a lady of her. No wonder; she is "Nature's lady." The back-board and high chair are flung aside, for a couch of turf and a pillow of flowers. She breaks away from her stiff walk round the gravel paths of the pleasure grounds, to chase the deer and the butterfly, laughing aloud in her sportive glee, although repeatedly told such mirth was in the highest degree vulgar. In the summer time she is abroad at all hours, regardless of her complexion; and loves to sit by the singing brook, watching the wreathes she weaves go floating along on its sparkling current, or binds them about her head to cool her hot brow. And when autumn comes how many a rent frock and scratched hand, bear evidence to the merry, but truant nutting parties which she loves to join in the rich, sunless woods! Years pass away thus. The incorrigible girl seldom becomes very accomplished; but then she is cheerful and pure-hearted, and not a bit like the rest of the family, if we may take the word of those who have generally an excellent opportunity of ascertaining the real truth-its dependents. She has not a particle of pride about her, but speaks to them with a kind voice and a bright smile; listens readily to all their little trials and troubles, and where she cannot relieve, she weeps with them. They take her to the Opera; but she languishes for the singing of the free, bright waters in her favor ite dell-for the warbling of the birds in the leafy woods. And she pines to exchange the diamond circlet upon her aching forehead for the cool flower wreath, which she had loved to bind there of old. But still no murmur is uttered; and the proud mother has just begun to entertain sanguine hopes that her youngest born will yet become all she could wish, when the girl falls dangerously ill, and is ordered, as a last resource, to try the effect of her native air. "Mother,” said she meekly, "unless you wish it, I will not go!" But there was something in the faded form and hollow eyes, even more affecting than those gentle words, and they bore her home to die! After a time, the Lady Grace and her aristocratic parents will return again to the gay scenes which they so abruptly quitted; and no eye, perhaps, will notice that she is not with them-will miss the pale, silent girl from her remote, and now vacant seat. But the statesman, hour after hour, may be found sitting idly with the pen in his hand, and the large tears dropping silently on the parchment before him, yearning-alas! how vainly-for the accents of a loved voice, hushed for ever-for the bound of a fairy footstep which would never come again. The sister too, how she turns away in the midst of her proudest triumphs, to weep tears of self-reproach and unavailing sorrow for the lost! While the mother grows prematurely old, and is never known to smile again, And the poor, who loved her so well, lead their children to her early grave, and tell them how good she was; and, whatever goes wrong in the family afterwards, have a melancholy pleasure in saying, "Ah! it would not have been so, if that dear angel, Lady had lived; but she was too gentle for this world, and heaven in pity called her home!" They are to be found likewise in the depths of poverty and obscurity, shedding a light and glory in barren and desolate places, and pursuing the calm and even tenor of their way with the same untiring meekness as though it lay among flowers. But we never hear of such stepping aside from the common path of every day life, and performing those brilliant acts of fame-deserving heroism, which command our admiration; winning rather by slow degrees the love and affection we usually accord only to our equals. To use the exquisite language of Alfred Tennyson, "They are but common clay, ta'en from the earth, moulded by God, and tempered by the tears of angels to the perfect form of woman." They may be known by their pure and holy lives, and early deaths; by the sickly plants which, let them be ever so poor, are cultivated in their lonely homes, for we are sure that Wordsworth's Lucy loved flowers as if he had told us so himself; and by the before-mentioned fact, that they seldom or never emerge from the station of life in which they are born. Industry, for the most part, supplies the place of genius; and, while others by their beauty or talents, aspire, ay, and sometimes attain to nobler things, they toil on with a cheerful and contented spirit, which no suffering or privation, however bitter, can utterly crush and annihilate. We have been told often of one such. She was a cripple from her very childhood, and afterwards became entirely bed-ridden. But who ever heard a murmur from those pale lips? And, although her residence was in one of those crowded alleys which abound in our vast metropolis, and seem consecrated and set apart as the fit abode of poverty and wretchedness, she was not the less a child of nature. It made her glad, she said, to hear the flower girls pass beneath her window, crying their "bow-pots" "two a-penny, bow-pots!" for she knew then that spring had, indeed, come. The sunlight too-the warm, bright sunlight! who could ever feel wholly miserable while it continued to shine on them? And then, although she had lost the use of her feet, she thanked God her hands were spared her. Every one was so kind, too, (for who could help it?) and the world, after all, a very happy one for the most part! And she sat up in bed, smiling, sewing, and singing hymns, until within a day of her death, which came suddenly at last, although not before she was prepared; for long ago she had expressed her willingness to die whenever it should please heaven to take her to itself. Not because she was weary of life, but in perfect faith "that whatever is, is right!" And yet, even that lame and desolate orphan was missed by one young heart-the brother whom her industry had supported-whom her piety had garnered round, and shielded from the thousand snares that haunt the path of the poor and needy, and whose sweet influence hallowed and purified his whole future life. We, ourselves, can recall to mind a circumstance connected with such a character as we have been imperfectly attempting to describe, which, although it happened many years ago, remains as fresh in our memories as if it were but yesterday. We had written some poem or play which had been magnified by the partial kindness of friends and relatives into one of the most wonderful productions of infant genius and imagination. And we can remember its being produced before a large circle one festival night, and received with those honied accents of praise and adulation, which fall so dangerously sweet on the aspiring heart of youth. Until at length one of the ladies present, turning to us with a bland look, inquired when we found time to think of all this? To which we answered readily enough, for it was the truth, "After we retire to rest at night." "Is it possible then," exclaimed our interrogator, with a stern glance, "that you never say your prayers?" There was one in the room whom we can see now in our mind's eye as plainly as if the events of that night were acting over again; she was young and slight, and attired in deep mourning. They told us that she had lost all her fair brothers and sisters, just when they reached the age she was now, of consumption-and was the last of her race! And we can recollect feeling so rejoiced to see the bright crimson on her hollow cheeks, having associated the idea of paleness with disease, and knowing not that hectic flush was but the sure harbinger of her early doom. She had not spoken before all the evening, but now as we stood, burning with shame, she drew us gently towards her, and said, in a kind and never-to-be-forgotten voice, addressing herself half to us, and half to our stern examiner, "Oh no! she is far too good a child to forget that, I am sure." And as we bowed down our flushed and now tearful face in her lap, we pressed our lips gratefully to those thin white hands; at which she smiled gently, as if to re-assure and comfort us. From that moment the voice of praise lost all charm, and for the remainder of the evening we never quitted her side for an instant; while she seemed pleased to have us with her, and uttered much sweet counsel, which we trust was not spoken in vain. We parted at length with a sad foreboding on our part, child as we were, that we should never meet again; which was too fatally verified; for when we asked for her some months afterwards, they told us with tears that she had gone to join her young brothers and sisters in heaven! Oh, truly and beautifully has the poet Hervey said “Many in this dim world of cares Have sat with angels unawares." There is scarcely a home without its Lucy-the quietest and gentlest of all the sister band-the good spirit of the household; the peace-makerthe one to whom every member of that little circle resort in cases of trial and suffering; the unwearied nurse in the time of sickness-the invisi |