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through the incidents of the marriage eeremony. It has at length been concluded :

“Earth to earth-ashes to ashes ?" It will come true: I know it will, and it is right it should.'

" Lynedon took his bride in his arms, and endeavoured to calm her. He half succeeded, for she looked up in his face with a faint smile. "Thank you! I know you love me, my own Paul, my

"Suddenly her voice ceased. With a convulsive movement she put her hand to her heart, and her head sank on her husband's breast.

“ That instant the awful summons came. Without a word, or sigh, or moan, the spirit passed!

" Katharine was dead. But she died on Paul Lynedon's breast, knowing herself his wife, beloved even as she had loved. For her, such a death was happier than life !"

There is in this passage a reference to an incident in the earlier days of this victim of passion. It is well described :

"The whole wide world was nothing to her now. She only held the hand which pressed her own with a tender though somewhat agitated clasp, and said to herself, 'I am his-he is mine_for ever.' They walked in silence from the church, down the lane, through the roseporch, and into the cottage parlour. Then Katharine felt herself drawn closely, passionately, into his very heart; and she heard the words, once so wildly prayed for, "My Katharine—my wife !'

“In that embrace--in that one long, neverending kiss—she could willingly have passed from life into eternity.

“ After a while they both began to talk calmly. Paul made her sit by the open window, while he leaned over her, pulling the roses from outside the casement, and throwing them leaf by leaf into her lap. While he did so, she took courage to tell him of the letter to her mother. He murmured a little at the full confession, but when he read it he only blessed her the more for her tenderness towards himself,

« « May I grow worthy of such love, my Katharine !' he said, for the moment deeply touched. But we must not be sad, dearest. Come, sign your name—your new name. Are you content to bear it?' continued he, with a smile.

“Her answer was another, radiant with intense love and perfect joy. Paul looked over her while she laid the paper on the rosestrewed window-sill, and wrote the words Katharine Lynedon.'

16 She said them over to herself once or twice with a loving intonation, and then turned her face on her bridegroorn's arm, weeping.

"Do not chide me. Paul: I am so happy —so happy! Now I begin to hope that the past may be forgiven us—that we may have a future yet.'

"We may! We will,' was Lynedon's answer. While he spoke, through the hush of that glad May-noon came a sound—dull, solemn! Another, and yet another! It was the funeral bell tolling from the near church tower.

“Katharine lifted up her face, white and ghastly. "Paul, do you hear that ?—and her voice was shrill with terror—It is our marriage-peal—we have no other, we ought not to have. I knew it was too late!'

"Nay, my own love,' answered Paul, becoming alarmed at her look. He drew her nearer to him, but she seemed neither to hear his voice nor to feel his clasp.

“The bell sounded again. Hark! hark!' Katharine cried. Paul, do you remeniber the room where we knelt, you and I; and he joined our hands, and said the words,

“Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt altogether free from a vague jealousy on Katharine's account. But the warmth with which his supposed rival met him quite re-assured the simple-hearted, good-natured Hugh ; and while the two young men interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away to her own room.

There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to flow. With an emotion of almost childlike rapture she clasped her hands above her head.

" It may come—that bliss ! It may come yet!' she murmured ; and then she repeated his words - the words which now ever haunted her like a perpetual music.--I almost love Katharine Ogilvie! It may be trueit must be-how happy am I!'

“And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her bosom, her head thrown back, the lips parted, the face beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine caught a sight of her figure in the opposite mirror. She was startled to see herself so lovely. There is no beautifier like happiness —especially the happiness of love. It often seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary face and form. No wonder that under its influence Katharine hardly knew her own semblance.

“But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty stole over her. It was not vanity, but a passionate gladness that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew nearer; she gazed almost lovingly on the bright young face reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as something fair and precious in his sight' which accordingly became most dear to hers. She looked inta the depths of the dark clear eyes : ah! one day it might be his joy to do the same! She marked the graceful curves of the round wbite hand—the same hand which had rested in his : perhaps the time might come when it would rest there for ever. The thought made it most beautiful, most hallowed, in her eyes.

** Simple, childlike Katharine-a child in all but love-if thou couldst have died in that blessed dream!”

There is much in this story of sen. timent wrought into passion, of which we cannot approve. Such is not the intellectual food on which young minds should be fed ; nor is it the species of production in which a young authoress ought to indulge herself. Passion and sentiment, in combination, are too apt to betray. They invent a moral system for themselves; and the rules and laws which are essential to the well-being of society, and which have their origin in a higher source than any notion of human utility, become reft of their authority and eminence, when they rebuke or contend with emotions that have their birth in sin, but can assume the aspect of an angel of light, and never leave it aside until the ruinous ends are accomplished. Most earnestly would we exhort a writer, whose powers we respect as we do those of the author of " The Ogilvies," to shun in her imaginings, as we are sure she would in her real life, situations perilous to virtue. Into such situations the current of a story, as the current of life, may hurry those who sought it not. When difficulties of this kind present themselves, they must be struggled with and overcome; but it is our wisdom, in fiction and in fact, not to seek them.

We give one extract as a sample of our author's descriptive power. It is her picture of a cathedral town in England :

minutes' walk would bring you from one extremity to the other-is fully alive to the consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of Levites; who, devoted to the temple service, shut out from their precincts any unholy thing. But this unholiness is an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means not merely what is irreligious, but what is ungenteel, unaristocratic, unconser vative.

“ Yet there is much that is good about the place and its inhabitants.

The latter may well be proud of their ancient and beautiful city-beautiful not so much in itself as for its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistically irregular and deli ciously old-fashioned streets, of which the nucleus is the cathedral. This rises aloft with its three airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have been christened the Ladies of the Vale. You may see them for miles and miles looking almost like a fairy building against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old-world look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and there you may see grass growing in its quiet streets, -over which you would no more think of thundering in a modern equi-page than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your ancestors.

“ The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness and antique propriety. The people do everything, as Boniface says, * soberly.' They have grave dinner parties, once or twice in the year; a public ball, as solemn as a funeral; a concert now and then, very select and proper ;-and so it is that society moves on in a circle of polite regularities. The resident bishop is the sun of the system ; around which deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of all sorts revolve in successive orbits with their separate satellites. But one character, one tone of feeling pervades every body. L- is a city of serene old age. Nobody seems young there—not even the little singing-boys.

“But the sanctum sanctorum, the pene. tralia of the city is a small region surrounding the cathedral, entitled the Close. Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted anthems on the accession of George III., or on the downfall of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many cathedral functionaries who pass their lives within the precincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings bave imbibed the clerical and dignified solemnity due to their weighbourhood. It seems always Sunday in the Close; and the child who sivuld venture to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring than ever was infant within the verge of the city of L-

“In this spot was Mrs. Breynton's resi

* There is, in one of the counties between Devon and Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was until very lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of high-churchism and conservatism, political and moral. In olden days it almost sacriticed its existence as a city for the cause of King Charles the Martyr; and ever since has kept true to its principles, or at least to that modification of them which the exigencies of modern times required. And the * loyal and ancient town—wluch dignities itself by the name of city, though a twenty

shall be made life-like to us by the accompaniment of solemn music—such as this :

* earth so full of dreary noises, O men with wailing in your voices;

O delved gold--the wailer's hep : O strife-0 tears that o'er it fall, God makes a silence through you all :

And giveth his beloved sleep."

Here is a book of a widely-different character, " The Heiress in her Minority; or, the Progress of Character. "* The story is but a vehicle for conveying instruction on almost every subject in which the reader can feel interest. Antiquarian, naturalist, theologian, poet, philosopher, historian-whatever be the complexion of his mind-here he will feel much to engage his attention and to reward it. If we have fault to find, it is that that the instruction overlays the story; as in too transparent allegories, the fiction rather embarrasses than advances the instruction to which it was designed to be subsidiary. But it is impossible to read the “ Heiress in her Minority," without admiring the varied intelligence of the author (authoress, according to surmise, in this instance also), her elevated sense of what is right, her serene piety, and her pure patriotism. Abilities such as are displayed in this work, in connex. ion with the designs to which they are made subservient, may well be looked upon as things for which a nation should return thanks. Books of slighter material, and more desultory object, we can imagine more popular than this, but its influence on the age may be greater than that of its best-loved rival. We feel deep thankfulness for the affectionate tone and temper in which it calls into the light latent capabilities of good in Ireland, natural and moral ; and the tender commiseration, not devoid of respect, with which it mourns over our infelicities. It would serve as the most valuable of all guide-books for a tourist in the South and West of Ireland, and, in addition to the services it rendered as a guide by day, would add those of the most valuable, instructive, and engaging companionship in the restinghour

of the evening. It is among the visions we delight in entertaining, to be one of a touring party resolved to

dence. But it looked down with superior diguity upon its neighbours in the Close, inas. much as it was a detached mansion, enclosed by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-panelled and supported by pillars,—noble staircases, -recesses where proscribed traitors might have hid,-gloomy bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions of ghosts,—dark passages, where you might shiver at the echo of your own footsteps;—such were the internal appearances of the house. Everything was solemn, still, age-stricken.

" But, without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity of age to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. The lovely garden was redolent of sweet odours, alivo with birds, studded with velvety grass-plots of the brightest green, interwound by shady alleys,—with here and there trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the grey pile which they neighboured had come into existence together. It was like the contrast between a human mind which the world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the soul of God's making and nourishing which lives in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows old, and bears flowers to the last.

“There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes of the cathedralclock drowsily ringing out the hours. Now and then, at service-time, there would come a faint murmur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with nature's eternal praises and prayers,—and so blending the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden! No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory_let us rest awhile in thy lovely shades before we people them with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleasant garden! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down on the green sloping bank, under the magnificent old tree with its cloud of wbite blossoins (no poet-sung hawthorn, but only a double-cherry)—let us stroll along the terrace-walk, and loan against the thick low wall, looking down upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now a sloping dell all trailed over with blackberries_jet us watch the sun-lit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet dreaminess that almost shuts out thought! And, wbile resting under the shadow of this dream, its memorial pictures

* " The Heiress in her Minority; or, the Progress of Character.” By the Author of " Bertha's Journal." In Two Viluines. London : John Murray, Albemarle-street. 1850.

imitate, in the freedom of its move- tween our families—mine being Anglo-Norments, that "river wandering at its man, as my name shows,' said hc—but, own sweet will," which leaves and re- like an heirloom, it has been preserved from turns to the haunts of busy life as if

generation to generation.' it exercised a volition in the devious

* • But though worsted here, had not the

Desmonds possessions in other parts of Irecourse it pursues ; and we should account it indispensable among the pro

land, where they still retained power ?' asked

Mr. Stanley. visions for our journey to have with

"Yes, I must confess,' replied Mr. Desus “ The Heiress in her Minority," mond, that my ancestors were not very directing us, or giving us choice of moderate in helping themselves to the rich tracks when we arose to the enterprises lands of Erin. They had an extensive terof the day; and when we were assem- ritory in Kerry, where, at one time, the Desbled round the glowing hearth, which mond was almost a prince. But there, too, toil rendered a most acceptable place

we became unfortunate. After many atof enjoyment, as well as refuge, it

tempts of the native Irish to dispossess us, would delight us to take the topics

the Moriartys were victorious in a bloody and the tone of our social converse

battle fought on Connor Hill. Beaten in from the rich stories and the captivat

fight, and afterwards forced to yield to those

who obtained grants of our property from ing style of this engaging writer. the English Government, the Desmond faThe story in this valuable work is

mily sank into comparative insignificance, very simple; at first thought it might and have so continued-perhaps a just puseem nothing more than the thread its nishment on the descendants of such rapaprecious things are strung upon. This, cious invaders.' however, is not the truth. Character "And what has been the result, my is developed in the narrative, and in- dear sir ?_has the triumph of the Moriartys cidents are devised, such as are calcu.

continued ?' lated to disclose the errors and irregu.

" . No, sir—in their turn they were forced larities of youth, which it is the au

to give way to others; but the present gene

ration will perhaps make the name more thor's purpose to exhibit in the pro

justly famons than any of their warlike angress of amendment. The heroine

cestors, by their exertions to promote the reappears before the reader under pe

ligious instruction of the poor. I wish that culiar and perilous circumstances. She you, who doubt the advantage of teaching is an heiress, to whom, during her the Irish to read in their own language, father's lifetime, a fond grandfather could see the effect of what the Moriartys has bequeathed large possessions. An and another excellent resident family have English guardian has been assigned to

done, as I saw when in Kerry last yearher, while the guardian assigned by na

the deep interest and attention of the peature is interdicted from all authority.

santry when receiving instruction at tho In this state of things the heiress

schools, or when joining in our church ser

vice, and when listening to a sermon—all in visits her estates, where she is joined their own tongue. But to return to the by her father, who had contracted a

battle which I mentioned. It is a curious second marriage, and who introduces fact that there are still found on the hill, Evelyn to a stepmother. We cite a where that great struggle took place, arrows passage in some degree characteristic of black oak, great numbers of which have of the various parties :

been picked up at different times. I liad

one in my possession ; but I have given it to " After indulging this little burst of tem- a friend for his museum, so that I cannot per for two hours in solitude, she recollected show it to you.' that, as her guest, Mrs. Desmond ought not “ You interest me extremely,' said Mr. to be neglected, and returned to the library, Stanley, “about your brave ancestors, wheconscious that she was wrong, but too proud ther descended from the ancient people of to acknowledge it. However, she found her the land, or from the invaders; but these importance was not so great as she had ima- have been so long established here, that they gined-Do one noticed her absence nor re- also may justly claim the name of Irish.' turn, and her father and Mr. Stanley con- "And they do claim it,' said Desmond, tinuel, without any pause, the conversation though in perfect ignorance of their Anin which they were engaged. Her father glican descent. had been saying that many Anglo-Normans, • • I presume,' said Mr. Stanley, that who had possessed that part of the country time has worn away all remains of antipathy where Cromdarragh lay, had at length been between the original and the foreign Irish.' expelled by one of the great Irish families " • In sone parts of the country it has, a powerful tribe, who, after many a hard- Lut not among all: for instance, the dislike fought battle, drove the invaders away. of the real Irish for the Anglo-Norman setThence arose that sort of separation be- tlers, particularly the Desmonds, often re

vived from time to time during the ages that have passed since their first warfare. A small thing serves to light the embers of national prejudice.'

My dear papa,' said Evelyn, interrupting him, and forgetting her ill-humour, I did not know that your family was so old, and that your name was one of such renown. I am sorry that I lave not that noble name: though perhaps it is not equal to O'Brien. But why, papa, have you made no effort to r'cover your possessions ? why not fight, like your brave ancestors, for your own property as well as for the liberty of our countryi'

"Gently, gently, Evelyn! · Had I lived two hundred years ago, I should perhaps, like many other “brave" men, have been induced to endeavour to obtain what I might then, perhaps, have imagined freedom for Ireland: but that time has passed. As to the Desmond possessions, we have sufficient, and are contented, though insignificant. It would be useless, as well as wicked, to endeavour to regain by force that which has long since passed into other hands.'

"Oh! papa, I feel my heart swell at the thoughts of all that we, who are still so powerful, may do for our country.'

“Yes, you may acquire some influence hereafter, and then, it certainly ought to be warmly exerted for your country ; but only by promoting obedience to the laws, for loyalty is the best preservative of liberty. Try to encourage your countrymen to improve by the example of the industrious English, to whom we ought to feel united as sisters, and who are necessarily so connected with us that, even were I so inclined, it would be absurd now to attempt to separate from them.'

64 • But would it not be noble for you—oh, yes! for you, papa, the descendant of the great Desmond_to recover your power and influence, to establish freedom, and to claim your kingdom ? and then I would

"No, Evelyn, my dear child, the time is now come when the descendants of every ancient house are called upon to prove their high blood by exercising their influence in the instruction of the people in the arts of peace, and in promoting obedience to the laws; believe me, disobedience to the laws is not freedom.'

· * But our country! I am determined to make that the first object of my life.'

" * Very well, my dear, but do not forget that discontent will not produce comfort ; and that, moreover, being a female must preclude you from all Quixotte-like attempts. You must be content to establish your sovereignty in the hearts of your dependants.'

"I shall find that very difficult, I fear,' said Evelyn, her spirit sinking as her excitement was damped; how am I to win their affection, or to establish my influence ? They will despise me as a woman. I know and feel that I ought to do much—but where and how to begin!

"Do not be in haste to begin anything yet,' said Mrs. Desmond ; take a little time to considler, and in the meanwhile yield kindly to our wish. Come and pay a visit to your father and to me. You cannot doubt that we shall be glad to have you at Clonallen. Come to your sister Mabel, who longs to know and love you. Though you are not to reside with us, yet we may be like one family in affection and union of interests. Come to us, and learn from your father's example and advice how to win the hearts of your people.'

Evelyn's heart was not as obstinate as hier will. Though half an hour before she would have been deaf to Mrs. Desmond's kindness, her gentle urgency could no longer be resisted. Evelyn consented ; and her father, embracing her, exclaimed with more than his usual warmth of manner, Now I shall have the pleasure of seeing all my children around me! and Mr. Stanley shall judge whether a visit to me—to us can be mischievous to you, or an infringement of any regulation of your grandfather's. I shall be glad, too, that before the arrival of Mrs. Manvers you should make acquaintance with your brother and sister.'

“Evelyn felt satisfied with herself, and all was coleur de rose. The remainder of the day was devoted to boating across the lake and walking among the woods on the opposite bank. Her spirits rose, in proportion as the mist of prejudice gave way, and her natural gaiety, wbich had been repressed for some time, began to revive.

" At night Jane was delighted to find Evelyn once more like herself; and when she learned that her young lady was going to Clonallen House on Monday, she exclaimed, “Oh, thank Heaven you are going among decent people, and not to mope by yourself here !-it would break your young spirit; and I assure you, Miss Evelyn, hear a mighty great account of Mrs. Desmond-she is loved by all the country round.'"

We shall cite one passage more-a piece of natural history :

" " However that may be,' said Mrs. Desmond, 'I must contribute my share to these curious anecdotes, and with one that will be found exactly in point. My dear old grandfather told me that he had for some days watched a pair of swallows constructing their nest in the upper corner of his window, and that one morning, just when it was completed and ready to be inhabited, while they were taking an early flight, a pair of dishonest sparrows, pleased with its situation, took possession of it, in spite of all justice. When the real owners of the dwelling returned from their airing, they found, to their great surprise, that it was already occupied. Their indignation was of course very great; but all parley was fruitless, and

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