too, had infinitely more of shape; and, without any material increase of bulk, appeared of a richer, firmer roundness. Such was the impression of the first glance. The second presented to me nothing but a face and a neck—one blush; and a pair of downcast eyes, veiled by a pair of lids, as full and rich as ever drooped over the orbs of woman. I guessed at once how the matter stood. The act of endearment into which my sympathy-say my weakness-betrayed me, when I parted from the poor Magdalen, and the interest which I allowed her to know I subsequently took in her fate, and which, in their communications with her, her parents had perhaps exaggerated; rose up in accusation against me. But my resolution was taken on the instant. I had inadvertently betrayed her into an erroneous impression, as to the state of my feelings towards her; not a moment was to be lost in disabusing her of it. I approached her; and, taking her hand, cordially shook it, and immediately dropped it again; and then, addressing her with an air of kind and unembarrassed frankness, I told her that I was glad to see her, and happy at the complete success that had attended the meritorious step which she had taken; and, in that success, was more than rewarded for any little assistance I had rendered her: that I was convinced she would now prove a blessing to her parents, to smooth whose downhill of life was a duty, the discharging of which, I was sure she would regard as her most delightful occupation; that I knew she would persevere in cultivating the virtuous habits to which she had returned, and that it would always give me pleasure to hear of her prosperity. I did not trust myself to look at her till the close of this address, and then it was only a glance-her cheek was bloodless. I told her to sit down and rest herself, and that I would order some refreshment for her; but was sorry I could not stop, as business called me away. She listened with

out uttering a word-almost without breathing; I bade her good byshaking her by the hand, which I felt was damp and cold-and left her. I went out and walked as far as Charing Cross, not without a sensation of pain at my heart. I had never done any thing in my life, which cost me such an effort! 'Twas clear that the girl was sincerely-tenderly attached to me; and, depraved though she had been, I should have been a brute not to have felt grateful for it-not to have felt gratified at it. It is sweet to be loved by any thing-but to be loved by a woman !— I know not what thoughts passed through my brain-what wishes rose in my heart. As I walked along I saw nobody-heeded nobody. Friends-mistress-all were for the time forgotten. Had any one accosted me, I am sure, from the replies I should have made him, he would have thought me mad. Every faculty was absorbed in the idea of the Magdalen. I had scarcely reached Temple Bar, on my return, when some one came right against me-'twas the Magdalen. She staggered-recovered herself, and without looking up or speaking, passed on. I looked after her, as, unsteadily and listlessly, she pursued her way-like Hamlet, finding it without her eyes. My heart smote me for leaving her without a guide, and she in such a state of abstraction; but what kind of a guide should I have been for her? In so crowded a thoroughfare as Fleet-street, you may easily imagine that

she was soon out of sight. I felt indescribably oppressed! When I reached home, my servant informed me, that upon taking up to her the refreshments which I had ordered, she found her standing like a statue in the room; that she had no small difficulty in awakening her attention; that when she at last succeeded, and pressed her to partake of what she had brought, a smile of unutterable bitterness was all her reply; after which, casting once or twice a look of anguish round the room, she hurried precipitately from the house.

One-two-three weeks elapsed, and no sign of the Magdalen or her parents. I made up my mind that I should never hear from her, or see her again-'twas best. A month elapsed,—a second one, with the same result. I seldom or never thought of her now. If she had felt a passion for me, she had seen the folly of it, and got over it. I had now completed a three years' term of courtship, and had proved at last a thriving wooer. My wedding-day was fixed; and at length the morning, which the lover thinks will never dawn, broke smiling in upon me. At nine o'clock I led my bride to the church. A couple had just been married, and were in the act of retiring from the altar. The bride, who was veiled, stopped at a little distance before us, while the bridegroom, who seemed to be considerably her elder, and another person, stepped aside to speak with the clerk. As I led my blushing, trembling partner for ward, I heard a half-smothered shriek. It came from the young woman! whom I caught as she was sinking upon the pavement of the aisle. I called for water. The bridegroom, his friend, and the clerk, ran all together into the vestry to fetch it; in the mean time I lifted the bride's veil-I was supporting the Magdalen! but so changed, so miserably changed, I scarcely knew her. She had not quite fainted. I called her by her name. It seemed to rouse her. She made a violent effort and raised herself, her eyes strainingly fixed on mine. She essayed to speak, but a convulsive action of her chest and throat, for a minute or two, prevented her. At length, by an almost preternatural effort, she succeeded. "Thank God, I die in his arms!" she exclaimed; and with a slight shiver fell back. Water was brought; her face was sprinkled with it; they tried to pour some of it into her mouth-but it was endeavouring to restore the dead. My friends led the way into the vestry, whither I followed them with my bride, who, most unaccountably, seemed not to have been struck by what had passed, except to feel the liveliest concern for the fate of the unhappy girl. Indeed she was extremely agitated, and wept for a time bitterly; nor did she weep alone. In half an hour afterwards the ceremony-which, could I have invented any reasonable apology, I verily believe I would have put off-was duly performed, and I became the husband of the most affectionate and virtuous of wives.

I learned subsequently that, from the day of my last interview with the Magdalen, her health rapidly declined; that, notwithstanding, she had been addressed by a man who was considerably older than herself, and whom she had peremptorily refused; but, at the earnest supplications of her parents, at last consented to marry. Many a time have I recalled this striking incident of my life, and never without emotions of

a painful nature. Never could I acquit myself of having been blameably instrumental in bringing about the catastrophe which closed the brief and melancholy term of the unhappy girl's existence. Woman, I have heard some men say, will love upon slight grounds. It may be so, I am sure that when once she really loves, she loves deeply and lastingly; and never shall I hold that man guiltless, who nourishes in her tender breast the hope which he knows cannot meet fulfilment.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD.

THE ADVENTURES OF A DAY.

In the town of Toeplitz, famed for its mineral waters, there resided, many years back, a painter of considerable celebrity, whose name was Schauffe. He was an aged man, and as we too frequently find old age accompanied by avarice, so it was in this instance; for though his gains were sufficient to command a splendid mansion and retinue, he contented himself with a miserable abode in the suburbs, and his old housekeeper, Gertrude, and his hapless pupil, Wilhelm, were forced to supply the place of a more extended list of servitors. This latter-named individual filled a situation by no means to be envied, even had his inclinations coincided with those of his master, which, sooth to say, was far from being the case. Save in the single point of fondness for his profession, no hopes, dispositions, or wishes, could militate more diametrically than did those of Wilhelm and Mein Herr Schauffe.

Wilhelm was a handsome young fellow, with a painter's eye, a fluent tongue, a winning smile, and a deportment naturally graceful. He possessed also no inconsiderable stock of general knowledge, acquired during hours of relaxation. Of a sanguine temperament and a lively fancy, he was ardently desirous of tasting some of the pleasures which he knew, from every thing but personal experience, abounded in the world. The stern severity of his old master, and the continued ill temper of Gertrude, added materially to his discontent, and he ardently panted for the occurrence of any circumstance that might set him free.

One morning Wilhelm went to his chamber, stretched himself on his couch, and lamented aloud his hapless condition. "What a wretched fate is mine! condemned to pass a miserable existence with two people who feel a pleasure in debarring me from all those enjoyments in which they themselves have indulged to satiety; nay, will not even allow me quiet sorrow, but seem jointly resolved to talk me mad. Gertrude is worse than my master, for at times I think he really loves me. I wish I could get away; but alas! I have no money-not so much as a rix-dollar!" Here the thread of his reflections was broken by the entrance of Mein Herr Schauffe.

"How now, Wilhelm? don't sit murmuring there, but rise, and follow me. I have a job for you, and if you execute it well, I will take you with me to Dresden. Is not that a bribe ?"

It was indeed a tempting bait to poor Wilhelm, who never remembered to have been six miles from Toeplitz in his life, and with great alacrity did he follow his master into the room which they generally occupied while in the exercise of their profession.

"Wilhelm," said Schauffe, in the most coaxing tone he could possibly assume, "you must copy this portrait; make it a miniature, the size of this ;" and he showed his pupil the small neat frame designed to surround it. Wilhelm stood for some moments speechless; at last, "O Heavens! how beautiful!" burst almost unconsciously from his lips.

"Ay, is it not?" replied his master, supposing that the earnest panegyric was applied to the painting, and not to the subject. "It is just finished by one of our first artists, whom death has prevented from executing the miniature likewise; but fear not, Wilhelm-you have talent sufficient to supply his loss." This was the first time a word of commendation had escaped the austere old man; yet it was uttered unheard and past unnoticed. Schauffe was puzzled how to account for this apparent insensibility to praise; but, presuming that the youth was calculating his powers, he added, "Do you think you can per

form it ?"

Wilhelm spoke not: absolutely transfixed, he gazed, with new-felt emotions,

upon a resemblance of one of the brightest beings that ever blest a mortal's wondering eye. The portrait represented a young lady, apparently of some sixteen years. She was bending over a harp, and sitting in a bower formed of trellis-work, through which many rare and beauteous shrubs were trained to grow and luxuriate in wild profusion. Her features were perfectly regular; but bright blue eyes, beaming with gaiety, diffused that air of gentle affability over her countenance, which the regular beauty of a patrician face very frequently lacks to render it fascinating. That this was a lady of high rank, Wilhelm could not doubt; for her dress was splendid, her slender waist confined by a zone of diamonds, and her arms encircled with bracelets of a corresponding quality.

"Is the boy bewitched?" demanded Schauffe: and seizing his arm, he gave him a shake which speedily and effectually dispersed all day-dreams.

"Mein Herr! I beg your pardon-what did you say was her name?" "Her name! I never mentioned her name at all." Of that circumstance Wilhelm was perfectly well aware: but, not daring to ask the direct question, he had devised this mode of endeavouring to satisfy his curiosity.

"You must commence the painting immediately, and finish it with all possible despatch. Let it be done within a month, and with the greatest care. Let it be a specimen of art, and our fortunes-that is—and then I'll take you with me to Dresden."

Wilhelm sat at his pallet night and day. He laboured unceasingly to obey his master's commands; and eventually not merely fully equalled, but rather exceeded his expectations. When the old man beheld the miniature finished, he secretly congratulated himself on the discernment which had induced him to transmit the difficult task to younger eyes and nimbler fingers than his own. This satisfaction, however, he disguised from his pupil, and even affected to be disappointed; discovered faults where none really existed; and finally declared that the work was executed so ill, that he should recal his promise of rewarding the workman by a trip to Dresden.

The

Wilhelm retreated early to his chamber under the pretence of weariness, and when alone, drew from his bosom a miniature, and eagerly kissed it. fact was, that by devoting great part of each night to labour, he had contrived to execute two miniatures from the same portrait; one he presented to Schauffe, as the fruit of his exertions, the other he suspended round his neck by a blue ribband, meant to signify hope.

"Angel, that thou art!" sighed the enamoured youth, "how cruel is the fate which forces me to adore thee without rendering thee conscious even of my existence!" It was a very silly thing of Wilhelm to fall in love with a mere portrait; but were we possessed of a glass suited to examine minds instead of tangible creations, we should find that man's existence is made up of fancies and follies.

"There is one angel tint in that cheek," he thought, “I have neglected to copy;" and for the purpose of rectifying an imaginary error, he stole to the chamber where the portrait had hung for the last month. It was gone!

Wilhelm felt the severest disappointment at not being permitted to accompany his master to Dresden, and it was with feelings nearly akin to rage that, eight days after the completion of the miniature, he beheld him depart for that celebrated city. The young artist united with his other qualifications a strong love of frolic. His wits had not been idle, and he had framed a plot which he now proceeded to put in practice. Old Schauffe's journey was for the purpose of displaying among the nobility and patrons of the art, then at Dresden, a number of fine paintings, for which he hoped to obtain a very advantageous sale. These were carefully packed and placed on a species of hurdle, which was drawn by a mule, while the proprietor rode by the side. On the day preceding his departure, Wilhelm moved one of the most valuable of these pictures