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"I remained too proud (my foes would say) to permit the world to know that any difference existed between my son and myself. He had now entered fully upon his political career; and though the party his ancestors, for a series of years, had invariably supported, were then out of power, still his eloquence commanded attention, and his steadiness to his friends respect.

"The dignity of political consistency was then appreciated as it ought to be. Menor things called men were not whirled about by every blast of interest or wind of doctrine, to serve or bow to the mania of illgrounded opinion. It was something to be a statesman in those days. — Iwill not say what it is now; because political discussions are opposed to both the delicacy and dignity of a well-born woman. Enough for her that she venerates the Church and honours the King. This will sufficiently exercise her love and faith- -a woman's best and dearest qualities. At least, I argued with myself, the world knows naught of what so rankles in my heart, and even if it did

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"Alfred Montague was dressed after courted - flattered shipped. How little is the world acquainted with its idols how little do we know what we admire! We imagine a deity-clothe it with our fancy-then fix upon some living temple for our creation to inhabit, and call it 'perfection. Yet was I not insensible to the homage paid to my son. Next to deserving, there is nothing so sweet as receiving, praise; though I knew his moral hollowness, I clung to the belief that he was politically honest. And were it not for that old man's curse, I would have hoped-ay, hoped for him for ever. What a blessed thing it is for humanity, that hope, like the fabled phenix, springs anew from its own ashes!

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"I was one morning startled by the intelligence that Lord L-wished to see me immediately. I well knew this sudden visit boded no good. He thought my son was at Montague House. He was told so by his servants in town. Three nights he had been absent from the House when questions interesting to his constituents were debated. He was looked for everywhere, and certain rumours had aroused Lord L- who, from an old friendship subsisting between our families, as well as from other motives, watched my son's career with as much anxiety as if he had been his own. He came to me to inquire if he were wavering. I said I would stake my life on his integrity. He shook his head.

"I ordered my carriage, resolved to find my son, and know the truth at oncé. Had the party his father and all his family so long supported been in power, I could have forgiven his defalcation, but to desert their cause when his support was needed! Memory whispered that he had deserted a once dear object, when most she wanted his assistance. Ay, but his political honour, his fame, the disgrace!

"I arrived at four o'clock at Alfred Park. I learned there that my son had only left about an hour for town. Was any one with him? Yes; it was one of the leading members of the administration.

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My brain burned. I ordered fresh horses-post-horses; and, without alighting, proceeded to London. It was night as we drove past Hyde Park Corner, and the rain pattered heavily against the carriage windows as the ponderous knocker echoed through the aristocratic silence of St. James's square.

"Mr. Montague had just gone down to the house. He had not set off three minutes.'

"Was any one with him?'

"Yes, the same cabinet minister who had been with him at Alfred Park!"

"I drove to the House of Commons, and was informed by the usher, that Mr. Montague had not arrived, but that he doubtless soon would, as a very important motion was to be brought on by the opposition.

While I was yet speaking, Alfred would have passed. I believe he did not know me. He said he did not. I went with him into one of the anterooms, and at once charged him with dishonour and desertion. He endeavoured to avoid reply, and stammered forth something about change of times and prejudices, and all the jargon of those who find it convenient to desert their friends in their necessities. I argued, I entreated, I endeavoured to arouse his pride. I spoke to him of his father, of his family. I implored his attention. I pictured his falsehood, the scorn of his partizans, the contempt of his new friends. I talked of the virtues of those of ancient days, who died to uphold the welfare of their country. I reminded him of the time when he used to sit upon my knee, and read of the heroes of old, whose religion was patriotism. I wept-positively wept - burning scalding tears, into his bosom. And he promised-swore by all that was sacred in heaven and earth, that he would not swerve from his old party.

"I met Lord L, and told him of my triumph. Nor was this all. I determined to ascend to the ventilator, and there exult in the disappointment of that 'dog in office,' who had tempted him to disgrace. There were a good many ladies in that elevated pest-room, but they made way for me, and I was stationed on the self-same spot, where, many years before, I had often listened to the sound-I may truly call it 'music' of his father's voice. I know not who spoke, nor what was said. I only know how fatally I distinguished one person- -one event.

“ My son entered, in a state of intoxication, with his new 'leader;' took a seat behind the treasury bench; and, not satisfied with silent disgrace, spoke, ay, spoke (would that he had been born dumb!) against the principles of his ancestors. He spoke as well as he could speak under such circumstances, for his desertion and his intoxication were evident to the whole house. Groans from one side, and a species of half-applause from his new friends, were his reward- the only reward he obtained; for, before the ratification of the appointment he was to receive as the recompense of his apostacy, his party went out of power, and Lord L, our old and valued friend, was appointed premier.

"I regret, dear Lady Elizabeth,' said this excellent man to me,' that I cannot do as I would desire for your son.'

"Sir,' I replied,' the man who is once untrue to his party, should never again be trusted. I desire none of my country's privileges for the unworthy scion of our once noble house."

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"As I am a born and living lady, I felt ashamed to return to Montague House. What could I say to the electors? How could I look, or speak, or act? Was I not an apostate's mother? Was not the finger of scorn everywhere pointed, at 'Montague, the fool and the betrayer? Was not the county in an uproar? Was he not obliged to accept the Chiltern Hundreds? Did not the papers surfeit with lampoons, and the print-shops with caricatures? And were there not many, friends they called themselves, who dared to send me those symbols of his disgrace, expressing their concern their pity even, 6 -at what had occurred.'

"In the midst of all these realities, would come the remembrance of that poor, pale, skeleton girl; and her father's curse, ringing in mine ears. And then, because of his unpopularity, the 'Oxford business' became the subject of country animadversion;-and-I went to Italy.

"Let no one desire children. Let no one wish to have the quiver filled with those living arrows. I shall die childless-as a punishment for my pride. If great was my sin, great has been my tribulation.

"My son, too, went abroad, to blot out the memory of past offences by

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the committal of fresh faults: -and one night, at Naples, he was borne into my palazzo, killed, like a dog, in the streets, by some villain's stiletto, in a drunken brawl--the last of his line: a creature of talent, of beauty, of extraordinary powers, yet wanting in those requisites which, I have ob served,are often granted to those of much commoner capacity.

"It was night, and I heard the sound of many voices in the dissonant tones of drunkenness beneath my palace windows--and his voice among the rest and a scuffle, and then all was still. Suddenly, a rush of men, a glare of lights, and my poor, erring, sinful son, lay on the marble floor, the red blood oozing to my feet; and I kissed his lips, his brow, his cheek - for, oh, was he not my child!

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"For several days I knew not what they did to him or me; but one night I heard a noise of nails and screws- and then it ceased and the knowledge of the dread reality was with me. And when they slept, I stole into his chamber- the attendants there slept also- and the coffin was fastened down, covered with black velvet, decked with the solemn magnificence of wo. I knew that there he was at rest. REST! - did I say rest! God grant it! How blessed is repose after this world's turmoil!

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"Now Heaven shield me from superstition! After I had remained a while over that dismal sight, a thin and vapoury cloud arose at the coffin's foot; gray it was, as a mountain mist, and clear, for I saw the tapers burning through it, and the sleeping watchers in their repose. But there it stayed, gradually moulded by some unseen power, into the semblance of a human being, undefined, and yet distinct; it was a fearful creation, towering to the vaulted roof, a bloodless, colourless thing-fading, yet remaining, to my sight. And-Almighty Powers! ―ere it vanished, it assumed the form, the movements, of poor Mary's father!

"This was no dream. Alas! I was but too awake to misery!"

Here was another break in this "tale of woman's trials," and I was thankful for it; for I had read enough of her misfortunes many of which would not perhaps, have happened to one less proud. I knew the rest; for I had often heard, that on her return from Italy, it was feared that her reason had been impaired by the apostacy and death of her son.

As it was, she was a beneficent and glorious relic of the olden time, and a living proof, that no situation, however exalted, can shield us from the ills and turmoils of this state of existence, in which we are doomed to work our pilgrimage to another and a different world, where "sorrow and sighing shall be no more."

Not long since the remains of the proud, but right noble Lady Elizabeth Montague were placed within the marble vault by her husband's side, and many tears were shed at her departure. She was, indeed, the last of a noble race. And the property, once so ample, has been divided, and the house is to be sold; the statues, and the pictures, and the books-all come to the vulgar hammer!

I had almost forgotten to say, that with her were interred two miniatures, one in each hand, each so like the other, that it was only the fact of one wearing powder, that could distinguish them; the powdered one, she directed, should be placed in her right hand, and the arm bent, so that the hand might rest upon her heart. The other was simply laid beneath the withered palm.

THE MOSSPITS.

THE TRIALS OF AGNES HOSKINS.

"Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised." THE PROVERBS.

In one of the most highly cultivated counties of England, near a town the name of which I shall conceal under that of Mondrich, the following circumstances occurred. My tale is but a simple narration, and has little to recommend it but its reality. To those who yearn after exaggerated pictures of life, in any situation, it may be dull and wearisome; but those who can appreciate the sufferings and struggles of virtue, under trials of a more than ordinary nature, will, I doubt not, feel interested in what I am

about to relate.

"Well, good night, Mr. Hinton, good night; we are neighbours now, and shall often meet," said Edward Hoskins, as he closed the cottage-door after his retreating guest. "A very pleasant fellow, Agnes," he continued, addressing his wife: "though you were not particularly civil to him, I know who was ;" and his bright blue eye rested for a moment on his sister-in-law - a merry-looking maiden, busied in assisting Agnes Hoskins in placing aside the remains of their frugal supper.

"For shame, Ned!" retorted the blushing Jessy; "but you are ever teasing me in some way or other; and here's my sister says it is very wrong to be putting such things into my head."

Agnes turned her handsome, cheerful countenance towards her sister, and observed, in a low and more serious tone of voice than was her wont, Jessy, I should be indeed sorry if anything got into either your head or your heart which it would be necessary to root out again."

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"Well," laughed Edward, "I don't see what harm Harry Hinton's getting into her head, or heart either, could do; he is a good-tempered, free, frank, industrious

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"Stop there, Edward," interrupted his wife, laying her hand on his arm, not industrious surely not industrious!"

"No; perhaps not that exactly," replied Ned, "not what you would call industrious. But, really, Agnes, I think we both work too hard; we ought, as Harry says, to take a little pleasure now and then, and we should return to our daily labour with more earnestness, and do all the better for it."

"I don't think we need do better: your situation at the manor, the produce of your own little farm-all contribute to render us independent. And as to pleasure -as to happiness, Ned, look there!"

She drew aside a large linen cloth that fell from the upper part of her baby's cradle, so as to shade it from the light. Although the little thing had not cried it was awake; and, as the father stooped to kiss it, the hands

were stretched forward to meet him, and the rosy lips parted by the light noiseless laughter of earliest infancy! It was a blessed moment: both parents gazed upon their child, and, as the mother placed it to her bosom, the father said, in a subdued tone, "You are right, Agnes; thank God, we are happy; and though, love, as you were better brought up than Í was, I should like to be richer for your sake, yet somehow I think it shows you to more advantage, and draws you more into my heart, to be as you are. What the minister said of you was true, though I did not mean to tell it you, lest it might make you conceited:-'Your wife, Hoskins,' said he, is never without a jar of honey, and a flask of oil, to sweeten and soften your path through life.'”

"But

"Reach down the Bible, Jessy; although it is past ten, we must not go to bed without our chapter," observed Agnes, after a long pause. what books are placed upon it, Jessy?"

"A volume of songs and a novel, sister."

Agnes continued, in a reproving tone, "I thought I had no need to tell you that that shelf was appropriated to the Bible, Prayer, and Hymnbook, only; profane and sacred things should never mingle."

"It was not Jessy, but Hinton, who put them there," said Edward. Agnes sighed. "Why do you sigh so heavily?" inquired the husband, as he turned over the leaves to find one of his wife's favourite chapters.

"Because it confirms my opinion of our new neighbour. The word of God will be ever treated by a true Christian with outward respect-the proof of inward reverence. One who venerates Scripture could not rest a song-book even upon its binding."

Edward made no reply, and soon after the party retired to rest.

This little passage in the lives of those humble individuals occurred about the latter end of the month of April, a few years ago, in a retired spot, near the town of Mondrich, to which I shall give the name of Mosspits. It was a sweet and quite nesting of five cottages, inhabited, with one exception, by happy industrious people. Four of these dwellings were joined together; the fifth, the abode of Hoskins, stood apart, surrounded by a blossoming garden, and was of a larger size than the others. The scene might be aptly described as

"A gentle, onely place; the path o'ergrown
With primroses, and broad-leav'd violets,
Arch'd by laburnums and the sweet woodbine.

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It was far away from the public road, and one large oak spread its huge branches over the green in front of the Mosspit cottages; the trunk was surrounded by a rustic seat, where the inhabitants met every fine evening and discussed affairs of state or business with the affected sagacity of wiser heads. Hoskins possessed, as his wife had said, a lucrative situation one that gave them abundant comforts, and would, if carefully husbanded, enable them to lay by a provision for after years.

Agnes and Jessy were the orphan daughters of a Presbyterian clergyman. Mrs. Hoskins was some years older than her giddy sister, and had enjoyed, during her father's lifetime, many advantages which he did not remain long enough in the world to bestow upon his youngest-born. Agnes had been chosen by the lady of the manor, Mrs. Cecil Wallingford, as a humble, very humble, companion for her daughter, - - an only child, and an heiress: she was, therefore, to use the accepted phrase, "comfortably

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