Let me until they had persuaded themselves he was too base to assist us in the most trifling manner, that I could induce them to make use of a sum indispensably requisite to us. hasten over this part of my story. My sister's fever communicated itself to my parents, and one short week saw them both consigned to the grave. Within the following fortnight, I received a proposal to superintend a charity school, from a lady in a retired village, fifty miles from our former abode. It was indeed a humble employment for the daughter of a peer, but I could by that means support myself and my invalid sister; and I felt it would have been infinitely more degrading to have been pensioners of our noble relations. The task of instruction was at first difficult; but an earnest desire to succeed enabled me every day to find it more easy. I became a favourite with my young pupils; their friends, though rude in manners, were sincere and friendly. The clergyman of the parish visited us. I need not dwell on the comfort his society imparted, since you know your kindhearted father has ever found his greatest delight in doing good. You have doubtless guessed that he induced Maria to forget the worthless Alfred; but you cannot know, nor did we, until some time after their marriage, that Edward, his college friend, had engaged him to recommend me as a candidate for the school. He too had his trials. His father died suddenly while his anger was still unsoftened, and his will unaltered, by which Edward was disinherited. His brother, seeking in gainbling a resource for the misery of his domestic life, dissipated his property, and fell by his own hand. Edward still persevered, deprived himself of every relaxation, practised the most rigid self-denial, and was at length, in the twenty-eighth year his age, by the death of his brother, put in possession of what remained of his patrimonial estate. To the spendthrift it had appeared beggary, to his brother it was a noble independence. It was communicated to me by a letter from Edward, in which he requested me to share it with him. He for the first time, avowed his long and constant affection, and hoped we should forget our early sorrows in this long deferred union. In the conclusion of his letter he slightly mentioned having been ill, and still retaining considerable weakness; but he trusted good nurseing, country air, and more than all, a mind at ease, would soon restore him to health and happiness. In another day he told us to expect him. He came; but how changed! Death had already set his seal on every feature-yet one faint flush on his hollow cheek-one bright glance of his sunk eyes, told me that his soul was still the same-his love unchanged. A feeble pressure of my hand, a wintry smile, and a look from me to heaven, bade me hope to meet him where we should part no more, and with a gentle sigh he yielded up his spirit in my arms. "And yet you are cheerful, you are patient, you are contented-what secret cause has given you comfort?" said her nephew, deeply affected. "The only source of consolation, which never fails those who seek it-my Bible and my God. Edward left me his representative. At first, in all the bitterness of anguish, I cried-Now fortune comes too late!'-but the poor and helpless came to my gate for succour-I turned their sorrow into joy, and I shared some of the pleasure I imparted. By degrees my mind grew calm-I felt that I had still ties to attach me to the world-you and your sister became to me as children-the sense of doing good soothed me, and the acuteness of sorrow faded into resignation.' "Oh! how impatient, how unreasonable must I have appeared to you, in so keenly regretting a temporary absence, at whose termination I am to receive the reward of all my wishes. I will go, and, in imitation of the noble Edward, consider only my duties; and how sweet will be my return, crowned with the love of Emily, and the approbation, scarcely less dear, of my old maiden aunt." His aunt only answered him with a smile and a parting embrace; but when she saw him three years after, at the head of his profession--the advocate of the distressed-the supporter of the weak-the terror of the wicked; not more distinguished for the tenderness of his disposition, than for the resignation with which he supported unavoidable misfortunes, she felt comforted for all her sorrows, and in the love of her nephews and neices found consolation. No longer an isolated useless being, she saw a family who looked up to her as a parent, blooming around her, and found that the great exercise of nature, without either talents or splendid beauty, can render their possessors happy, and crown with joy even the last days of "the old maid of the family." I ASK NOT GOLD'S ILLUSIVE LIGHT. A SONG. I ask not gold's illusive light, No splendour doth my heart require ; I ask from thee but one kind smile, Let others praise thy graceful form, Are more than aught of mortal birth. True love is hushed, when flattery's voice Are deep and still, yet pure and clear! SIGMA. THE FATAL BIRTH-DAY FETE. FROM THE FRENCH. During my career of life, I have frequently seen my companions fall by my side, my brothers in arms, whose loss I have most deeply deplored; but, in recalling to my mind those ideas of glory, that hereditary fame, which so peculiarly endears the memories of heroes who have fallen in the field of honour, and, reflecting, that nothing was left for me, but an infirm old age, and an obscure grave, I have frequently been tempted to envy those whose names are immortalized by their very deaths. Every day takes from me some old friend, some companion, of an age equally advanced with myself; I regret them, but without murmuring; in the words of Montagne, "their lamp of life had burnt to the socket;" death is the immediate consequence of a protracted old age. But, when a young girl, just entering the portals of life, for whom heaven appears to have in store a long series of happy years, on whom nature has lavished all her most precious gifts, and whom birth and fortune have surrounded with their most brilliant delusions -when a being, such as this, is torn from the embraces of her mother, the hopes of her family, and the expectations of love, there is in this cruel decree of fate, a kind of subversion of the general laws of nature-an assemblage of contradictory circumstances, ideas and expressions, at which the senses sicken and the heart breaks. Such is the event to which I have alluded in the title of this article, and of which, during this short digression, I have not lost sight. Robertine de Vilarmont was the daughter of a brave naval officer, a companion in arms of the gallant De Suffreen, who, by twenty years of glorious toil, had acquired an undoubted right to enjoy, in the bosom of his family, an ample patrimonial estate, to which he has added little or nothing by his services. He still reckoned among his imperative duties, that of educating his son for the service of his country, and of bringing up his daughter to become the reward of some young soldier, who, by his name, his rank, and his merit, should show himself worthy of such recompense. I had known M. de Vilarmont in the East Indies. Much younger than me, his father had consigned him to my care, as to that of a mentor, and our relations of friendship have never since been interrupted. It is two years since I accompanied him to Rochefort, when he went thither to enter his son as a midshipmau, on the quarterdeck of a vessel which he had himself commanded, and at 'whose mast-head the grandfather of the young man had, thirty years before, hoisted the flag of a vice-admiral. This regular descent of glory was a good omen, and accordingly, our young Leon, as a reward for a gallant action, has already received the decoration of the brave. Mademoiselle de Vilarmont had nearly reached her fifteenth year. Educated with the tenderest care, under the eye of the most affectionate of mothers, she was already remarked as the model of every perfection. It was the first season that the young Robertine had appeared in the world; all eyes were turned upon her, and her delighted mother enjoyed, with too much confidence, (why may I not say with too much pride?) the brilliant success which her daughter met with at all concerts and balls, of which she formed at once the principal object and the chief ornament. The birth-day of Mademoiselle de Vilarmont had been celebrated by a brilliant fete at the house of her maternal grandfather, at which she had made the deepest impression by the charms of her person, and the proofs which she had given of the superiority of her talents, which her interesting modesty set off with double splendour. Monsieur de Vilarmont had been prevented from accompanying the ladies, whom he had, therefore, entrusted to my care; and, during the whole continuance of the ball, which encroached far into the morning, I had officiated as gentleman in waiting to the fair Robertine; I held her fan and her handkerchief, while she danced; I led her back to her place, and took particular care to cover her with her shawl, as soon as the country-dance was concluded. I was under the same charm which had enchanted every one around me. How suddenly, and how dreadfully, was it to be dispelled! It was two o'clock when the party broke up; Robertine had danced in the last set; her mother wished that she should sit down a little while, to rest herself-but, with a shawl, a wrapping cloak lined with fur, and a well-closed carriage, what danger could possibly be apprehended? On our going down stairs, the coachman was not with his horses; and, while the servants went in search of him, we had to wait some minutes, in a freezing hall, (an inconvenience very general in Paris, and from which even her palaces are not exempt.) At last the carriage drove up-Madame de Vilarmont set me down at home-and the lovely Robertine, in bidding me good night, added, that she could not do without me, and that she retained me as escort to all the balls of the next |