to write it."-" It is done as you do every thing, my child, and it has given me so much pleasure, that I almost think I shall ask you to try your hand upon more of these songs of the King of Israel."-" Gladly, most gladly, will I do my best, my dear father. Oh! you know not half the delight this little volume would give you as it is thus, in our native tongue," (and she placed her little hand fervently and affectionately on the very small Bible that had been in her basket;)" but if I can lead you to look into its treasures, by taking from it my morning translation, how I shall rejoice. Milton has tried to tell of its beauties; but do you not think, sir, that he is very feeble -worse than feeble, I should say in Paradise Regained? When he gives language to be uttered by our Saviour, it seems as if the very presumption took from him the powers and the talents he possessed, and could exert to sublimity when dealing with men and angels? I never could like his speakings for our Heavenly Father in the 'Paradise Lost;' and in the other, I sometimes think the poverty of the language, the liberties he takes, the strange and most unpleasant words and phrases that he uses, amount almost to profanation."-" Come, come, Medora, I must cry, Hold-enough! I quarrel enough with the orb of song, the divine Milton,' myself, and have got into sad disgrace, you know, with our own poet, on that account; so I must not have you come and suggest fresh criticisms against him. I never got through the last poem, having, to say truth, been disgusted in the outset, so I know not the part to which you allude.”- "I am quite sure you would not like it, and I am at a loss to think how he could speak so tamely of the Holy Volume, when weighing it with the works of uninspired men the men of Greece-of whom Satan speaks so grandly.""Ah, my dear, 'tis a melancholy moral, or a severe satire upon poor human nature, that even such a man as Milton-(and we must, spite of what we love not in him, place him on that pinnaclewhere few can stand, of minds of might and souls that soar)-'tis, I say, a saddening and humbling reflection, that he depicts best and most forcibly those fallen spirits, whose

influence over us is so enthralling, that they infect us with all their evil, by linking us so closely to them. Who, alas! can burst their bonds?"

Now, my dear father, if so you speak, I could say, Do read the Paradise Regained: there you will see that the bonds may be burst. Oh, indeed, there is one by whose aid, if we ask it, they will readily be broken. -But you will let me, you ask me, to shew you more from whence I have this morning gathered. I will leave all, therefore, to time; and a day will come when you will read this with me-and that will be happiness indeed!"-" Dearest Medora! child of my heart! what would I not do to give you happiness? and if it is in the power of any one to give it me, it is you, my love, it is you! But let no cloud disturb the sunshine of this most beauteous morning. Let us leave this subject-and now I turn to the drawings. Ah! this is sweetly done, my dear. What, your old friend Michael Raeburn!-and where is it you have placed him in such pensive mood? is it not the Wishing-Gate?' Yes, I see it is, and it could not be better-'tis the very thing to place beside the poem. I must shew our friend how well you have illustrated his last little poem. I'm sure he will be pleased-but what made you think of such a sketch ?"-" Old Michael and I were together for a long time this morning, and he told me he had been visiting the Gate in his way here; and, as we were talking together, I sat on my bench by the hillside, and just began this part of the Gate and the mountains, and, as he walked away from me, I took the liberty of taking him."-" And then, when your morning tasks were done, or rather, when the labour you delight in-when what gives gladness to your father-was completed, you walked, and walked too far, for surely you are tired-the morning has been too warm for you. Well, I must tell you a bit of news-our worthy rector has got a living given him, such as there are few of-I would there were none-they say, of L.2000 a-year, on which he means to reside. Now this rejoices me, for it will be strange indeed if we get not a pleasanter neighbour than he has proved, and whoever he may appoint as a curate, can scarcely be so intolerable

in desk or pulpit as he is. I wish to my heart our friend De Lacey were to have the curacy, though it is so poor that the wish is unfriendly, and the person he went to assist for a time may have found some permanent duty for him perhaps; but if ever I missed the society of a manif ever I took real delight in social intercourse with a man so much my junior-it was in that youth. So much do I love him, that I am often on the brink of desiring the death of his poor old uncle Sir Herbert, and that our friend Frederic might find himself master of the Priory! But Medora will frown at me for any wish that, to do good to one, harmeth another; she will have the last lines of Hart-leap well in her mind, so I must say no more in that strain-I only wish fervently that the youth would come to Font-vale for a visit; and in that wish, you, my dear, will join me-will you not?" The father look ed up at his daughter, in some surprise that the answer did not tread on the heels of the question, and he saw the blush with which she said, "Certainly, papa-and your wish is granted, for Mr De Lacey is there, but only for a short, short time, I fear. I have seen him this morning, and he brings ill news-to my thinking, at least-for he is going to India as chaplain to the new Bishop, who is his particular friend.""Now may India be without Bishops for the rest of her days! may her widows go burn! and her pagodas be filled for ever! sooner than Frederic de Lacey should court an early grave by joining the infatuated party that imagine they can do good there equivalent to the loss of the men of worth and talent that have been sacrificed to such delusion!"-" Stop, stop, my dear father, you know not what you say! you know not the holy purposes, the high hopes, the truly Christian selfdevotion of those men, nor do you reflect on the blessing they have already proved among a people who were in darkness;-the seed is already in the ground-the harvest is sure to

come-but must there not be labourers to gather it in? Remember, dear, dear father, how you yourself delighted in Bishop Heber's book. Can I ever forget your marking the passage about Archdeacon Corrie,* and saying, Now that man I envy?' Indeed you did! so what you are now saying is not your real feeling. 'Tis indeed painful to part with dear friends-the excellent, the amiable, the kind-but we ought not to murmur if they are parted from us, that they may serve God better elsewhere. I know that we ought not, though I feel that it is a heavy sorrow, and the murmur will arise."-" I cannot believe that his uncle will let him go," said Colonel Blessington, as he paced the room much disturbed, and ever and anon looking with deep interest and kindness at his lovely daughter. The breakfast was finished; and as both seemed musing, we will draw before them the curtain of conjecture as to what was passing in their bosoms, and take our reader out once more into "the world in the open air."

When Frederic de Lacey parted from his loved companion, it was doing a violence to his nature. Had he followed the devices and desires of his own heart, he would not so have torn himself from her more would he have said. But I am speaking of those who are actuated by higher and better motives than selfish ones; his heart might be bursting, but he must endure that agony, sooner than relieve it at the risk of bringing future trouble on another. He was turning towards the entrance to Font-vale Priory, but he remembered that his invalid uncle would not be visible for hours; why not, therefore, ramble and loiter amid the beautiful scenery, which has ten thousand sympathies for one ever ready-which meets us soothingly, be we in sadness, or gladsomely, be we in joy? He took the path to the lake again, and thought, Surely in its calm bosom I shall find peace to this troubled heart within me. It reflects

the clouds that are passing, but not one leaves a shade of sadness, or disturbs the tranquil loveliness of its still waters. Heaven is ever to be seen there; and who can gaze upon the heaven above, and the heavens on the face of those fair waters, without being the better for such vision -without receiving a ray of that peace which the world cannot give?

He was about to open the volume he discovered he still had possession of, as he lay stretched on the rough ground beside the margin of the lake, when a soft footstep made him turn his head. He watched a little girl putting down a basket, which seemed to contain provisions; and then she went close to the water, and put a foot forward, and then drew backand then she turned and looked round, and seeing one on the ground looking at her, she came to him, and said, "O! pray do, if you can reach them, get me some of those rushes, I want them so much; and if grandfather knew I got them he would chide me. I told him I never would. I'm so glad you are here, sir; pray, get up and get them-you must be able." Now, if ever there was a lovely little cottage girl, the one who spoke was one -a little ardent creature, with such eyes that could be so gladsome, so beaming-the very spirit of a laughing summer day-and yet they could be so full of deep feeling and sadness, if aught was sad with those she loved. In this case, they varied in their expression most bewitchingly; for there was all the radiance of hope and joy at attaining, and yet the eager anxiety and doubt whether she should. And then she spoke her little entreaty in a sweet touching voice, that even a child-hater could not have resisted. "That I will, my dear little maid," said Frederick, rising." But why don't you remember me, Mary? You see I know you. I don't know that I shall get rushes for little girls who forget their old friends." Mary now opened her eyes, and seemed puzzled. “Oh, I know you now! It was you who came and read to grandfather when he was ill; it was you read him the beautiful hymn, which our dear lady sent him afterwards to keep; and 'twas you gave old Martha the red cloak, and you gave me a little prayer-book. I do remember you. You are one of our best friends

VOL. XXVII. NO. CLXI.

and grandfather always prays for our best friends; and then I think of our dear lady and of you; and I think, too, of my pretty little red prayer-book. But grandfather says I should not think of that then-only I cannot always help it. Pray, forgive me, sir, but when I wanted the rushes, I did not look at your face, only at your boots, which looked as if they would not mind the water." She had got quite close to him during this long and most animated explanation, and was stretching her little neck to look up at him all the time. He took her up in his arms, and gave her a kiss. "I shall certainly forgive you, Mary, for not finding out by my boots that gave you a prayer-book for being a good child; and so now for the rushes. Do you wish me to go into the very middle of them, and gather the finest ? or will you be satisfied with some of those near the edge ?”—“Oh, not into the middle! you would be drowned; and then so many would be sorry. Only just these, which your long arms will reach.-Oh, thank you! thank you! Why, this will make a large one, or two little ones. I am so glad I've got them; and your shining boot is not wet at all! How much longer your arms must be than mine!" And what are you going to do with these rushes ?"-"I can make pretty little baskets with them, while grandfather eats his breakfast, and I say my lessons to him; and, you've got me such a many of them, I shall be able to make one for old Martha too."-"And who is the other for? Is it to be for me, Mary?"-“Oh, no, not for you, but for our dear lady; but, if you want one, I can make you one; only you have nowhere to put it, have you ?"-" Why, where will your dear lady put hers, think you?"-" Oh, she'll put flowers in it, and place it on the stand in her own little room, where every thing is prettier than anywhere else in the world. She has got many lovely flowers on the green stand, and one is a myrtle, that she loves best of all, and takes such care to water it. It was only a bit gathered off when Lady first had it. Wasn't it you brought it her that evening from the Priory? Oh, it is such a beauty! I made a little rush basket to go over the pot, but no handles, you know." Thus did the lively little girl run on, looking

F

all the time earnestly at him to whom she spoke; and then she suddenly said, "But I mustn't stay. Grandfather will want his breakfast; he's up in the corn-fields at the Squire's. Good bye, sir-thank you for these nice rushes." And off she went, first taking up her basket. Frederick stretched himself on the bank again, and bethought him of all that his little friend had let fall. "Oh, would that I had unloaded to her all my heart! And yet why do I say so? Would it not have been base selfishness till I know my doom ?" This he muttered to himself, scarcely to be heard by the spirit of the waters. He then again opened the volume, and was attracted to the fly-leaf, where he espied, in the sweetest writing in the world, a manuscript poem, by the author of the rest. He caught at it eagerly, not wholly from a love for that writing, but from a delight in the bard whom he venerated. It was a short poem, called "The Wishing-Gate;"and suppose we repeat it, as all may not have it engraven on their memories as I have.

THE WISHING-GATE.

In the vale of Grassmere, by the side of the highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-Gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue. Hope rules a land for ever green. All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen

Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught? the bliss draws near,
And fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of Wishes-There
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,
And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet, how forlorn, should ye depart,
Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate;
Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-Gate.
Enquire not if the fairy race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;

Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care;
And in her fondest love;
Peace to embosom and content,
To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yes! even the stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing and unknown,
The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his beloved-who makes
All happiness her own.

Then why should conscious spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?
The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew
A broken vow, or bind a true

With firmer, holier knot.
And not in vain, when thoughts are cast
Upon the irrevocable past,

Some penitent sincere
May for a worthier future sigh,
While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.

The worldling, pining to be freed
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,
Might stop before this favoured scene
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-Gate.

The sage, who feels how blind, how weak,
Is man, though loath such help to seek,
Yet, passing, here might pause,
And yearn for insight to allay
Misgiving, while the crimson day
In quietness withdraws ;--

Or whenthe church-clock's knell profound,
To Time's first step across the bound
Of midnight, makes reply:
Time pressing on, with starry crest,
To filial sleep upon the breast
Of dread Eternity!

They pleased much our youthful and ardent reader, and gave a gentle turn to his thinkings-for he dwelt more upon the important question which his uncle was in a manner to decide. "I will wend my way to this gate," said he; "why should not I seek a friendly sympathy in the being who rules there? Why should not I ask of that good angel a boon, such as my heart is panting for?" He sauntered on, and there were his hopes, his life, his all of promised joy and bless