parts. The fact appeared most evident, that I now held in my hand the very lines which had been so mysteriously chanted in my ears at that time. I was now, if possible, more perplexed, although, certainly, less agitated than when they were sung. I instantly rung the bell, without knowing what definite design I had in so doing. By the time the waiting-maid entered, I had seated myself in my chair, and appeared carelessly perusing the paper, which I still held in my hand. I desired the breakfast-service might be removed, and, while the task was performing, inquired of the fair attendant, if she could inform me by whom those pretty lines were written,-carelessly tossing them on the table. "No, sir," was the laconic answer, returned with a smile and courtesy; and it appeared likely that I should be compelled to leave the mystery undeveloped still.

Anxious, however, to be informed of what I felt so greatly interested in; yet fearful to speak, lest I should drop anything that might lead to a disclosure of my last evening's consternation, I pushed them, with a seeming indifference, further from me, observing, "I suppose that is your writing, Mary," for so I had heard her mother call her. "Yes, sir," the blushing maid replied. “And pray from what book did you copy them?" "I did not copy them from any book," answered my fair waiter; "they were given me, sir, by-by-sir,by-William." She hesitated, stammered, blushed, stopped. "Oh! oh! I see," said I,-wishing

to save her from more confusion, that I might, if possible, reach the end of the communication, and obtain the information I wanted,-"you received them from a friend;-well, well, no matter. I suppose, then, Mary, he is the unknown author, and love" "No, indeed, sir," interrupted the blushing girl, as she pushed back a strayling curl; "indeed he is not, he heard poor Emma Wilkinson sing them, as several others have done, every night in the church-yard." "Indeed!" I observed, with considerable agitation, which I could scarcely control. "And pray who is Emma Wilkinson?" "She is a poor crazed girl, sir, who visits, every night, the grave of poor Alfred's parents, and sings over them several melancholy pieces." The call of "Mary," from her mother, broke off our colloquy. As she hasted out of the room, I thanked her for the information she had communicated-by which I felt considerably relieved on the one hand, and oppressed on the other. "So then," thought I, "it was poor Emma who sang so enchantingly to me, although I knew her not. I must, however, if possible, learn something of her history. Poor Emma, although ignorant of the circumstances which have led to so awful a catastrophe, yet from my heart I pity you."

I now determined to seize some opportunity to enter more fully into conversation with the pretty waiting-maid upon the subject, and therefore settled in my mind that I would spend another night at the village inn. Yielding to the impulse of the

moment, I set off to visit by daylight the scene of my last night's fears; and taking the nearest way, soon found myself occupying the seat which I had filled on the preceding evening. I had taken my place only a few minutes, when I perceived, slowly pacing the gravelled pathway, and evidently making towards the seat on which I sat, a venerable old man. Adown his shoulders fell a profusion of snow-white hair, which seemed to proclaim "his lengthened years.' A cane, the mounted head of which, threw back a dazzling sheen, as the sun's rays occasionally glanced upon it, supported his trembling frame. His garb, although after the costume of the olden times, was respectable, and his general appearance indicated that he was one of the "respectables" of the village.

I always respect old age; and when old age respects itself, I love-I almost reverence it. I rose from my seat, and hastening towards the stranger, gave and received a courteous salute. We soon filled the sitting, side by side, between the two aged elms, and a little conversation made us as intimate as old friends.

A slight glance at my companion was sufficient to convince me, that the lines formed in his placid countenance, were rather the effects of sorrow than of age. They were deep and expressive; not like the signs of the gradual and easy wearing out of nature, but such as the rough-barbed tool of heartfelt sorrow would be likely to produce. Still

there was a placidity-a resignation of a nameless order-playing about his features, like a halo of glory, bedecking the seamed brows of a veteran victor, which could scarcely fail to inspire the beholder with sympathy and reverence.

"I should imagine, sir," said my aged friend, in reply to some observations I had made in reference to the beauty of the surrounding scenery, "I should suppose, sir, from the ardour with which you express yourself upon our Sussex landscapes, that you are either an entire stranger to this part of the country, or that you are not frequent in your visits." "I am, sir," I replied, "a perfect stranger to it: my first visit here was made on the past evening. Charmed with the prospects by which I was surrounded on entering the village, I was determined to indulge myself with a few hours' stroll through at least a part of this Elysium scenery; and, without knowing whither I went, I wandered on, until the setting sun warned me of the departure of day, and admonished me to return. I did so, by this pathway; and indulging, on this seat, in a lonely, melancholy revery, I was almost lost to a consciousness of my situation, when-when-" I stammered at an attempt to retreat from a narrative on which I perceived I had proceeded too far already: my feelings had triumphed-not indeed a frequent case with me over my discretion. The old man perceived my embarrassment, and, turning upon me a look which bespoke unutterable things, obliged me to proceed

in the best way I was able, without exposing my recent fears:" when, sir, my ears were assailed by sounds of the most ravishing harmony, proceeding, as I have since learned, from a female ma-" "Oh! my daughter!" groaned the patriarchal form beside me, covering, at the same time, his face with his hands,-while, through his fingers, I perceived the big round tears oozing like streams from a pent-up fountain. "Your daughter, sir?" I exclaimed, with a feeling which can neither be painted nor conceived. "Yes, sir, my daughter, my poor, poor child! Emma,-my beloved, my unhappy child! oh! oh! oh!" sobbed out the distressed parent. I forgot I was a stranger to him; his sorrows made him dear to me; I seized his hand, and wept with him. After nature had in part relieved herself, I attempted an apology for the grief I had innocently occasioned. He perceived my intention, and, with a smile of dignified urbanity, assured me that an apology was not necessary. "Your sympathy, sir," he continued, "has laid me under obligation, and if the detail of the unhappy circumstances which led to the breaking up of one of the finest minds of a created being-if the fondness of a father may be allowed to judge-would in any way interest you, I shall feel something like relief by reciting them to one, so evidently capable of judging of their aggravations as yourself." I attempted to assure the old gentleman of the mournful pleasure I should receive, by being so far obliged. "If your