sorrow, and carried on a wanton flirtation with a student of the college who lodged opposite. With this falsified statement were blended some facts in order to colour the whole with truth!

Moreton was distracted, and would at once have flown to the north; his duties precluded the possibility of such opportunity. Soon a newspaper was sent to him, setting forth Emily's marriage with another; his father followed this up by a letter purporting to corroborate the same; the youth reluctantly believed in her betrayal of his love. The newspaper and the letter lay at his feet-he stood bewildered in statuary sorrow-he spoke not, wept not, his grief was too intense for tears-"Perfidious wretch!" he was about to say-the words were stifled in attempting utterance, he could not even now thus speak of one whom he had so fondly, tenderly loved! Weary days and weary nights dragged over, in the path of loneliness and in the hour of darkness he shed some burning tears, which scorchingly flowed from the consuming crater of his bosom. Thus

was her silence, thought he, explained-she had then forsaken-forgot him-flown to the embraces of another. Sadness settled darker and darker over his soul-midnight sorrow at length brooded over it!

The regiment was ordered to London; at this intelligence Moreton was glad, if his embittered heart could now be deemed capable of any emotion of gladness. It was, however, a change, he had seen little of the capital, and new scenes and new associations might divert his reflections from such gloomy channels. Colonel Sommerton's anxieties relative to his young friend, were by no means inconsiderable. When he beheld that working countenance, those muttering lips, and the settled grief which sat in his eye, his own heart sympathized with peculiar concern. From being boisterous and frolicsome, a sombre gravity had now become the characteristic feature.

After his arrival at London, he manifested none of that anxious interest and desire for sight-seeing, so common with strangers in the mighty city. The wondrous spectacles

obstruded so constantly on the notice of others were passed unconcernedly by him. The theatres, the clubs, the parks, the palaces, the thousand attractions which pleased the many, interested not Moreton De Bohun. With his lively companions in arms it was otherwise; they projected pleasures, got up parties, invented amusements, in the hope that one who once was so gay, and the very incarnation of mischievous fun, would be restored to what he had beenwould sweep the cloud from his brow. The ensign to whom we have previously alluded, and who was Moreton's most confidential companion, reached his majority; he gave a banquet in celebration of the event, and De Bohun would fain have excused himself under the plea of indisposition-his friend would hear no excuse the entertainment was sumptuous, all seemed happy. De Bohun drank freely of the sparkling moselle, his soul warmed up, and a few struggling rays of sunlight dimpled his cheeks with smiles. The tale, the laugh, the repartee, went round; the brisk champagne, the

bouquet-flavoured claret, with boasted vintages of other wines, in due order passed round the crimson ranks, and every face was joyous. The merry peals of laughter in which M'Leech indulged, indicated this to be one of his nights, and his sharp satire, ready wit, and comic mimicking, set the table in a roar.

It hath previously been told the reader, that the chirurgical character in question ever grew sentimental over his cups. A corpulent major sat by his side, and who was widely known by the surname of Broadbelt. He and M'Leech had been long cronies over their wassail bowls, and the former knew the latter's nature to a tittle. Major Broadbelt insisted on his old familiar singing a song.

SONG.

The true heart will love on-when its young dreams have

fled,

And the idol it worshipped hath gone to decay;
It will linger o'er shades of the changed or the dead
Like the last golden light of the sun's setting ray.

The true heart will love on--through the chances of life,
If it ever hath knelt at Affection's true shrine;
Through storms and through sunshine-through reproaches

and strife,

It will nurture and cherish that passion divine!

The true heart will love on- though the cold world

contemn,

And the stern or the selfish despise or reprove, It will pulsate in fondness regardless of them

In all feelings be altered except in its love!

The true heart will love on-aye! when falseness and guile
Have e'en made a wreck and a desolate thing;

And the joys of the past will long over it smile
Like the tendrils of verdure that round ruins cling!

M'Leech never sang with more taste and pathos; the melancholy tone of the air as of the words, the soul and reality of feeling with which he attuned his sweet voice, had on all a telling effect. The wine-cup had passed round merrily, but none had quaffed to inebriety; many a bosom heaved unconsciously, and in more eyes than one the tear of emotion, awakened by memories gone, essayed to start! De Bohun listened in mute attention-he silently raised the nectar to his lips-he did so again and again! At the conclusion of the last stanza he unobservedly stole from the room. One near him had the moment before remarked how his hand trembled as he raised his cup, and, too, how his countenance waxed of swarthier hue.