have last year's goods on hand to dispose of; and amidst the beauty and fashion which everywhere surrounded him, he soon began to forget that Alicia existed. If he had imagined that she was penniless, for the credit of human nature we trust he would have exerted himself more cognizant, and this last fact must plead some slight excuse for him. She had only waited for his return to break off her engagement to him. Alicia was, from the depths of her soul, a true woman. Her mortified pride led her to determine on the above steps; but although supported by it to go through with her intentions, they were not felt the less; nor was her early affection in any de-effectually to find her; but of this he was not gree diminished for Egan. Her path is clear, but still she delays to take the final plunge; and notwithstanding she is obliged, however unwillingly, to allow to herself that he is not what he was when they parted, still she cannot bring herself to be the one to seal her own unhappiness. She had decided on going out as a governess, provided her fears were true (which now, alas! she could no longer doubt), and in this resolution she was induced to close rather hastily with an offer made her, to take care of the education of several little girls, to whose mother she had been recommended by the friend with whom she was staying. To one used to the business, the part of a governess is always a difficult one to play; to one unused to it, like Alicia, how much more so. We must do Egan the justice to say, that although absence and new scenes had caused him to forget in a great measure his youthful engagement, and to consider it in the light of a boyish folly, he was not aware for some time after of Mr. Ford's death, or of the utter destitution of his niece. Had he known it, we trust his conduct would have been less deserving of censure; for on taking the first opportunity to go down and see him and Alicia, he was greatly surprised and shocked to find Stoke Hall in the hands of other people, and its former possessor no more. per His inquiries after Alicia were unavailing; and then Egan felt how wrongly he had behaved, and would have done anything in his power to recal the past. Perhaps had he severed, he would have found out her present abode, for she was in London; but he strove rather to stifle than satisfy his conscience, consoling himself by repeating continually that theirs was a romantic love, more a matter of fancy than feeling; and that had she really cared for him, she would not have taken so much trouble to keep out of his way. He little knew that Alicia Ford was then undergoing the drudgery of a governess; looked down upon by the heads of the family, and disliked by all the servants—a gentlewoman, without the privileges of one-a servant, without the remuneration. * It was the beginning of a London season. The country was nearly deserted, and consequently dull to all except the sparrows; and Egan, following in the path which pleasureseekers led, soon found himself in town, and as overwhelmed with engagements as he could desire. Night after night saw him one of the most eager in the cultivation of a society in which folly vied with extravagance which should bear the palm from its rival. Invitations were numerous and various. Egan was sought after, as all eligible young men are, by chaperons who Amongst his acquaintances he was most frequently at the house of a Mrs. Berryl, a widow, with a good jointure, and one only daughter; who, having arrived at the age of four or fiveand-twenty, she was anxious to see married. Emma Berryl was a very handsome girl, accomplished, and a finished woman of the world. Continually invited by them to dinner, or the opera, their cavalier par excellence, Egan found himself unintentionally the acknowledged admirer of Miss Berryl. Arrived at his lodgings one evening, tired and dispirited, rather annoyed than otherwise at hearing his marriage with the above young lady talked of as a settled thing, he threw himself, as he was, in a chair, (for once) to think. The table was strewn with notes, cards, here a ridingwhip, there a faded bouquet; but amongst all the confusion, one small note shines forth conspicuously-at least to him-for in the handwriting he recognizes that of Alicia Ford. Poor Alice! is that sigh for you, or for him self? The letter is not dated; but these are the words : wish for none. | It is more than he has deserved, and he knows it. Two months later, and he is travelling with Emma Berryl in the south. They are married, and when he sails some months afterwards for India, to rejoin his regiment, she goes with him; and now we drop the curtain over a lapse of five years, only to draw it up again to finish our story. late at night; the clock in the passage ticks audibly, rendering the entire silence which pervades the house even more apparent by its monotonous sound. All seem asleep save the inmate of this room, and she appears worn out with anxiety and fatigue; for she leans her head upon her hands, and they both rest on the table. The clock strikes two. She raises her head, preparatory to rising, and we now see it is Alicia Ford; and how changed! It is now eight years since we first introduced her to our readers, as a girl of seventeen. The features are the same, and the beautiful hair; but the expression of her face-such a shade of melancholy has passed over that, as only does over the faces of those where all happiness has vanished, and life is endured only in anticipation of a future heaven; where all interest is confined to the occurrences of the moment, and the mind travels far beyond, fearing almost to look forward. The fire is out now, and the air is chilly. Alicia takes up the only candle in the room; for she too at last is going to bed. Her bed-room is at the top of the house; but still she has not far to go, as the school-room she has just left is on the same floor. It is a large house in which she lives, and its owners are pleasure-loving people; but the governess has little to do with all this; her life passes in the room we have just described, excepting when she takes a daily walk, either in the adjoining square or the park, in company with her young pupil. The latter is under the charge of Mr. Bryanstone, and it is his wife who engaged Alicia as governess for her. Strange things happen in this life; and when our heroine came to live in square, she heard that the little girl of whom she was to have the care was named Lucy Dalkeith; but she did not discover until some days afterwards that she was the only daughter of Egan; and when she did know it, her interest in the child, as may be imagined, was at once very great. But to explain how Lucy was consigned to the care of the Bryanstones, we must retrograde a little. In less than a year after Egan's marriage, he became the father of a girl, now about four years old; and her mother dying, from fever, two years after, induced him to send her, thus early, to England, to remain there during her childhood. Mrs. Bryanstone had no family, and Alicia was therefore engaged as much as a companion to Lucy as anything else, for as yet she was almost too young to learn. It was with a double interest that Alicia entered upon her new task. At last she had found an object in whose welfare to be anxious, and on whom to lavish much of that affection with which nature had so richly endowed her. Lucy was very docile and amiable, and knowing no other friend than her nurse, the one year Alicia and she had passed together was sufficient to render them much attached to each other; and she was loved by her governess, if not for her father's sake, for her own. He was still in India, though expected home very shortly. The latter fact did not prevent Alicia from remaining with Mrs. Bryanstone; as, under the name of Miss Wallace (by which she was now known), and trusting to the change which so many years had made in her personal appearance, she determined, if she could remain unrecognized by him, to continue in her present situation even after Egan's return. His elder brother had lost his life some months previously, from a fall at a steeple-chase; and now the death of his father induced the present baronet to sell out from his regiment and hasten home, his newly acquired property precluding the necessity of his continuing any longer in the army. But to return to our story. Alice had scarcely reached her room, when a loud knocking at the hall-door caused her to stop in her preparations for bed, and listen. At first she was startled, from the unexpectedness of the noise; but then, aware that the servants were (for once) asleep by this time, she hastily refastened her dress and proceeded down stairs, to open the door herself. She has thrown a shawl over her shoulders, which concealed her figure. The knocking was repeated. Whoever the visitor was, he seemed impatient. At length the heavy bolts were partly withdrawn, when by this time a sleepy footman has sufficiently awoke to help her. The door is open at last, and Alicia prepares to remount the staircase; but a little of woman's curiosity induces her previously to take a look at this unceremonious visitor. He enters, shaking the rain from his cloak and boots. "What! all in bed? Is Mr. or Mrs. Bryanstone at home? I thought I should more likely find some one up here, at this hour in the morning, than anywhere else; but I am afraid I have disturbed your dreams, my good fellow." There was no mistaking the voice, although an Indian sun had bronzed the face, and years had added grace and manliness to the form of the stripling. Alicia could scarcely breathe. She leaned against the wall for support. The now awakened servant led the way up-stairs, and Egan followed. He evidently did not recognize Alicia, for he looked steadily at her in passing, and, mistaking her for a servant, begged she would get a fire lighted as soon as possible in his room, as he had only landed a few hours ago, and was dreadfully cold. She answered not, but bowed her head; and, aware that he had mistaken her for one of the servants, felt secure for the present of remaining unknown to him. Some of the household were soon roused, and Alicia again sought her room, when she found that Egan was likely to have all he could require after his long journey. He had inquired for his child, and insisted upon seeing her, asleep as she was, in her little cot; and Alicia now, for the second time that night, bent over the sleeping infant, all unconscious as it was of her fastfalling tears. She went to bed; but lay awake for the few remaining hours there wanted to the next day. The past was too vividly before her, and so thickly crowded with painful reminiscences, that, after tossing about in a feverish and excited state, she arose unrefreshed, and dressing Lucy herself with more than usual care, proceeded with her to the school-room, trying to amuse the child until her father should send for her, which she expected he would as soon as he was up. The morning passed very slowly, for she had risen before seven, and it was now past ten, when a knock at the door was soon followed by the entrance of Egan himself. Alice curtsied to his salutation; but turned her head, and was about to leave the room, when she saw him sit down to caress Lucy, as if he had no immediate intention of leaving. Had she not had her eyes on the ground when Egan requested her to stay, she would have seen how fixedly he was regarding her. The darkness of the passage, the night before, had prevented his recognising her partially concealed figure; but now he evidently did so, and Alice had trusted too much to fancied alterations rather than real; for it is not the features or complexion, so much as the voice and smile, which leave an impression to be remembered ever afterwards. She did not speak, and she was surprised at his silence; for he sat, holding his child in his arms, and, if replying at all to her questions, so vaguely as to give his hearers the idea that his thoughts were far away. He had come into the school-room himself chiefly to inform Miss Wallace that he proposed going, almost immediately, into the country, and to ask her whether she was willing to go there also; but now he seemed to have forgotten his object, for, after kissing his child, he rose and hastily left the room; and Alice then felt she had done foolishly to put herself in the way of meeting him, as the agitation which accompanied it unfitted her for her daily duties. She could not read, nor instruct Lucy in her A B C (which as yet was the extent of her acquirements), and so she sat with her on her lap, playing with her, curling her hair, and listening to her prattle; and so the day passed, for they could not leave the house, the weather was too bad. Next morning saw Egan again in the schoolroom; and, this time, he said: "You are aware, Miss Wallace, perhaps, that I am about to live in the country; and of course I should wish to have Lucy with me. Mrs. Bryanstone has been kind enough hitherto to take care of her for me; but as I purpose remaining in England, I hope, for the rest of my life, I should like to get into -shire as soon as possible; and it is about this I have come to speak to you to ask you I had no idea," interrupted Alicia, "that Lucy was to be removed from home; I could not, I am afraid, remain with her if she leaves Mrs. Bryanstone. I am sorry-very sorry-to leave her; but I cannot go into shire," when she stopped. Egan rang the bell, and desired the nurse to take Lucy away for the present. When she was gone, he said: "It is ridiculous in me, Alice, to pretend that your change of name is a disguise sufficient to prevent my recognizing you. Why do you wish to be so entirely estranged from me as not even to acknowledge me as a friend? I had intended, from what the Bryanstones had told me, asking you to stay with my child, to take care of her, as you have done; now, of course, that is rendered impossible-at least in the capacity of governess. You do not answer me. If you will not, Alicia, I shall never have courage to tell you how my faults have been their own punishment. I will not say that a little less hastiness on your part might have prevented much that has taken place in the history of our two lives." Alicia had over-rated her own strength, and now she was quite overcome; but still she tried to conceal as much as possible how much she felt. "You may believe me, Sir Egan Dalkeith, when I tell you that had I for a moment thought that your return would have subjected me to this explanation, I should not have been here. I had expected that as your daughter's gowhat it was when we knew each other before, I verness, my position being so different from should have passed unnoticed by you. I had no intention of thus throwing myself in your path; for when I first engaged myself to Mrs. Bryanstone, I was not aware of the relationship existing between yourself and Lucy. If, as you say, you did know me at once, how for a moment could you contemplate ever asking me to accompany you to the country? You might have spared me all this." Egan answered not for the moment; he heard her tears come pattering down on the table, like rain, as she pretended to busy herself about disentangling some wool. Her back was turned towards him. At last he said: "Come and sit down beside me, Alice; I want to speak to you." She did as he wished. each other-you do not forget them, Alice?" "In those days when we were engaged to tale. "Oh, do not," exclaimed she; "do not reForget them?" Her sobs told a different vert to that time. If you are man, you should have more pity for me." You interrupt me, Alice. It is not pity I feel for you; it is a far deeper feeling. Listen to me, for I am going to tell you a story. When I left for India, Alice, I was a foolish boy-foolish in all respects but one, and that was my love for you. I will not strive to conceal or palliate my faults. Time and absence did serve to cool my affection, for the time. It wanted but your presence and more matured judgment to rivet the links which bound us together; and on my return, when, hearing of your misfortune and recent sorrow, I would have gone to you too gladly to offer you the only home I had, you purposely left me no means of discovering you; and convinced me, by those very measures, that you also saw that our engagement had been built upon sand." Alicia would have spoken; but he stopped her mouth with his hand, that she might hear to the end. "The letter you wrote me-if you could have known what pleasure that hand-writing gave me, even though on the point of marriage-as you supposed-with my late wife! You caused that marriage, Alicia! I never should have married Emma, but for your throwing me over so entirely; and then your letter so annoyed me, that I closed with her more from pique than anything else. The years which I have been away, and the want of mutual affection in my married life, has taught me the worth of love such as ours was. Can it ever be so again, Alice? It is for you to answer me." He waited for an answer; and she, who before had been so anxious to explain and exculpate herself, now was at a loss for words to reply to a simple question. "It wants but 'yes' or 'no,' dearest; will you not say which?" The old days seemed coming back. Old feelings were there already, and Egan strained Alicia to him, satisfied with no answer so well as her silence. They sat so long together that a winter's afternoon was closing, and still they sat there. Alicia was so happy in her pure love for him that she saw not his faults. She did not think his conduct selfish. She was too glad to believe all he said; he might have said much more-his lips made anything they uttered seem truth. It was doubtless a matter of surprise to many that Sir Egan Dalkeith should marry his governess; but the day for their wedding is now fixed, and I cannot leave them now that they have started on the road to happiness-or what is generally supposed to be such-although they have perhaps a better chance of it than many who undertake the same journey. "On revient toujours à ses premiers amours," says the proverb; though whether for "toujours" one might not read " quelquefois" is another question. A FAREWELL TO THE CRYSTAL PALACE. BY MRS. ABDY. Farewell to the Palace, gay, crowded, and bright, Shall I visit the life-breathing boar-hunt again? I pass, Enshrining the window of richly-stained glass? Shall I gaze on the landscapes in needle-work traced? Those records of Woman's skill, patience, and taste! The gathering nations have answered our call; A daily reward-the expansion of mind! And challenge all nations to vie with our own CANZONET. LOVE. HOPE. Dost thou seek love?-thou fliest Forth in a sea of tempests, while the flame MOONLIGHT MUSINGS. BY ROBERT HARRISON BROWNE. Fain would I give my heart some rest, I meditate, I watch and weep. THE STORY OF A FAM I L Y.* These two elegant volumes contain a tale which is so much above the average merit of domestic fiction, that our office in introducing it to the readers of this periodical is a positive pleasure. Before entering upon the critical portion of our task it may, perhaps, be as well to communicate the historical information we have gathered concerning "The Story of a Family." The greater portion of these two volumes appeared in sequence, from month to month, in the pages of "Sharpe's Magazine," and was found so attractive to many readers, that when the sequence was interrupted, as it was occasionally, the editor was remonstrated with severely by some of his fair correspondents. At length, owing to the combined force of many little circumstances which it was not deemed necessary to impart to the readers of "Sharpe," as in all probability they in no way concerned them, "The Story of a Family" was brought to a rather sudden pull up in the middle of the course, and the disappointment of its admirers was only mitigated by the cold comfort tendered them in the form of an "envoi," stating the possibility that the tale would be continued at some future time. It has not been continued in a serial form since; but the portion already published, together with a fitting continuation and conclusion (the untimely one in the magazine being set aside), has been republished in the form before us-a form, we beg leave to say, generally to be preferred for any work of fiction to a serial one, whether in the pages of a magazine or within the confines of its own proper, private, and peculiar cover. It Turn we now to the tale itself. It may be characterized briefly as a domestic romance. is not an every-day story of an every-day family, in which the excellence lies in accurate representations of every-day life, and in seemingly unconscious and unintentional production of what everybody recognizes, in a moment, as unadorned reality. It is by no means a story of a family such as Jane Austen would have written; it is the product of a very different sort of mind; and yet we are reminded of that authoress when we come to reflect on the works of S. M. Why is this? Probably quite as much on account of the very great difference as on account of the few points of similarity. We know it is the fashion to treat Miss Austen's novels as if they were exempt from the weakness and shortcomings of human works generally, and a great deal of falseness about them gets current in consequence. But, as we are not disposed to fall into this fashion after acknowledging Miss Austen's large share of merit "The Story of a Family," by S. M.; author of "The Maiden Aunt;" "Lays and Ballads from English History" (Hoby). after willingly conceding the point that she represents ordinary people and things as they are, with a searching fidelity and with keenness and depth of insight into human character, which scarcely any writer of fiction has ever surpassed--after this acknowledgment, we hold ourselves free to compare her books with those of other persons, even of her own sex. S. M., then, the authoress of "The Story of a Family," though far inferior in the clearness and quickness of perception, and the logical judgment shown by Miss Austen in her artistic sketches of human character, which are fac-similes of the beings she intends to represent-though inferior, also, in one or two other important points, in wit, in satirical humour, in power of holding all the parts of her story together, and evolving the plot so that at the close of the book you recognize the meaning of the whole and the exquisite skill that mastered and controlled each separate part, and in the perfect correctness and finish of detail-though inferior in all these points, we are inclined to grant S. M. precedence in one or two essential points, and equality in some others. The thing that first strikes every discerning mind on reading "The Story of a Family," is that it is written by a well-bred English gentlewoman, whose experience has been "far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife," and in all probability 66 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life." This is also the case with Miss Austen's novels. You feel at once that they must have been in a beautiful country-place, with a loving written by a girl well-born and well-nurtured, family circle about her to delight in her genius, and to foster it with love and pride. You hear that she was a beneficed clergyman's daughter, and you say to yourself, "Of course she was." Are not all the blessings of her parentage perceptible in her books? She is a lady-a culti vated woman-a woman trained from the cradle in habits of virtue and religion, who has been shielded from the touch of evil by the happy sanctities of home. All that she writes is healthy, and intolerant of sickliness-here the similarity between the two writers seems to subdivide into a difference. Miss Austen lived before the present introspective, conscious, subjective generation to which S. M. belongs. She took things as she found them, and asked not for their inner meaning. She was neither a poet nor a philosopher. S. M. is both, to the extent to which circumstances have allowed her to be so; therefore she speculates about the spiritualities of things when she should be reflecting their phenomena in her fiction as in mirror. She sends her mind wandering over the minds of her dramatis persone in a subtle, but somewhat dreamy fashion, showing a critical |