THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. At a AMONG the innumerable lovers of the scenery of Devonshire, there are many who have never seen, or heard of, the Castle of Berry-Pomeroy. Its situation is so retired, so undiscoverable without a guide, that it is no wonder if many a party of tourists has passed its very entrance without being aware that an object so well worthy their attention was at hand. The situation of the ruin is as singular as it is beautiful. short distance from Totness, a narrow lane diverges from the main road, at the extremity of which is a gate and palisade, so high, as to prevent the visitor from forming any idea of what is to be seen beyond. Entrance being afforded by the gate-keeper, the traveller descends a steep path, which winds between two wooded hills, till he finds himself at the bottom of a deep dell, circular as a basin, the sides of which are feathered with every variety of foliage up to their very summits. A fine stream of water runs round the base of the hill, and on it is a water-mill, placed as if purposely to contrast its humble comfort with the mouldering grandeur of the ruin which towers above it. The right time to behold the scene is just before sun-set, when the lower part of the dell is enveloped in the shadows of evening, and the castle alone stands radiant in the sunlight. Then the miller may be seen, with his horse, descending the steep path which leads to his dwelling; and his daughter, graceful and beautiful as evening, is tending her flowers, in the garden which slopes down to the stream; or her voice may be heard, echoing up the hill, to warn the children who are at play among the ruins, that the sun is setting and it is time to come home. Never was situation more retired than this; for there is no access to it but by the gate, of which the miller keeps the key. Yet, as parties of strangers sometimes visit the castle, and as on these occasions the beautiful girl I have mentioned is sometimes obliged to act as guide, she has acquired an address free from awkward shyness, and as graceful as it is modest. a child, Mary was the gayest of the gay; and her parents let her run wild, and amuse her little life as she would. But when she was about seventeen, a sudden and remarkable change took place. She loved and was beloved ;-but, being somewhat spoiled by indulgence, and too young and giddy to make a right use of her power, she trifled with her lover, offended him, and while boasting of her influence and meditating some new exertion of it, she was struck dumb by re-, ceiving a letter from him, announcing his departure from Dartmouth as a sailor, and bidding her farewell. Mary never got over the shock. She never complained, for she knew that she had brought her sorrow on herself; she never mentioned his name, nor did her parents speak of him; but they tried by fresh indulgence to NO. XLIII. VOL. IV. As [VOL. 4. win back her smiles, and lighten her heavy heart. But Mary no longer liked, or would accept, indulgence. She was humbled ; and she seemed to find comfort in being as unlike as possible to what she had formerly been. She became industrious, grave, and womanly. She took care of the little ones; she assisted her mother; and the only amusement she cared for, was to set the children to play hide-and-seek at the castle. In vain did her parents sigh for the sound of her light laughter; she was gentle; but it was plain that she could no longer be gay. One day, a large party arrived to view the castle. The miller was gone to Totness, and his wife was busy : so Mary took the key and acted as guide. She left the gate open, as she thought her father might return while she was in the ruin. He did return, and impatiently sought his wife; and, with a countenance of astonishment, asked who had arrived, and where Mary was. Being told that she was with a party of strangers at the castle, and that no remarkable visitor was among them, he related an extraordinary tale. He was descending the path just above the mill, when he heard a rustling among the leaves, and looking that way, he saw a man stealing along behind the trees, evidently wishing to avoid notice. The miller called; but no answer being returned, he jumped from his horse and pursued the intruder, who once turned his head, and then fled faster than the miller could pursue. Yet the glimpse which he had obtained of the face, urged the good man to greater speed; for it seemed the face of Mary's lover. After a fruitless chase, the miller paused, and thought it best to hasten home and ask his wife's advice. She felt certain of her husband's having mistaken the identity of the person; for George was not to return these many months; and as for his having a sailor's jacket on, so many sailors came up from Dartmouth, that that fact told nothing. However, the dear child must not be left to be alarmed by any trespasser, and her husband must make as much haste as he could up the hill. The miller was still breathless, but he delayed no longer than to agree with his wife that not a syllable should be said to Mary of the adventure. He kept a sharp look out, as he followed the winding path up the hill. Once he thought, but he could not be sure, that he saw a man standing in the shadow of the ruin; but when he reached the spot, no one was there. Then he heard the tone of a gruff voice very near. The miller turned quickly round an angle of the building, and seized on a man who stood with his back to him. It proved to be a gentleman of the party, and the good man was obliged to apologize, again and again, in the best words he could find; and to make the most of his certainty of a trespasser being at hand. Luckily, his daughter was not present to witness so unusual an exertion of the good man's energies. When she came up with the rest of N the party, she offered the keys to her father, saying, her mother wanted her; but, to her surprise, the miller forbade her to leave him. The mysterious stranger appeared no more that day: and the only effect of the apparition was, to make Mary's parents determine never to lose sight of her-never to allow her to ascend the hill by herself-till they should hear some certain intelligence of George. It was no difficult task to keep Mary in sight, without her being aware that she was watched. For many days no strangers arrived, and Mary was fully occupied at home, and found, in her pretty garden, all the relaxation she wanted. Then rainy weather came, and there was no temptation to go out. The first fine day, after a week of rain, was market day at Totness, and the miller's wife mounted her horse to go to the town. She had never believed that the apparition, which had troubled her husband, was George himself. She was far from being convinced that he had seen any one; or, if he had, it was either some servant belonging to the strangers, or a sailor, who chose to see the ruin without seeking the gate-keeper. Whoever it might be, the danger seemed over, as he had never returned. So the good dame did not trouble herself to tell her husband the hour of her departure; but, leaving Mary plenty of employment, she trotted off unnoticed by the miller. Mary sat down to her work, but was soon interrupted by the children. Very true," said Mary; just for half-an-hour." “and I will go with you So she tied on her bonnet, and carried the youngest child up the steep hill, while the others ran on before. The children were full of play; they climbed the broken walls, and called to their sister to jump them down again. They laughed at their own little feats, and when they looked in Mary's face, she smiled kindly at them; but then she remembered the time when she was as merry as they, and she sighed. When she and the children were tired of climbing and jumping, they sat down, and the little ones pulled off her bonnet and stuck it all round with wood anemones; and then she remembered who had done the same thing, in the same place, a year before, and the tears came into her eyes. After a while, the children besought her to play hideand-seek with them, and she did so. She hid herself with all proper caution, and burst from her hidingplace with due eagerness to catch her little playmates, whose shouts of glee echoed through the building. search. She had by this time caught the spirit of the game, and was almost as intent upon it as her little brothers. She kept a watchful eye on all sides; she listened for every little noise; and trod as softly, as if there was any fear of a step so light as her's being heard. She fancied that the children had chosen to hide in a different part of the building from that where they had previously played, though equally near to the goal. That way she turned, and presently she saw, behind a corner, the flap of a coat. She gave notice of having seen it, and ran to the goal, but no one followed. She called again, but no one came out; she thought she had been mistaken, and again began her search, amidst the most profound stillness. With stealthy pace she approached the corner, ready to spring away at the first alarm. No alarm was given, and the coat flap was no longer visible. She drew nearer and nearer, touched the wall, and, pushing back her bonnet, bent her head forward and forwarder, and at length fairly turned the corner. She caught some one, but it was not John or Charles ;-no; it was George himself. Mary screamed, and sank on the ground. The children flew from their hiding places, and her lover raised her, and soothed her startled spirits with his words of tenderness. He loved her more than ever. He had heard of the change which had taken place in her after his depar ture he determined to see and judge for himself, before he ventured to subject himself again to the heartbreaking caprices of one he could not cease to love. For this purpose he had trespassed again and again, though he had only been once observed; for this purpose he had overlooked her garden from the top of a neighbouring tree; for this purpose he had flitted through the thickets on the side of the hill, and concealed himself in the ruin. He had seen the tears start to her eyes this day, and her sigh was not lost upon him. It determined him to seek her that very day, and he only waited her departure from the castle, to follow her home and renew his suit. It was not his intention to startle her as he had done, but she was so bent on searching the corner where he had concealed himself that there was no escape.-No harm was done: she soon recovered sufficiently to send the children down, and to follow with no other support than the arm of her lover. Her fond mother has again been gladdened by her merry laugh; and her father is often heard to appeal to Mary's judgment, whether, of all the sports thatever were invented, there is no one that can compare with Hide-and-Seek. I WILL COME TO THY BOWER. BALLAD FOR MUSIC. I will come, I will come to thy bower Tho' the blossoms we gather'd are blighted, I will come when the starlight is shining I will come when the dew drops entwining A WOMAN'S HISTORY. Poor little chick, for all thy chirping, THAT LOVE is the history of a woman's life, is a saying so true as to have become trite. It is the great lottery in which she ventures her whole happiness; and, as she draws prize or blank, is her lot cast for life. Thus, being given, as I am, to speculate upon the philosophy of the passions, often, when I see before me a young person, the first chapter of whose history is yet to be written,—often do I figure to myself the probable course of the narrative, its incidents, its crisis, and its issue, and feel a mixture of interest and pity for the heroine, as I anticipate the too probable colour of the story. There are few objects of comtemplation, indeed, more attractive than a young girl at that period of life, when the gentle whisperings of her heart begin to give a certain degree of consciousness to her manner-and when that capability of loving, and that craving to love, which permeate her whole being, have not yet become concentrated upon any one object. The slight passing fancy of a day, or a week, will probably several times have flitted across the surface of her mind, without leaving more impression than the clouds which cast their shadows upon a lake, and then drift away before the wind. But, when her hour does come; when all the feelings of a young and ardent soul are indeed tossed in the whirlwind of the Great Passion,-when, in a word, she loves, then deep is the responsibility of that man who has called those feelings forth, for the happiness or misery of a fellow-creature is in his hands -perhaps the weal or woe of an immortal soul. I will leave the latter question aside-it is too awful for contemplation here, and who, on this side the grave shall dare to judge it?-But on the result of that affection depends, most assuredly, not the external fate merely, but the personal character and disposition also for life. On him it rests-as he moulds the clay, so will the vessel be shapen,-for seven times heated is the furnace of Passion in which its form is fixed. When a woman, in her youth, surrenders her heart into her lover's keeping, she yields up the control of her whole being-it is thereafter what he chuses it to be-she is powerless, helpless she cannot get free-" for all her chirping, she is in the fox's paw." I have always regarded this old burthen, jocose though it be in phraseology, as containing the germ of much sad thought. The metaphor is, as I need scarcely say, typical of a higher grade in the creation-of those young human birds of whom I have been speaking, who, dazzled by the beauty of their plumage, and trusting too soon to the strength of their wing, venture from the maternal roost, and fall into the grasp of those who NO. XLIII. VOL. IV. are, too often, wily and merciless as the hill-fox himself. That clutch once closed, is never loosed again: or, at least, not until all the sweetness, and worth, and beauty of the victim have been rifled. And yet, it would almost seem strange that these things should happen so often; for all the sophistry that the most accomplished lover ever spoke is too plainly such not to be crumbled into dust by one breath of common sense, if that breath were uttered. Nay, it not unfrequently has occurred, that one true and just word, spoken or suggested by sheer chance, has destroyed in an instant an elaborate fabric of sentiment and false reasoning which it had taken vast skill, time, and labour to erect. But the truth is, that Passion pleads with us-and that the will panders to the reason. Excuses are presented to the mind, which, in its heated state, it eagerly grasps at, contented with their outward shew, and carefully abstaining from applying to them the Ithuriel's spear of cool sense and judgment. But the mind is in an heated and unhealthful state, and this is the great cause of all the ill that follows: A knotty point to which we now proceed But you are tired-I'll tell a tale Agreed. I was living, some years ago, in a retired part of the country, where, among my neighbours, resided a widow lady and her daughter. The old lady was the widow of an officer in the army, and in easy though moderate circumstances; the daughter-aye, that daughter, many a time and oft has she been to me the subject of that species of contemplation of which I have spoken. above; and, perhaps, I had her before my memory's eye when I did speak of it. When I first knew her, she was about sixteen, and certainly a more fascinating creature could not well be conceived. Bred up entirely in retirement she had (as generally results from it, when its direct opposite does not,) a wild freedom of manner, very different indeed from what that expression would signify in the world, and consequently often mistaken by a mere man of the world—but extremely delightful to those who look into the heart, and know what it means in reality. Her " animal spirits" were excessive-but such was her fascinating beauty (I must use the epithet a second time, for, after suspending my pen for five minutes thinking for another, I can find none to express my meaning,) that they never in the least called up the idea of a hoyden,-and there was something in the deep expression of her auburn eyes, which shewed plainly to those who understand such diagnostics, that an ardent and sensitive soul was within, which, if now dormant, needed but object and occasion to call it into full and vehement life. I have used in the last sentence, which I would not break to explain it, the expression" auburn eyes,"-and, indeed, I scarcely can explain it to those who do not understand it without any explanation. But they will readily call to mind the brilliant description of beauty which that colour of the eyes indicates and accompanies; a skin, namely, of the most dazzling whiteness, though here and there a freckle, lightly marked, just breaks its uniformity; hair profuse, and bright as the plumage of a pheasant's Freckle is probably too harsh a word to express the delicate variation of skin of which I would speak; but it is not my fault if the English language be wanting in a competent graduation of terms to express the numberless shades and condiments of female beauty. N 2 back—while the mouth mantles with a dimpled smile, and teeth of ivory beam through lips of roses. There are many people who will say, that I have described a red-haired, freckled tomboy; but it is not for such persons that I write, and those for whom I do, will understand exactly what poor, poor Fanny was in the days of her lovely youth. Often and often did I reflect how thoroughly I must have been right, in supposing my days of love passed for ever, that I did not fall in love with Fanny Capel. But I did not-and, consequently, we were the greatest friends in the world. There was only the length of lane between her mother's house and mine-and I can see her now, as she used to come bounding along it, with a straw hat flung loosely on the back of her head, and sometimes without even that, and her hair blown in fifty directions by the wind, as she cut through it like a new Atalanta. And, then with her face beaming like the morning, she would run into my study to borrow a volume of Racine or to beg me to construe a passage in Tasso, aye, or of Guicciardini. For, strange to say, young lady though she was, she did not consider the object of the acquisition of a language attained in the acquisition itself, but regarded it as opening to her a storehouse of original literature; and her taste led equally to history as to poetry-she liked to know, as well as to enjoy. She was, indeed, a being whose mind was attuned to fine issues-all depended upon how they would be called forth. It was evident that for her there was no medium-her history could not be a tame one; she must be either most happy or most miserable; and often, as I gazed upon her beaming and beautiful face, did my anxiety become almost painful for the result. The time approached when her fate was to be fixed for ever; and I was, unconsciously, in some degree its means. I was staying a few days at the house of a gentleman, who lived about four miles from me, when I met an old college friend, whom I had not seen for six or seven years, and whom I was delighted again to meet. I asked him to return home with me-and he came. Sir Edward Vernon-that was his name-was, at the time of which I speak, in the very prime of youthful manhood; aud his great advantages of person were enhanced by an air of cultivation and intelligence, which is the true cestus to male beauty. His father had not long been dead; and, previonsly, Vernon had passed some years abroad, as an attaché to one of our embassies. This had given to his manners the finish of the best breeding, without that conventional mannerism which is so often taught in the clique of exclusive society in London. For the rest, he had none of the coldness of a diplomate about him; his feelings were keen, and his manner was warm and eloquent. His education had tempered, not destroyed, that ardour of disposition for which he had been remarkable at Oxford. Such was the man who was destined to win the inestimable heart of Fanny Capel. The first time they met was at my house, when there were a good many people present. The conversation chanced to turn upon some continental subject, and Vernon was appealed to. The topic was one on which he felt considerable interest; and he spoke with much animation and energy. It happened, that, whilst he was speaking, my eye fell upon Fanny. Little accustomed to the restraints of society, she allowed the admiration with which she listened to appear but too plainly upon her expressive countenance. Her head was slightly inclined backward—her eyes wer keenly bent upon Sir Edward's face-and her lips were slightly parted with that expression which bespeaks the most intense attention. As Vernon let fall a generous sentiment, her eye flashed responsively, and an approving smile irradiated her face. When he ceased, her gaze continued fixed on him for some time, as though to scan further a character, of which her first knowledge pleased her so much-and, as at last she turned away, I could perceive (which I dare say she did not) a gentle sigh escape her. That was the first he caused her to breathe-would to God it had been the last also! On that evening Vernon was not introduced to her; but he was too good a judge, and too great an admirer, of beauty, not to be struck with her appearance, and to question me concerning her. I confess I was made somewhat uneasy by what I had observed-for, much as Vernon was calculated to win the affections of an amiable woman, he was eminently little likely to repay them. Bred in the latitude of continental ideas upon these subjects, he had manifestly been an enfant gâté des dames all his life—and was, of all men, the least likely to become seriously attached to a wild and rustic beauty such as Fanny. For the rest, he had a good heart, when he allowed it fair play-and I did not fear his taking advantage of so guileless and unguarded a creature. And I am convinced I did him no more than justice: he had no intention of tampering with her affections I do verily believe;-but his curiosity was awakened by the singularity of her manner--which, to him who had been so long accustomed to the factitious characters of a court, seemed doubly so and he began by merely seeking to draw her out, and to analyze her real disposition. How dangerous such an occupation must become, it needs very little experience to judge; and, acordingly, the interest which Sir Edward took in it soon began to assume a very suspicious complexion. Some circumstance or other constantly drew him to Mrs. Capel's cottage. He was an admirable musician, and he had with him all the scarcest, music of Germany and Italy, and this he was to lend to Fanny, and then he had to teach her perfectly to master it. She drew beautifully, and he had antiques, and prints of costume, to lend her to copy. She was in the constant habit of riding-and, by the strangest accident, Sir Edward generally chanced to meet her two days out of three. Oh! those halcyon days of dawning love! Poor Fanny! -they were probably the most exquisitely happy she ever knew! With the whole ardour of her ardent soul did she give herself up to this new and enthralling passion; here was a man equally capable of exciting admiration and love-handsome in person, gifted in mind, accomplished in manner-and what probably was equal to all three, who had had experience and success among women. Her attachment to him was so rapid, -naturally so, under all the circumstances of her position and his, but still unlooked for by him—that I believe he was startled by finding himself the object of a strong and ardent passion, while he had merely thought he had excited the interest of a favoured, but recent, acquaintance. That he had had no further design originally, I again repeat, I believe; but he himself became entangled, and hurried onward by the force of her feelings. Who, indeed, could find himself beloved by a being such as Fanny-so young, so exquisitely lovely, so gifted, so fresh and new in heart-the very rapidity and intensity of her affection proving its unconsciousness and purity-who could, I say, know himself to be beloved by a creature like this, without his whole soul taking fire at the bare knowledge that so it was?-Certainly, Sir Edward was not such a man. But of this progress of their attachment I was not conscious at the time; my knowledge is derived from what I gathered afterwards. It had, I fear, arrived at this pitch of maturity, when I thought it only in the germ. Alarmed at the frequency of Sir Edward's visits to the cottage, I determined to stop them altogether; and I consequently gladly availed myself of some business which called me to London, to put a period to Vernon's visit. We went to town together; I was detained there considerably longer than I expected, and afterwards went into a distant part of the country, before I returned home. Upwards of two months had elapsed since I left it. It was now the beginning of June, and the summer was early and luxuriant. I arrived at home about three o'clock, and determined to walk down to the cottage to see my friends there, before dinner. Mrs. Capel's cottage deserved its name, being of moderate size, and thatched; but nothing could be more charming than it was at this time of the year. The walls were covered with jessamines, and flowering creepers of every description; and the smoothly shaven turf was interspersed with the most abundant profusion of roses. The room in which they ordinarily sat-full of books and music, and cabinet pictures, and those innumerable et ceteras, whose names, if they have any, are unknown to me, which bespeak habitation, and habitation by women-opened down to the ground, and was entered directly from the garden: by this way I came. Using the privilege of an old friend, I had lifted the latch of the garden-gate, and went straight to the drawing-room, without being announced. As I entered the room, I started with the most extreme surprise: Fanny was seated on the end of the sofa, with her harp before her, as if she had been playing on it, though it was now untouched. By her side was Sir Edward Vernon! One of her hands was held in his; he was speaking animatedly and rapidly, though in a low tone, while her head was dropped upon her breast, and her hair hung over her brow and eyes so as to hide from me their expression. On her cheek, however, I thought I discerned the trace of a half-dried tear. Such was the group which met my astonished eyes, as I entered Mrs. Capel's cottage. I believe I expressed my astonishment audibly, for they both started up; and their surprise was mingled with great confusion. Sir Edward was the first to recover himself; and, without taking any notice of the situution in which I had found him, he answered readily to my exclamation of wonder at seeing him, that he was passing a short time at Mr.▬▬▬'s (the gentleman at whose house we had met,) who had pressed him exceedingly to come down to an archery meeting, which was shortly to take place, “Humph!” said I, "I did not know you were an amateur of archery." "Nor am I," he answered-" but point with me to come.' made it a I gave him a reproachful look-but did not press the subject. By this time Fanny had recovered herself, and welcomed me with her usual warmth and cordiality of manner. But its usual ease and freedom were gone. She had tasted of the forbidden fruit, and she was ashamed. I sat some time, and shewed Sir Edward I was determined not to leave him behind me. Finding he could not outstay me, he rang for his horse, seeming to be as determined not to have a tête-a-tête with me as I went home, as I was that he should not have a second with Fanny. He mounted his horse, and, saying I should see him in a day or two, cantered off.-I asked for Mrs. Capel, and found that she was gone to the neighbouring town, and had been absent all the morning. This I liked least of all---for I could not but suspect that the interview which I had interrupted was pre-arranged. I was at a loss how to act. On intimate terms of friendship as I had always been with Fanny and her mother, still this was too delicate a subject for me to trench upon with the former. The difference between our ages was not sufficiently great to render such a proceeding proper, or even allowable. Hints and inuendoes only irritate, and do no manner of good; so, after sitting a short time longer, I took my leave-resolving to have a full explanation with Vernon on the subject the very first opportunity. That opportunity never arrived. The next morning I was sent for by Mrs. Capel-and upon reaching the cottage heard, to my utter astonishment and dismay, that Fanny had eloped with Sir Edward Vernon. In For this step I was wholly at a loss to account. Sir Edward was in every way his own master; and if his attachment to Fanny was of the nature which this step would seem to pronounce it, there was no sort of reason why he should not make her his wife. Her birth was good---and, though her fortune was but moderate, his was very large, and he was the farthest removed in the world from being a mercenary man. every way he was likely to prove an acceptable son-inlaw to Mrs. Capel. If, therefore, it was his purpose to marry her, why elope?---And yet, that it was his purpose to marry her, 1 was fully convinced. In the first place, even supposing, which I scarcely could, that Fanny would consent to become his mistress instead of his wife, I did not think Vernon capable of so black an action as such conduct would suppose him to be and again, setting all questions of principle and good feeling aside, I considered him too sensible a person, with too true a knowledge of society and the world, to enter into an entanglement of such a nature as the seduction of a young person of condition must involve. Mrs. Capel sent for me, both as the friend of Sir Edward Vernon and her own---in the one capacity as being more likely to form some opinion of his motives, in the other as being certain to support and assist her in every possible contingency. Of Mrs. Capel I have scarcely hitherto spoken; not on account of her being an ordinary person, for she was very far from it. She was considerably advanced in life, but her countenance bore strong marks of intelligence, and the remains of a severe style of beauty. This severity did not, however, in the least degree extend to her disposition--for her mildness and the kindness of her heart were eminently remarkable. She had lived much in the world, Colonel Capel having been an officer of high |