the actual present of her destiny fell on her spirit with peculiar desolation. At length the travellers took leave of these enchanting solitudes, and after diverging frequently from their route, arrived at the place of their destination, namely, the birth-place of Antonio.

They found the cottage where his parents had dwelt, deserted and ruinous. Teresa shuddered as she contemplated the sad spectacle! She had almost expected to see it in the same condition in which it had been described to her by Antonio. The walls of it had then been a complete mass of honeysuckles, jessamine, and ivy, and a luxuriant vine had spread its branches over the roof, and in the Autumn many a tempting cluster of golden or purple grapes had been wont to hang invitingly around its pretty lattices; and on a summer's day every window was adorned with a gay nosegay of sweet-smelling flowers, and bird-cages containing feathered songsters. But now, this once cheerful dwelling was a dreary ruin; the fragrant creepers were torn down and uprooted by the winter blast; the fertile vine

had withered and disappeared, leaving bare the discoloured and mouldering front of the cottage, and the thatch had fallen away from the roof, leaving many a gap in it. The casements were broken and demolished; the garden was overgrown with rank weeds, which towered triumphantly where carefully-cultivated plants and shrubs had grown, which were now trodden under foot, faded and gone. The winds whistled mournfully through the empty, unfurnished rooms, and the birds of night haunted the deserted tenement.

Antonio folded his arms, and stood in silence gazing on the home of his boyhood, where his fond parents and angel-sister had lived, and loved, and died. Teresa watched his countenance with fearful interest-she hoped much from the power of associations, and perceived, with mingled emotions of joy and anxiety, a convulsive working of his features, and universal trembling of his frame, which betokened a powerful emotion. Without looking at his daughter, he at length articulated her name,

and, in an instant, she flew to his side, and supported him with her encircling arms, whilst he continued to look on the cottage, as though he would note each alteration.

Even Sir Edward St. John, though unused to feel the throb of pity, was touched by the spectacle of this father and daughter. One, the ruin of a master-mind and noble form; the other, a peerless and beautiful young creature touched by sorrow on the threshold of life, and in whose dark, mournful eyes, might be guessed what "depths of woe" there lie "in a young blighted spirit!"*

Manhood rears

A haughty brow, and age has done with tears,
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze,
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its bright days.
And thus it was with her-a mournful sight

In one so fair-for she indeed was fair,
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,-
Her's were more shadowy, full of thought and pray'r,
And with long lashes o'er a white rose cheek,
Drooping in gloom, yet tender, still, and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above,

So pale and pure, so formed for holy love,

Το

gaze upon in silence! but she felt, That such was not for her!

• Mrs. Hemans.

VOL. I.

L

Teresa hung on her father, and looked earnestly into his eyes to seek for a gleam of returning reason, and it came, fitfully illumining his countenance-still he spoke not.

Suddenly he shook off his daughter's hold, and ran, with surprising rapidity, towards the old churchyard. Teresa and her husband followed him, and when they arrived, discovered him prostrate on the grave of his parents and sister. The black and portentous clouds had been for some time collecting in the sky, and the closeness of the atmosphere was almost oppressive. A profound stillness had hitherto reigned around;-not a bird chirped-not a leaf rustled-and all nature seemed to await, in respectful silence, the coming storm. A few heavy, large drops of rain fell on the parched earth, and just at the moment when Teresa and Sir Edward reached the churchyard, a mighty clap of thunder burst on the stillness, and roared with terrific grandeur through the forest. The rain came down in torrents, and the winds, tired of restraint, rushed forth in

fury, and howled and bellowed in concert with the dread thunder.

Sir Edward and Teresa flew to Antonio, and raised him from the ground;-he was dead, and the elements had chaunted his parting requiem. Wildly did Teresa cling to his senseless form, and terrible was the sense of her desolation. Now, indeed, was she alone in the world—no kindred, no sympathy, were left her -her husband was a man to whom she could never look for consolation, and in whose character she had been wofully deceived.

Slowly her arms relaxed from their clasp of Antonio's remains, and letting her head sink on her chest, as St. John led her away, she murmured in a tone of inconceivable pathos, “no more.”

Madame de Staël has spoken of the beauty of sound in those two words, "no more." It is a mournful beauty. They fall on the heart like the sound of wind gently rustling through the dried and fallen leaves in Autumn in some vast forest, or sweeping fitfully over the strings