which lay the dying girl, still lovely in her decline, even as a faded rose bowing its beautiful head, when the blighting wind has passed over it. She was arrayed in a white dress, and the pink ribbons on her cap threw a slight tinge on her otherwise pale features. Her soft blue eyes one moment were brightened with the smile of rapture, and the next dimmed with the shadow of sorrow, as in the waywardness of a sickly heart, she sung the following fragment of an old ballad:

It was a knight, and a maiden fair,

They sat in a sweet and blooming bower,
The songs of birds of the spring were there,
And many a lovely flower.

Her gentle head on his breast was laid,

And fondly he vow'd to love her ever;

But the knight was false, and the trusting maid

Her peace was gone for ever.

She had touched the chord on which the tale of her own sorrows hung; the tears flowed fast from her eyes, and her voice was scarcely heard, as in a mournful tone, she breathed that, which she knew would soon be her own fate.

The spring is past, and the winter come,
And hollow winds are sighing,

But she hears them not-in the silent tomb
The ruin'd maid is lying.

The tears streamed in sadness from the eyes of those who were gathered around her. But there was one, whose anguish was too great for tears-one, whose last hope seemed to be fleeting from him-and on whom the sun of happiness had once shone so brightly, that when it sunk in the clouds, and the black storm howled over him, its dark scenes appeared even more desolating. He spoke not, but gazed on the form of his dying child so intensely, that all else was lost to him.

"How long we gaze despite of pain,

And know-yet dare not own-we gaze in vain."

She knew him not-hurriedly she turned her look on one, and then on another, and then her eyes rested on that heart-broken man, whose arms had supported her in her infancy, and who now bent over her in grief's wild despair-but she knew not that father, whose last bliss was centered in her.

Oh it is sad to sit by the bed-side of those who are near and dear to us, and to gaze on them with the sad conviction, that ere a few hours have passed away, they will be mixed with their kindred dust, and be shut up in the cold-cold grave. To think that we shall trace our footsteps to those scenes in which we have wandered together-recall the delight of that hour, when stealing from the busy world in some retired spot, we have held converse-call upon their name, but hear no reply: but even this conviction, sad as it is, becomes still more heart-rending, when we look upon those who are dying, and they know us not; when in affliction's silence, our eyes rest upon them, but the vacant look, or the wild hysterical laugh, too truly proclaim that they cannot recognize us, but that their senses are bound up in dark forgetfulness.

The door of the apartment, in which the poor maniac was dying, now opened, and a man burst into the room, in whose face the marks of conscious guilt and shame were visible; but he stood as a statue, when he saw the scene that was before him-when he marked that old man, who in the hour of pain and danger had watched over him, with his long grey hairs, hanging near broken-hearted over his dying daughter, that daughter who, till she knew him, was blithe and happy. She had not observed his entrance-she appeared lost to all around her, and again began to sing, in a voice even more faint than before, a mournful strain

I fain would lay my aching head

And throbbing heart within the tomb,
Where summer's balmy flowers will shed
The fragrance of their sweet perfume.

I wish to slumber 'neath the turf,

And softly rest-each wandering o'er

"Oh, do not, my beloved, talk of dying," cried the stranger, rushing to her bed-side, "live, live for me, unworthy as I am." Wildly she turned and gazed on him who knelt beside her, and uttering a faint shriek, sunk insensible upon her pillow. Long did she lay in that deathlike swoon, and when they again brought her to life, her senses return'd, -returned, but to pass away for ever. She passed her hand over her burning brow, as if some dark dream had shed its influence upon her. "I feel," she at length said, in a plaintive voice, "that my senses have long been wandering, and that Heaven, in its mercy, has again restored them to me, that, before I die, I may bless those who have ever been dear to me. I know that the hand of death is on me-that, when a few hours are over, I shall lie within the lonely grave.-Do not weep, my dearest father," she said to her poor old parent, whose tears were now flowing plentifully, "do not weep, for I quit a world of troubles for that place, where they who mourn shall be comforted, and where the weary are at rest.”

She called her repentant seducer to her, and reclining her head upon his bosom, and looking with the dying look of affection on him, she said, "I have often prayed that my last breath might pass away in your arms—that when my hour arrived, upon your bosom the last sigh of life might be breathed, and it has pleased Him who rules above to grant my prayer. Do not, when I am no more, forget me,-sometimes go to the grave of her, whom once you called your own beloved maiden,— think of her as she was, pure and innocent,—and recall not her present state, but remember that with her dying breath she forgave you."

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"Forgive me! oh, no, you cannot, cannot forgive a wretch like me," cried he, hiding his face in his hands, "say that you curse me-your forgiveness will make my guilt appear still more dreadful." 'No, no," she replied, "I do forgive you, and may He even so deal with me, as the words I now utter are sincere. Comfort my poor father when I am gone-and when in future years memory recalls the remembrance of those who sleep beneath the turf-when my name is spoken, one sigh of

pity, perhaps, may be breathed for the fate of her, who, for your happiness, gave up all that is heavenly in her nature."

The shades of death were passing fast over her features, and she knew that in a few moments more, the dream of life would be broken for ever. “I have but one last wish," she at length said, “do not refuse it." She took the hand of her repentant lover, and placing it in that of her father, said, "Forgive him, for my sake." The old man forgot all the injuries he had received, and exclaimed, “I do I do." She prest his hand to her lips, and giving one last look of affection to her betrayer, just murmured, “I die happy," and fell back upon her pillow-a long sigh was heard,--and then, all was silent- and she lay before them, as fair a flower as ever the desolating hand of death had rested upon.

It is impossible to tell the anguish of him, who looked upon that still lovely form, with the dreadful thought, that, but for his villainy, she had still lived to bless her poor old parent. Far different were that old man's feelings he was kneeling by the side of the bed where lay his dead child, and praying to the throne of mercy for resignation to support him under his afflictions,-he knew that she was lost to him in this world for ever, but he looked forward to that hour, when in the presence of the Almighty, they would be again united.

On the next Sunday she was laid in the grave. Many of the village maidens preceded the coffin of her, whom they had all loved so muchimmediately after it walked he, whose only child was about to be consigned to her mother earth-his eyes were turned towards heaven, and the look of resignation that was in them, proved that his petitions had been presented to the throne, from whence comfort could alone be given. The minister met them at the door of the church, and when that sacred sentence was said, "I am the resurrection and the life, whoso believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live for ever," then that old man knew that his child was in heaven; for though awhile she had wandered from the path of rectitude, she had returned to the fold, where the Heavenly Shepherd watcheth over those who repent.

The beautiful service was gone through, and in a little while they stood round the grave in which the once lovely girl was sleeping, and when, as the sexton scattered a handful of earth over the coffin, the minister pronounced those solemn words, "Earth to earth-ashes to ashes-dust to dust!" the agonized father experienced the awful climax of irremediable despair.

A few words, such as suited the occasion, were spoken, and in a short time all but one had parted from the grave of her, they never more were to see. He looked into the narrow resting-place of his beloved child-went away-again returned to weep-and when the pit was filled, and the green turf placed over it, he threw himself upon the ground in all the agony of a childless father's distress. Day after day would he come to gaze upon that sad spot; and the villagers, as they saw him lying, would breathe a sigh, while the tear of pity would flow, for the fate of the young and beautiful MARY ROBINSON!

G. I.

Ir is an adage that is in every body's mouth, that "laws are made for the rich as well as the poor:" with all due respect, Mr. Merton, for the retailers of this opinion, I believe they have heretofore made an exception in regard to such as are denominated, "the mendicity laws ;" thinking, I suppose, they regard the poor exclusively, which, in my opinion, is both partial and unjust: for I am very well acquainted with a variety of subjects, among the higher branches of the community, who I consider fit objects for the exercise of the powers of that estimable institution, “The Society for the Suppression of Mendicity," or, more properly speaking, begging; and I hope the committee will take the subject into their most serious consideration at their first meeting.

No. 1, is my dear friend, Mrs. Gad-about, who is one of those kindhearted philanthropists, who prefers every body's business to her own: she takes such an infinite pleasure in affording relief, and (although it may seem a paradox) nothing gives her greater delight than to hunt out some object in distress. A broken-down tradesman, with a sick wife and half-a-dozen craving babes, with her is an object not to be "sneezed at." A widow, with a long tale of domestic calamities, is a prize: and ragged orphans or chimney-sweeps have charms in her eyes, they would not meet with in those of the most benevolent. She is continually prying about for some fresh object,, ..on the strength of whose calamities she may levy contributions on the sympathy, and what is more, the purse, of her friends. When the purport of her perambulations has failed, I have heard her exclaim, with the Roman Emperor, "My friends, I have lost a day." She reminds me of some kind-hearted individuals, who, after taking a long journey to a town where the Assizes were held, enquired whether there was any case of peculiar interest; and when the answer was given," that there was not a capital crime, nor an offence of any peculiar enormity in the calendar," exclaimed, "Bless my soul ! how provoking! to come all this way, and no execution after all!"* I could bring fifty instances in support of my charge, but shall content myself with the following. I was busily employed at breakfast not a long while since, when she came bustling into my room with, "My dear Mr. Clearsight, happy to see you looking so well." "Much obliged to you-this early visit is as pleasing as it is unexpected," "Ah! thought I would surprize you-but an affair of grave importance"-" You may leave the room, John,"—" that I could not rest till I had your advice. You, Mr. Clearsight, that are so generous a temper, and whose heart is so feelingly alive to the wants and distresses of another,"-(this is the usual beginning of the politic old lady,)—“I am sure you will sympa

* Fact.

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thize with me, and will not refuse your mite." "My dear Madam, you must excuse my abruptness, but really I have an engagement on most important business, and you see I am still en dishabile." Ah, but the woes and sufferings of our fellow-creatures," and then comes a long rigmarole of a worthy and respectable tradesman, borne down by the hardness of the times, arrested for debt, and the usual train of domestic miseries; the end of which is, that a sovereign must start from my purse in aid of a person I have never seen, and who, for aught I am aware of, may be a rank impostor; as I know that Mrs. Gad-about, in her zeal for relieving the wants of the distressed, when she could not find a real object, rather than remain unemployed, would be satisfied with a fictitious one. I would recommend her to the board, in the language of the overseers, as an old offender."

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No. 2, is Lady Bridget Meddleton, who is one of the most accomplished professors of the art of begging I have the misfortune to be acquainted with. She does not prepare your mind with a whining tale like Mrs. Gad-about, and then suddenly bounce out with, "please to bestow your charity." No, she looks out for your weak side, and then takes you completely by storm. She has toils and ambushes always prepared to catch her unwary victim; for instance, if you are in her drawing-room, on the mantle-piece it is ten to one but what you will see a little box of very curious workmanship, that of course excites your curiosity; you take it up, and find a sweet painting of the "Good Samaritan,” "The Healing of the Sick," or some such appropriate device, and on the top, to your utter dismay, you will find a hole, either to receive a sovereign or a crown-piece. When this discovery is made, the Bible Society, The Distressed Seaman's Fund, or the Opthalmic Hospital, is introduced-and in such a way as speedily to prove the sympathy that exists between the heart and the pocket. If you look on a side table, you will find a variety of nick-nacks, daubs of flowers, cockle-shells and pin-cushions, all the work of some unfortunate artist or deserving family, experiencing the severity of the times, the falling-off of trade, and the low price of manufactured goods. She I hold up, as a very flagrant example.

No. 3, comprehends certain Secretaries of Charities, who are apt to invite their friends to dinner, inclosing at the same time a ticket of admission, on which is very conspicuously stated, "Price One Guinea.” This is the genteelest method of extracting money from your friend's pocket that I am acquainted with, and shews to what a pitch of refinement Begging is arrived at. Under this head I would recommend as fit objects, individuals who very kindly send letters of recommendation to their friends, "assuring them that the bearer is a fit object for the exercise of their charity, and that by regarding him as such, they will confer a personal favour on your's, &c." This, to people of limited means, and with poor relations, is a grievous evil.

These are among the most glaring objects, and perhaps I shall, on a future occasion, point out to the Manager's Committee, a few minor delinquents, among the middle and higher circles.