the green was not more happy than she. To-morrow and its cares never occurred to Charlotte; hope streamed upon her in such continued day that the rainbow of pleasure was never absent; and in the avidity of youthful pursuit she entirely forgot how often it had escaped her grasp.

The reader will surmise, from this slight sketch of Charlotte, that her temperament was too sanguine for robust happiness.-True; she was one of those dear girls so much alive to sensibility that the chance was ten to one against her sailing through life so steadily as to avoid the whirlpools of passion, and the quicksands of affection, which lie under the beautifully blue waves of existence. Well, she was now like the rose that often ornamented her white-robed bosom, full blown; but far-very far indeed, from the ripeness which drops off the stalk. The tints of nature were all spread in full carnation on her transparent complexion. Her lips were brighter than the autumn berries that coralled her father's hedges. The snow on the blue mountain was not whiter than her neck and forehead. eyes were blue, and her hair was black; sweet was

Her

her voice as the "song of love, and trippingly her tall round panting figure moved, like Fancy led by Time in the picture.

"Her looks were like beams of the morning sun,
Forth-looking through the window of the east,
When first the fleecie cattle have begun

Upon the perled grass to make their feast."

Such was Charlotte when her father introduced a young man, the son of an old friend residing in Dublin, to his family. William Barton displayed all the freedom of manners which a city education imparts. He talked to Charlotte of the charms of Dublin-of the theatres-the promenades-in short, of every thing; till the poor girl's head became quite light with gazing at fancy pictures. To say what is just of Mr. William, he was a very smart, handsome, dashing youth; and I really do not know any girl of Charlotte's age who could have avoided smiling, under the magic of his attention. Knowing, however, as much as I know, I can affirm that William Barton was a very close, worldly-dispositioned young fellow, who had made up his mind to play with the girls as anglers do with trouts, but not to throw himself, as he termed

it, away on a painted Venus of straw. He was as cunning as Fielding's Blifil, without his repelling manners. So old-fashioned were his reflections, that he determined never to let a servant brush his coat, but to perform that office himself; for, said he, “The knave scrubs the nap off it, so that it may become shabby, and fall soon to his lot.”

The case of an artless, innocent, credulous, young creature, like Charlotte, thus exposed to the heartless, unprincipled, flattering addresses of a coldblooded calculator like William, is truly a deplorable consideration. Yet I much fear that many a lovely girl sinks into a youthful grave, from misunderstanding the attentions of professing lovers. We see so many faces, in a few years changed from the colour of joy to the hue of despair, among the young females of our acquaintance-so many who die of consumptions, and pine away no one can tell why, or how; that I am convinced a broken heart is too often the disease. I never see a young girl looking pale and sickly, that I do not suspect some thoughtless young fellow of exciting hopes in her breast by his love speeches, and then leaving her to be moon-struck, whilst he amuses himself by

addressing another. It is the greatest cruelty a young man can be guilty of, to go far in winning affection which is restrained from confession till pressed warmly to give up a secret her eyes have revealed a hundred times. As the poor camel will continue to struggle, without uttering a groan, under a load which is beyond his strength, till he wastes away, and sinks in death; so the love-sick maiden must be mute under torture, never tell her tale of heart-burning, but, like Shakspeare's Patience, smile at grief. O! how I pity the young heart suffering under inexpressible passion; expecting every hour to hear the question uppermost in thought; disappointed, and trifled with, till the roses forsake her cheeks, the rubies her lips, and the diamonds her eyes; till her pining soul, acting as a corrosive on her body, destroys the fascination she possessed, the power on which she relied, and leaves the emaciated drooping lily to be plucked and embraced by death.

The reader anticipates that it was poor Charlotte's misfortune to feel the bitterness of doubtful love. William came often to see her; uninvited he would come down on the coach from Dublin,

take up a position at her father's for several days at a time, shoot and hunt over the farm, and of course make love with eye and tongue to Charlotte. William's father had opened his mind to Charlotte's, assuring his friend that nothing could afford him more heart-felt satisfaction than the prospect of a union between their families. As a lover, therefore, he was received by Charlotte's warm parents, entertained as their most valued guest, and permitted to converse freely with the object of his supposed visits.

It has been said-alas! what absurdity has not 'found a tongue?—that no girl should ever answer a question till she be asked; or, in plainer phrase, that she should never love till on the point of marriage. Would it were possible! But if it be natural for women to love as well as men-and who doubts it?-the poor girl can no more help Tetting her heart follow her eye, than I can prevent my sight from resting on beauty, or my palate from tasting what is put into my mouth. Although William had never offered marriage to Charlotte in words, he had given her to understand that it was his intention to do so; or at least, he had left her