have been properly educated, must be seen to be believed, and when once seen it is not readily obliterated from the mind.

So it was with Margaret. On Holbrooke, whom she justly considered as, under Providence, the cause of the inestimable blessings she now experienced, she looked with eyes beaming with gratitude, and the eyes may almost be said to be the language of the deaf and dumb; nor could he remain insensible to these speaking looks. They soon began to converse by writing short sentences, and Holbrooke had scarcely half written one, when an intelligent sign shewed him that he was understood. At the end of two days, he learned the Alphabet of the fingers, and thus conversations were carried on. Margaret was incessant in her expressions of gratitude to Holbrooke, and we know that gratitude is nearly allied to love. Her soft glances, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, as she told him of her present happiness—of the intelligence-the new ideas and feelings-which had burst in upon her- the new creature in fact, which she had become, all these could not fail to convince him that he was beloved, nor was it in his nature not to return so much affection. He restrained, however, any expression of his present feelings. He knew himself to be a beggar, and that he should ill repay the kindness, hospitality and protection which had been afforded him, by

taking advantage of Margaret's new-born love. Towards the end of the week, therefore, he announced to his kind host his intention of quitting his hospitable house, and of seeking his fortune as best he might. The farmer combated his intention with every argument in his power, but without effect. Holbrooke's determination was made, and could not be shaken. In vain was he told of the happiness they had been enjoying—of the pleasure his company had afforded, and of the gloomy prospects before him. Holbrooke prepared for his departure with a heavy and almost a despairing heart. He felt, however, that he was acting right, and this supported him.

But how did Margaret receive the tidings that she was about to lose him whom she so fervently loved, and who had contributed so much to the enjoyment of the happiest week certainly of her life? When the intelligence was communicated to her, she quitted the room with a look of despair and grief in her expressive countenance, which instantly struck upon her father's heart. He followed her, and soon discovered the cause of her altered countenance. Margaret was the child of Nature-of pure artless nature, and the secret of her heart was instantly laid open to her affectionate parent. He returned to the room, and made Holbrooke an offer of his daughter's hand, and his own ample fortune. Holbrooke confessed

his unbounded love, but at the same time pointed out his poverty. The good farmer exulted at hearing his beloved daughter had gained the affection of the young squire, as he often called him, while his poverty was of no consequence, as he had plenty of money for both, and he would again become possessed of what was once his

own.

Need I add that Holbroke led the pretty Margaret to the Altar, his pecuniary matters having been arranged by the substantial assistance of her father. Long and happily did they live together, and the "young squire," never regretted his union with the deaf and dumb girl.

The workhouse idiot, for so he was always called, was their especial care, and till very lately he was to be seen on his accustomed bench in the Village Church, the never failing fresh gathered nosegay in his button hole, and his old and well worn prayer-book in his hand.

So, blest Creator, let an idiot pay
His mite of gratitude this feeble way.

LINES WRITTEN

AT

LAYER-MARNEY TOWER, ESSEX.

BERTHA, to you I dedicate these rhymes,
Seeing that you and I in summer-weather,
What time the bees were busy in the limes,
To visit Layer-Marney went together:

And as we viewed the desolated pile,

Or sate conversing, chatting in the shade;

I could not help observing with a smile

'Twixt you and that, the striking contrast made.

For you in youthful bloom, were smiling there,
Smiling in all your youthful beauty gay;

While that old tower, desolate and bare

To wintry storms, was mouldering to decay.

But Time who harmonizes things and men,
His reconciling work will still be doing:
And you, my dear, in threescore years and ten,
Will make, I think, a very pretty ruin.

"A ruin'd tower

وو

in its decay

It speaks of glories pass'd away;
All the builder's fancies quaint,
In carved device of scroll or saint,

Shield or scutcheon, now are seen
Mouldering on the mossy green;
All that bore a glorious birth
Above the common things of earth
Are fallen now. Alas! that power
Hath vanish'd from the ancient tower;
A spell is on it, and it wears

A tender sadness in its years:

With what a pensive brow it looks
On the fields and on the brooks,
As it would recall its prime,

By gathering thoughts from elder time;
And that calm river, too is seen
Flowing beneath its margin green,
Ever as it flowed of yore;

Mid oaken copse, and forest hoar;
And here and there, on either side,

Coves where the Abbot's barge might glide
Gaining Saint Osyth with the tide.

Beside its chestnut-shaded skreen,
Where yon grey chapel-roof is seen;
There the Lords of Marney lie
In their stately canopy.

There they slumber side by side
Dreaming of their ancient pride,
When in old ancestral power
They dwelt within their stately tower.
All was theirs, both far and near,
Herd, and flock, and fallow deer;

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