I have seen the last of an ancient race laid low in his narrow tomb. He and his daughter sleep together each in a green grass grave in Mansfield Church yard, and there is none left to carry on their line. I was nearly the only mourner in that old man's funeral. Theirs had been a rich and powerful race, and I believe a good one; but its goodness and its beauty seemed to have all centred in the persons of its two last descendants. May the turf be light upon them, and may its verdure on their graves be as perpetual as their memories in my heart.

Many years ago, when I was staying for some months at Mansfield, I used to meet in my solitary rambles amongst the copses that clothe the sides of its hills, an old man and a young girl, who were always walking about together, who seemed to live but for each other, forgetful of all else in the delight of their own gentle and loving intercourse. Very few of the dwellers in the village knew them. The old man, they thought, was rather proud, and kept aloof from their society. Their name was Milford, and though not rich, they had belonged to the higher ranks of life. Thus much was known, but nothing farther. There were of course, a thousand gossiping rumours afloat concerning them, the truth of any one of which implied the falsehood of all the others. They were invented to disguise the sad fact that in very deed the good people of Mansfield knew nothing at all about them.

I hate descriptions. No one, unless he is what old Tonson would have called a "most eminent hand," should try his powers at them. Work at them as I may, I can never bring mine even near to the ideal standard, which at the time has possession of my mind. It is easy enough to say that" she had beauty united with elegance, and regularity of feature combined with liveliness of expres

sion;" that "the perfections of his mind corresponded with the perfections of his body-that he was handsome without effeminacy, and intellectual without pedantry." All this, I say, is easy enough, but this is in no true sense descriptive. As in argument, it is a sure sign of high ability to be able to place definitely before the mind the exact proposition which is to be grasped, clearly marked out, and distinguished from things that may be like it, or may seem to run into it on this hand and on that; so in description, a genius will make you be present at a scene, or understand a character, by a few bold and nervous strokes, where an inferior mind would waste itself in a long detail of petty circumstances, and produce after all nothing but a general and vague impression. However, as I shall be myself of necessity driven to attempt one, I must abstain from any farther efforts to fill the reader's mind with a standard I can never hope to reach; and indeed I should have abstained altogether, but that to state a difficulty of this kind is in some sort to remove it, and that there is some satisfaction in beforehand warning the reader against making the poverty of the description any measure of the beauty of the thing described, or judging of the completeness of the standard by the inadequacy of the execution.

I met the Milfords from time to time in my rambles, and insensibly, I know not how, we became acquainted with each other. Our acquaintance gradually increased into friendship. The charms of their society were such as I had never before experienced, and I eagerly cultivated their intimacy, as far as they would allow me. There was an air of romance thrown over all they said and did. They hardly seemed to speak, or think, or act, like livers in the nineteenth century. He was like an old sage of

the middle ages, and she like some maiden of the days of chivalry, who might have been the earthly goddess of an Amadis or a Palmerin.

Ernest Milford was one of the noblest looking old men I ever saw. He had been a soldier in early life, and in his age he preserved a dignified and military bearing. In repose his face had a stern and rigid expression, that was almost painful; but his calm dreamy-looking eyes, and his singularly sweet smile, combined with his soft skin, gave him at times in spite of his white hairs, an almost childly beauty. His daughter Gwendolen was one of those rather fragile blossoms too exquisite to breathe for long our grosser atmosphere. Dazzlingly fair she was with a profusion of glossy yellow hair; her eyes a deep blue; and her complexion almost transparent. If you have ever seen a hop plant entwining its light leaves snd blossoms amongst the branches of an ash, you have had before you no very inadequate representation of Gwendolen and her father.

It was not possible to come within the sphere of her influence, without being deeply moved. I certainly did not escape her power. It is not my purpose to enlarge upon the sorrows of a desolate and solitary man-yet ah! Gwendolen, well would it have been for thee and me that I had loved thee less, or thou hadst loved me more. Either way we had both been happier, at least we had both endured less misery. But weeks passed on and left me as they found me, bound with a chain which I would not break asunder, but which I could not, if I would. I cannot do Gwendolen the injustice to say that she ever encouraged me. Her manners were always unembarrassed, and had a sisterly frankness that should have extinguished hope. There was no conscious look at my approach, no

seeking for hidden meanings in any remarks that I might make to her. Her father I think believed that we were mutually attached, and strove one evening to probe her feelings on the matter.

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Gwendolen," he said, "what shall I do when thou leavest me?" He sometimes would use the singular pronoun in his addresses to those younger than himself, "Leave you, my father!" said Gwendolen, "and why should that ever be? I will never go away."

'Nay, nay, my Gwendolen, thou wilt surely go and cleave to some fair and worthy youth; and be his through life to death; and in very sooth, except for selfishness, I would not but have it so."

"My father," she replied, "but that I know you do this to try my love, I might feel uneasiness and pain at your suspicion. I have often said that I will be like Ruth to you; that where you live I will live, and whither you go I will go. I have not changed my purpose, and I think I never shall. We are fitted for each other. You are not too old for me, nor am I too young for you. Your white hairs mingle with my light ones in no inharmonious contrast. Sometimes indeed I fear you need the more perfect sympathy of some equal in years. There must be harmonies in the mind, there must be prospects open to the eyes of seventy, which the mind of nineteen cannot blend with, nor its eyes take in. You must needs at times feel a vacancy, which I can ill supply. You have experienced all that ever I have, and can sympathize with me; but there must be a world of feeling and association with which you are familiar, but which I am a total stranger to."

"Thou hast spoken more profoundly than thou wast aware of, Gwendolen. It may be in some sort as thou

hast said, my child. Would that but one of my brothers had lived for me; for then But it is useless to repine. You and I, my daughter, are the last remnants of our house, and we must cling the closer and more lovingly to each other; thou wilt not leave me, Gwendolen ?"

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Never, father; never while I live."

"And now, young Sir," said he to me, " forgive me this display, which but for my weak childishness I should have spared you. But I am old now, and these same crosses spoil me, Gerard. I am a very foolish fond old man, like Lear, and you must deal gently with my infirmity."

I knew not what to say; and Gwendolen softly whispered," God forbid that your crosses should come from any Goneril or Regan."

I am tempted in despair to put a period to my story, so miserable a transcript is this of the magic of their intercourse. Often and often did I spend my evenings with these two rare beings, and drink in streams of beautiful and wise thoughts from their lips, till I could have worshipped the very ground they trod upon. The clear music of Gwendolen's "Good night," now, after the lapse of years, still thrills upon my memory. She was a gentle mortal-sweet and pure, such as angels might love to look on. Peace be with her!

I

I was forced to leave Mansfield for a time, but I left it with a full determination to revisit it the next summer. knew my love was hopeless, but to live in their company, to watch their looks, and listen to their tones was enough for me. I came, and for awhile enjoyed my happiness. But it was not to last long-I received a letter from George Morland, saying that he had been ill, and if I would let him, he would come and stay a month or so with me. I let him come, and my happiness was blasted for ever.