and most affectionate of husbands. He had loved Agatha in an humble station of life, comparatively to that to which she was afterwards raised on being the acknowledged daughter of the duke his uncle; and although he was proud of her exaltation, yet his love for her, had she still remained the reputed daughter of Captain Singleton, would have been as ardent as ever.

Much alarmed therefore by her increasing indisposition, he intreated the physicians to inform him if they thought that any dangerous consequences might ensue from the melancholy scene she had witnessed. To which they replied

"None in the least, my lord; if Lady Montault is kept quiet, we pronounce that in a few days she will be perfectly recovered. A little fever is at present visible from the effect of agitation, and that is all."

Agatha was sometime before she answered the expectation of her physicians; but her youthful constitution, never yet impaired, got the ascendency over the shock she had sustained; and the assiduities of her fond and attentive husband, very soon brought her mind to a state of composure, and enabled her to tell him what had been the last requests of the dying Captain Singleton, with which he promised cheerfully to comply, whenever it pleased Providence to give him either a son or a daughter. And in other respects, all directions in his last will and testament were punctually attended to by Lord Montague, which was thought necessary before the funeral obsequies should be performed.

Accordingly a day was appointed for all persons concerned in it, and whose names were expressly

light, inconstant, and fickle, as the changing wind, or the colours of the rainbow; and with such personages . Captain Singleton was determined to hold no communication, or tender them any friendship, for to them→→→ “Ah, what was friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth and fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep."

No, Captain Singleton sought for dearer ties, and more sacred and congenial affections; in the bosom of retiring shades he did not feel solitary, for his books were his faithful, though silent companions; he could there converse with men, without being approached by their insidious smiles, betrayed by their treacherous arts, or tempted by their worldly sophistry to leave his calm and sequestered abode, to mix with the busy haunts of mankind. And for lighter pleasures wanted he amusement? or food for contemplation? or subjects for reflection? Seated on the high cliff, had he not the wide expanse of ocean rolling beneath his feet, and the bright shining firmament of the vaulted heavens moving splendidly above him? The glorious planet that lighted all the world, did it not also shed its light for him? And when he warmed him in the sunny beams, did he not feel the potent influence of its cheering and enlivening ray? At sober evening too, came not the moon in silvery mantle clad to visit him with peace, and aid his calm and pious meditations, uninterrupted only but by the lonely bird that pours her melody on night's pensive eve? And if to a mind so harmonized these were pleasures and these delights that he could not find in gayer scenes, where

artificial ones are but substituted in their stead; if Captain Singleton preferred these to earthly splendour and earthly wishes, why should he not have enjoyed them, and repose without rancour or without envy on the tranquil blessings they afforded him? for they were certainly those of which neither rancour or envy could ever deprive him. The Cottage on the Cliff was his own, and he could live there in despite of the world's frowning or envious aspect towards him; and he did live there till he died, and was called to inherit (it would be impiety to doubt it!) far greater enjoyments, and more substantial pleasures than can ever be expected in a terrestrial state of existence.

And thus far let us dismiss the melancholy subject. Captain Singleton had paid the debt to nature, and the most lasting monuiment of his worth was engraven in the excellent moral character he had left behind him, of far more consequence than the sculptor could ever display in polished marble, or the poet's energy impart in tributary praise to the departed remains that lay mouldering beneath it. Vain impotence of man's deceptive art, that would oft by empty pageantry of shew, and unavailing flow of funeral verse, attempt to eulogize what the departed spirit does not require from their aid, and which cannot pierce their ear, though they were the strains of a Byron or Sir Walter Scott, the former of whom now lies as insensible to the fire of poetic lays, as were the cold remains of Captain Singleton in the humble Cottage on the Cliff.*

The author here alludes to the recent death of Lord Byron, that most admired and accomplished poet, whose loss all poets feel, and all authors mourn.