Among the sweetest of them is the sonnet I allude to, which the reader may pass over if he pleases; but if he reads it, I think he will thank me.

SONNET TO THE MOON.

The moon is sailing o'er the sky,
But lonely all, as if she pined
For something of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined.

Earth is her mirror, and the stars

Are as a court around her throne;

She is a beauty, and a queen,

But what of that? she is alone.

Is there not one, not one to share
Thy glorious royalty on high?
I cannot choose but pity thee,

Thou lovely orphan of the sky.

I'd rather be the meanest flow'r

That grows, my mother earth, on thee,
So there were others of my kin

To blossom, bloom, and die with me.

Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death,
But with these better could I bear,
Than guide and rule yon radiant sphere,
And be a solitary there.

With such reflections as these, in which perhaps there was a tinge of melancholy, though not unpleasing, I traversed the dewy lawns and still woods (too still, for it was too late in the year for the nightingale) that lay between Binfield and Oakingham. What they wanted in melody, however, they endeavoured to make up in freshness, which

was emitted from every leaf and every tuft and wild-flower which spread itself to the influence of the soft night air. The effect upon the nerves was perfect, and when I saw the lights and buildings of Oakingham, I felt displeased, for they took me back to the world.

Yet I soon remembered that for that world I was destined; and the Royal Oak, where a weekly club still lingered, after a market-day, made me forget my romance; and the bells of the church, on which the ringers, according to good old English custom, were exercising their skill, in I don't know how many bob majors, made me recollect, though without superstition, the allusion of Mr. Manners to-" Turn again, Whittington."

Having got me to bed, I gave myself up to serious reflection on the (to me) strange events of the day;-the discovery of my relationship to Mr. Manners, acknowledged by him in so frank and flattering a manner that it was incontestable; the accomplished mind of that gentleman; his great and sudden favour towards me, and the extraordinary prospect he held forth as the possible result of it with Lord Castleton-all this made me resolve to write in detail to Fothergill, and shortly to my family. My bosom swelled with hope, and I fell into a sound and happy sleep, from which I did not wake for several hours.

The next day I executed my purpose, by giving

my quondam tutor the whole history of my rencontre with his friend, and my obligations to that friendship in procuring me originally so much of his notice. I then detailed the wonder of our discovered connection; Mr. Manners' increased kindness in consequence; and, finally, the hope he had held out of some benefit which, with his (Fothergill's) assistance, it might procure for me with Lord Castleton.

From foreseeing that I should have to break in considerably upon the plan of my pedestrian tour, I wrote also to the person who had the care of my rooms at Maudlin, to send me, per coach, a strong reinforcement to my wardrobe.

To my father I communicated the acquaintance I had made with Mr. Manners, and the curious circumstance of the relationship; but said nothing, for the present, of the prospect (distant as it was) of an introduction to Lord Castleton.

Having all these things in train, I began then to think of my engagement to return to the Grange, and once more took the road to Binfield. By way of variety, however, under my landlord's direction, I took a different course, by what is called the Forestroad, which (such is the beauty of this fairy land) was hardly less attractive than Asher's Wood itself.

CHAPTER II.

THE DISAPPOINTMENTS IN THE FRIENDSHIPS OF A MAN OF THE WORLD, AS RELATED BY MR. MANNERS.-HIS ACCOUNT OF A MODERN PHARISEE, AND OF CERTAIN MODERN FEMALE CHARACTERS.-THE VISITING BOOK OF A LADY OF FASHION.-HIS OPINION OF THE PROFESSION OF AN AUTHOR.

SHAKSPEARE.-Timon of Athens. WHEN I first set out to re-visit the Grange, nothing promised fairer than the weather; but the gathering of summer clouds, at first fleecy and light, and emitting a few heat drops, soon thickening into dark heavy masses, and pouring down torrents, compelled me to look for shelter.

I found it in one of the pretty cottages that throng the forest, the mistress of which, a welllooking young woman, beckoned me to her door, and begged me to come in. I did so, and found an epitome of neatness and comfort which always

pleases. She had two children, whose appearance, as well as her own, exhibited the same neatness. Yet she was engaged in menial offices; in fact, by the pots on the fire, preparing food for her little ones, and, as I supposed, her expected husband.

I asked if this was not the case, which brought a gloom over her countenance, when she told me she was a widow.

"So young?" said I.

"Yes," she replied; and she and her babes might have sunk under it, for they had had misfortunes, and the creditors were hard with them, and all her means had failed with her husband's life. "But God," said she, "raised me up friends."

As I liked this sort of conversation, I asked who? and she replied,

"Two gentlemen in the neighbourhood, Sir William Thompson, who lived in the great house I had just passed, and Mr. Manners, of the Grange."

Struck a little with this, I wished to hear more of her benefactors, and as I needed no information as to Mr. Manners, inquired about Sir William.

"They be both good,” replied the poor woman, " and will, I hope, both go to heaven for what they did for the widow and orphan; I am sure I should be the most ungratefullest wretch upon earth if I did not pray for them both, particularly Mr. Manners."