LITERATURE. . HELEN sync.

(Concluded)

Thus was opening upon her the giveet and dewy prime ol the orphau’s life, when an annual meeting took place ofall the first families in the county, and indeed of people of all ranks and conditions, on a large meadow by the river side, 1 ’ near the town, to witness the skill ofthe “ Ancient Band of

Border Bowmen.” The sunny day flowed on in joyful and oxhilerating pastimes, and in the evening there was a splen- did Assembly. Mrs. Montgomery was there, and Helen Eyre by her side. All the youth, beauty, and grace ofthe - south ol'Scotland were present together, and although Helen

.6 Eyre was certainly one of the loveliest of the lovely, it could

' not be said that she attracted universal attention. There many circles formed round many attractive centres— ,Itmo‘jhotio exactly like the moon among the lesser stars— but‘nfthese stars themselves, some were brighter than others, w ' 0t di'fi'ttsed‘ a mellower lustre.,-Helen Eyre knew her own

' ’ flan—neither proud nor ashamed; her dress was Slm- ‘ I Maw that of many others, but such as it became a lady to wear” in such an occasion—41 few pearls were round her fictionburn hair—and no eye looked upon her once, sitting half Haired in her modest loveliness, without looking again Tami again—no heart, perhaps, but felt, after ranging over all ' . the splendid galaxy, that there Was one who had only to . “We lbrward, and seek, in order to gain, the prize of grace, ‘," . at mice, and beauty. ' l" ’ l’ ’ 3“ 'l'lrlontgom‘ery had her pride, too, in her orphan, as f any mother in her child ;iind she took care that Helen ‘ should either have reSpectable friends, or none. This first public meeting at which Helen had been

I E ii; and when she saw eVery one dancing around her, glit heart longetb to join the group. She looked with

n - ‘ a - r, rkl ‘ibd’deliglitod eyes all her sweet (,oustancc, dis- ' ,' “however she moved along; and at length that "beats! I girl came up to her, and whispered in her ear, that

(archery, desifed to be made acquainted with one of whom ’fieihad heard so much—Helen Eyre. Helen looked to Mrs. 5’ ghlmitgomoryflnd rising up, blushed, but, unembzirrassed, " 7‘21 joined the dance with Henry Beauu'iont. As they took itheir place in the good old country-dance, (not very far from ‘ ’ * the t0p,} there was much tossing ofheads, pursing ofmouths, . bridling up ofelcgant and inelcgant figures, loud whisper- . , ing, considerable tittering, and some little downright rude- - ness. But beauty will have its triumph; and Helen Eyre stood unruflled in that small storm. llcury Beaumont, too, was a young man ofbirth and great estates—by far the most elegant and accomplished person in the room, and iinofficer in the Guards; end it was soon understood by the male part ofthe corners, that it might not be quite prudent to express alight or scorn towards any body who stood opposite-to him in the dance. There was a haughtiness in his eye somewhat ‘ , distressing to upstart people, and he carried bimselfin a way not very descrihnble, but vary intelligible to the meanest t4 and most vulgar capacity. He was likewise upwards of six Tfeet high, and when it was his turn to lead off with Helen _ Eyreptherc was a most polite attention shown to all their movements. 1! is no great merit, surely, to dance well ; but 1 '1 now it seemed as. ifit were, for every eye was turned upon ,-3bqgi§1aeefiil pair, and even the most seiiselessly and haser felt that it was a pity Helen Eyre had been so born, tbr that she excelled in every thing she tried, and was. iii- deed, most truly beautiful. Helen felt, and she enjoyed her ~ triumph. To herself she attributed little ofthe politeness shown by young Beaumont; but her heart overflowcd with gratitude towards Constance ; and when she again took her - segfiiibeside Mrs. Montgomery, scarcely could she refrain from tears, so touched was she by the noble kindness of her friend. The evening passed away delightfiilly—lileleu did not dance again -—biit she was frequently spoken to by young Beaumont, and whether her happiness gave a color to every thing around her, or it was really so, isbe thought that all her acquaintances looked less coldly and distantly 'Itpon her,"it’fii1‘1'hat little or no distinction seemed now to exist between herselfand the other young and happy ci‘ea‘ titres laughing and talking on every side. She even dreamt I! of this meeting in her sleep; and in that dream it was not - probable that she should seecvery body except young Hean Beaumont. ' Henry Beaumont never concealed his feelings; and next day he declared to his mother that all Scotland did not hold with another delightful creature as Helen Eyre! The old ‘fady heard these words with great gravity and olemnity, "(it said that she hoped her son would remember his birth and uotfall in love with such a person as poor Helen Eyre: however good and beautiful. “Fall in love, mother !—who talks offiilling in love ?-—not l—but this much is certain, ‘Pthat linust inquire of all my partners how they are this ‘tporuingW—and with that he flung out ofthe room, mount- ed. his horse, and galloping across the country, as ifat a steeple chase, he soon found bimselfin a pretty little garden on Tweei‘lsido, with the good, worthy old Mrs: Montuomery and her fair [lelen.—lle called upon none of his othei- pari- iiers that day, at least, and his subsequent assevcl‘ations that he had not fallen in love became less and less vehement. The truth is, that he had fallen in love—that he wasdespe- riitely enamoured—and being a young man ofardent feelinos and headstrong will, he swore an oath within his soul, (in parting from “clean that forenoon, that, ifhc could gain her g, love, he would make her his wife! Illenry Beaumont was ‘not without pride—indeed, it was his besettiiig em. But his heart was full of tenderness, and ;_ the Situation of Helen Eyre was such as to brintr all that tenderness up from its deepest spring. He was zSproud of his ancestry, perhaps of his own accomplishments, of his lino-person, and ofthe paiverofhis manners. He had been distinguished tit-a great public school, and afterwards at an EtiglislrUzniverstty, for the brilliancy ofliis talents. He no sooner jomed the Guards, than he took his place, at once among the most polished and elegant society in the ivorle ,He met \Vitli universal admiration : and all these things V awtggether, although he knew they possessed little intrinsic or parliament value, could not but influence his temper and dis-

msmon, before the gradually acquired wisdom of ripcr years _, d mellowed the impetuosny of youth, and extended its 3%? of feeling and of thought.

He was, therefore, con-

e 4 y many a haughty and arrogant young man, and not A , tber unjustly; but the native generosity of his

- heaWfiinually showing itself, and althouin mere ac- - a ,_ csomtrangers might be repelled by his denieanour ' no man‘could be more esteemed or beloved by his friends: «,gNow 'a' new chord was touched in his heart. The sweet piiiiplicity of Helen .Eyre, combined, as it was, with perfect elegance and gracefulness, took his eye at the first glance and although it could not be said to have gained yet it cer: tainly at once touched, his affections. As the itfnocence of her heart and the intelligence of her mind indicated them- selves unconsciously in every artless, yet well-cliosenrword yo and admiration of a better kind stole itito his breast2 and her excecding loveliness and beauty gave the warmth of _ passion'to an attachment which was ofrapid growth and .~ ,1 alter a few interviews, was blended vitally with its, very _ heart’s blood. He thought of her, now in her yirwin beauty , now as his bride, now as his wife, now as the nidther of liis‘ . , china; and his heart was sick, his very soul was mm in ;_ dftumultuous passion, till calmed again by solemn 'i ofig‘eitnal unioti between himself and Helen, here -. yen. r fight-{love which Helen Eyre felt towards him was ofa defy different kind. It was utterly hopeless, and therefore it was utterly indulged. She knew that she never could be his wife—that he would never stoop to marry her—that Con- stance even would not like to see her brother forming a connection below his own rank—and that his mother would rather see her poisoned or drowned, at least dead and buried, than the Wife of her Henry. All these convictions gave her little or no distress, for they were not brought upon her un- expectedly, to dump a heart that had been warmed by other thoughts—they formed the habitual knowledrre ofthat hum- ble heart, and they and thoughts like them hard been instilled into her bosom by her good and wise guardian who knew that to save her from melancholy, it was necessiary to show her'the truth oflife, and to remove all delusions. Helen , Eyre, therefore, allowed her soul to rejoice. Within her, in the

I'Wer‘bmher,§Vbo had arrived from England too late for the

agitation ofa new and heavenly happiness, whenever Henry Beaumont appeared with his smiling countenance, that brightened up the room, or the field, or_tho garden, With an efl‘ulgence ofbliss. She knew her own innocence—her own resignation—and she knew, that iers. Montgomery, Who was now very old, were to die, most solitary would be her own lot. Therefore, she spoke, smiled, atid walked With Henry Beaumont, as witli'the only being on earth whom, in the sacred silence ofher soul, she would, till her dying hour, perfectly love. He could not penetrate into her thoughts—.- he could not look, with these bold, bright, beautiful eyeS, into the covert of her inner spirit, where they all lay couched, night and day, for ever—lie would place his love on some one of whom he had no cause to be ashamed, and who would be welcomed to the hall of his fathers—lie would then only bestow a passing smile, or word, upon the orphan —but she, the orphan herself, would cherish him in blame- less and indulged passion in her bosom—and call down the blessing of God, iiiornii'ig and evening, and many a tiuie'be- sides, on the heads ofhimself, his wife, whoever she might be, and the children that might rise up like flowers around their feet. A love so hopeless, so pure, so unselfish, and S0 unknown, it surely could be no sin for her to cherish, who had no relations ol'lier own, and few friends indeed,——friends doomed, no doubt, to be fewer still, year after year, till at last she might have none to comfort her htit her sweet (3911- stance, whom other affections might also keep too often away, and the image of that brother—an image which, eu- graven on her heart, could only cease to be, when that heart was broken, or bad wasted and withered away into the dust.

Helen was walking one evening by the river side, and had descended into a small green glade on a wooded bank,

from which there was a cheerful and splendid prospect of

the town and the rich country round, when Henry Beau- mont was at her side, and taking her hand into his, pressed it to his heart, and then led her to a stone seat besule a little spring that bubbled up through the roots of the trees, and danced its short silvery course intotlie'l‘weed. Poor Helen’s breath came quickly when be pressed her to his bosom, and with a few burning kisses and breathing words, declared his love and passion, and that she must become his wife.— A pang of joy went through her heart, and she couldjust faintly utter, “Your wife !”—“ Yes—my wife—say that it will be so, and may God forget me if lam not. kitid to you, my best and most beautiful Helen, all the days of my life!” “Oh! Sir, you could. be unkind to no one, but think, oh think, who Iain, unfit and unworthy to be the wife of Henry Beaumont!” He had an eloquent tongue, an eloquent eye; and there was eloquence iii the throbbing and beating of the heart that swelled bis manly breast.‘ He held Helen in his arms, as ifshe had been a frightened and palpitating dove—and she wished not to be released from that dear cm- brace.—She, the poor, despised and slighted orphan, heard

herself blessed by him who was the pride and flower of

Scotland’s youth; his gentle, and tender, and respectful kisses stirred up all the holy thoughts that she had hidden in her heart, that they might lie there unseen for ever—and in that trance ofbliss, they all overflowed-—aiid a few Words ofconfcssed affection escaped her lips. “Yes,l love you be- yond life and my Own soul—but never, never, Sir, may 1 be your wife.——-Think who you are, and then who 1 am, and a voice will tell you that we never can be united.” With these words she broke from his arms, and knelt down, nor was it in his power, so confounded was be, for a few uiinutes to lift her up. ‘-’ But though I know you never can marry me, remember—ob! never, never cease to remember—that I fell down on my knees before you, and vowed before that God who has hitherto preserved me in innocence and peace, to devote my soul henceforth to your love. Enough will it be for me to cherish your image for ever in my heart—to Weep with joy when I hear you are happy—never to repine, nor envy her happiness who may one day lie in your bosom; but since God sent me into the world an orphan, iiuhappily born, let me strive to subdue my soul to an orpban’s fate, and submit quietly and piously to the solitaryyears that may be awaiting me, when my mother’s grey hairs are covered wttli darkness. Now, Sir, now, my beloved Henry Beau- mont, let its either partvor walk away in silenceifi'om this

spot, which to me will be for War a hallowed place—for of)

love and marriage never more must our speech be—they are not for us." , * ‘

Helen separated from her lover within a mile of her home, and bad on her arrival there sufficiently recovered her self» command to be able to appear composed before Mrs. Mont-

gomery; but she had never concealed froui her dear mother}

any incident that affected her happiness, and she knew that it was now her duty to make a full disclosure of what had passed. She did so, and had the satisfaction to find that her conduct brought tears of joy into her mother’s eyes. The good old lady assured her God would reward her for the high-principled sacrifice she had made, and on rctiring to her bed-room at night, she blessed lier orphan with more than wonted fervour and solcmiiity.

No sleep was there this night for Helen Eyre. She had made a great sacrifice, and nature now rose up against it. Why should she not become the wife of Henry Beaumont,

ifhe loved her, as he said, better than all the world? Ought her birth to be a bar between her and a whole life of bliss?

\Vould'she be violating any duty—doing injury or wrong to any livuig creature, by yielding lierselfup iii wedloek to the man she so tenderly loved, and whom, she knew, she could make happy? Were all the deepest, holiest, most awlul af-

fections of the soul to be denied to him and to her, merely because their union might offend a prejudice, or at best a

feeling that surely never could be vital, our set in just oppo-

sition to all that the human soul felt to be sanctified in exis-

mtv (colonial macaw.

Mrs. Montgomery was known for many miles trousdnilh:

I re she had led more than twenty years 0 a B 3 town, w ie _ . , , reached and charitable life. The melancholy tidings sogfl dearest Hirst, and Constance Beaumont flew to comfort . or f Hen- friend.——-Nor did her mother, who yet knew notliingo C _ ry’s avowal of his love to Helen, think of preventing H025 stance from carrying comfort to the bereaved orphan.d Mars was a proud but a warm heart; and havmg truly loved mfg Montgomery, it was in tears that she Saw ConstanceI elthe to cheer the poor creature who Wasnow Sitting ind corpse of her whom she had loved and respected fioui c." ‘ - hood, and whom she was ere long to follow to the gi ave. The thought of their ages being the same, was at‘once ten- der and solemn; and something of the saiiptity of that pure unmiugled affection with which she regaided the megiot‘y of Mrs. Montgomery, could not but attach to Helen_ yie, who had so long tended her (lecliiiii'ig age, and repaid, .by the most beautiful constancy offilial love, the cares which had been lavished in the warmth of nature, and the charity ofChristian faith, upon her orphan head. .

Helen know that Constance would, immediately op hear- ing of Mrs. Montgomery’s death, Write her a letter of tender condolence; but~slie was not prepared for such excesswe kindness, when that most amiable girl opened her bed-room door with her own hand, and with soft steps and streaming eves went tip to her and kissed her check. The orphan folt, in that eriibrace, that she was not yet sohtary in the world. There was nothing to break this friendship, although much to crush that other love, and she was glad, even in her sorrow, to know, that thro’ all the changes and chances ofthis life, she would still hold a place in the heart of Lon- stance Beaumont. The dead stillness ofthe house was sup- portable, now tliat the arm of her sister was reund her neck, and they soon‘went hand in band together, and gazed on the beautifully serene countenance ofber whose spirit was in heaven. Cfthe two, Constance most loudly wept, for her tears tell more for the living than the dead. Who in all the world could be more solitary than the orphan Helen Eyre? Yet her brow, eyes, cheeks and lips were all calm; there was no agitation, nothing like despair in her quiet ino- tious, and the light of God‘s mercy shone radiantly upon her as she knelt down to a prayer ofthanksgiving in that desolate house. Never before had the full perfection of her character been made manifest. Now it was tried, and met the sudden and severe demand. Her voice faltered not, nor did her heart quake. She was alone on the earth, but God was in heaven, and with that sublime thought llelen Eyre was now stronger in her utter destitution, than if without it she had been entrenched in the midst ofan host of mortal friends. The spirit of her piety kindled that too, of her be- loved Constance, and they sat together in the silent house, or in twilight walked out among the secret trees perfectly composed and happy, till the day ofthe funeral.

That day indeed was one of sore trial, and Helen needed the support of her friend. Often, often, oti every day since her death, had she stolen into the room where her mother laid, and sat by the bed-side as motionless as the figure that lay there; but the hour was come when these visits were to end, and the phantom was to be borne nfl'into the chambers of'chay. 1n the silence oflier darkened bed-room, with Constance sitting at her couch, the orphan heard the fi'e- quent feet ofthe company assembling at the funeral.—The friends were silent. At last the funeral was heard to be de- parting from the house—At that moment Helen rose, and looking through an opening of the darkened window, she saw the. bier in motion, slowly borne away up the avenue, below the shadow ofthe trees. A tall figure was at the right side ofthe coffin, one ofthe mourners. it was Henry Beaumont ; his head was bowed down and his face sedan in a manly sorrow. “ See how my brother weeps!” said Constance, and Helen did"not fear then to call down the blessing ofGod upon his head, and then turning to Coti- staucc, she said, “ Happy, happy, art thou to 'have such'a brother!” And as they were kissing eatli other, the funeral disappeared. »

Two days. after the limeral, Mrs. Beaumont came after her daughter. She behaved with the greatest tenderness and sympathy to Helen Eyre, and bad iiotveatglowng iiiconi- pany with the orphan till her soul was even aWed y the sanctity oflier resignation. The flowers that the old lady had so carefully tended (lid not miss her hands; the room bore no mark ofthe distraction and forgetfulness ofpassion- ate grief; Helen’s dress was simple and graceful as ever; and except that her face Was somewhat wan, and her voice occasionally tremulous, there were no other outward symp- toms of sorrow. Iftbc orphan had thought ofthe future, it was plain that ‘sbe felt that vista to terminate in the mystery ofa darkness spread out in mercy from the hollow ofGod’s awful band, and that she was not about to terrify herself with phantoms of her own Creation: _ 1f sorrow, sickness, or desertiou by friends, were to be her lot, she would lay her hands upon the Bible, and endure the decree. But from the mildiiess of her expressive countenance, it seemed that her 1heart was confined chiefly to dreams ofthe happy past. She had no sins, and not many frailties, with which to reproach herself—for these lier contrition needed not to be bitter; no harsh or hasty words, no unamiable or unfilial looks had ever pased from her towards her benefhctress~and as the buuihlest are permitted to enjoy the delight of conscious piety, and ofa sincere wish to do Well, so was Helen Eyre now happy in the renien’ibrancc ofall her affection to her mother, and of every little daily and hourly act performed, not from duty, but in love.