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LITERATURE. HELENEYRE.

In a beautiful town in the south of Scotland, distinguished by the noble river that sweeps by its gardens, its majestic bridge, its old crumbling tower, and a grandee’s princely domains, that stretch with their single gigantic trees and many spacious groves all round the clustered habitutions, resided, for one half-year, an English Officer of Cavalry and a young and lovely woman, who was—not his wife. He was then the youngest son of a noble family, and, with some of the vices, possessed many ofthe virtues of his profession. That he was a man ofweak principles, he showed by having attached to him, by the tenderest ties, one who, till she had known him, had been‘innocent, happy, and respected ; that he was note man ofbad principles, he showed by an atten- tion to her as gentle, refined, and constant as ever husband paid to wife. He loved her truly and well. Shewas his mistress—degraded—despised—looked on with curious and Scornful eyes—unspoken to but by his voice, solitary indeed when he was absent, and revived by his presence into a troubled and miserable delight, that, even more than her lonely agonies, told her that she was for ever and irretrievably lost. She was his mistress—that was known to the grave who condemned, to the gay who connived, and to the ten- der hearted who pitien them both—her and her seducer; but though she knew that such was her odious name, yet when no eyes were upon her but those of Marmaduke Stanley, she forgot or cared not for all that humiliation, and conscious of her own affection, fidelity, and, but for him, innocence too, she sometimes even admitted into her heart a throb ofjoy and of pride in the endearments and attachment of him whom all admired and so many had loved. To be respect- able agein was impossible—but to be true to the death unto her seducer, if not her duty, was now her despair—and while she prayed to God for forgiveness, she also prayed that when she died, her head might be lying on his guilty biit affection- ate bosom. To fly from him, even ifit Were to becomes beggar on the high-way, or a gleaner in the field, often did

, her conscience tell her; but thongli conscience spoke so, how could it not, when enveloped and fetteretl in a thousand intertwisted folds of affections and passions, one and all of whom as strong as the very spirit oflife?

Helen Eyre prayed that she might die: and her prayer was granted. He who should have been her husband, had 5 been ordered suddenly away to America—and Helen was left behind, (not altogether fricndless,) as her health was . delicate, and she was about to become a mother. They part-

ed with many tears—as husband and wife would have part-

CHI“ dearly as she loved her Marmaduke, she hoped that _ never see her more, and in a few years forget that f ' creature had ever been. She blessed him before he

'- went away, even upon her knees, in a fit oflove, grief, fear, , remorse and contrition; and as she beheld him wave liis j. \ white plumes towards her from a distance, and then disap- i pear among' the trees. she said, “Now, I am left alone for

re ntsnce, with my God!”

, I‘his unfortunate young creature gave birth to a child ; am]

after enjoying the deep delight ofits murmuring lips for a

,few days, during which the desire oflife revived within her,

. "she expired with it asleep in her bosom. Small, indeed, was the funeral ofthe English officer’s fiiir English mistress. But she was decently and quietly laid in her grave; for, despised

. as she lied been when living, she was only pitied now, and

’. no one chose to think but of her youth, her beauty, her pale and melancholy face, her humble mein, and acts of kindness and charity to the poor, whom she treated always

. as her superiors—for tfiey, though in want, might be inno-

, cent, and she had gone far astray. Where, too, though:

many, who saw the funeral pass by, where are her relations at this moment? No doubt, so pretty and elegant a being must have had many who once loved and were proud ofher

-but such thoughts passed by with the bier,——slie was buried,

and a plain stone laid over her according to her own desire:

“Hints Lies 'HsLsN Ems, AN Oaruau, Assn TWENTY-TWO

:r- Yuns.”

There was one true Christian who had neither been afraid nor ashamed to visit Helen Eyre during the last Weeks of her life, when it seemed almost certain that life was near its close.——'l‘his was Mrs. Montgomery, the widow ofa country gentleman of good fitinily, who had for some years resided in the town. This excellent woman knew Marmaduke Stanley, and was not a stranger to the circumstances of this

a unfortunate and guilty connection. On his departure, she

' had promised to take care that Helen Eyre should be looked after in her illiiess,—aiid when the hand of death .lay upon the poor fi’ieiidless orphan, she was frequently with her at her bed-side, administering comfort and consolation. Such kindness from such a person, at such it time, supported the soul ofthe dying mother when it was most disconsolate; it quieted all the natural fears ofdissolution; and when she, whose own life had been a model of all that was good and beautiful and lofty iii the female character, bent down over the penitent sinner and kissed her fair young brow, now sold and clamtny in the death-throes, that christian kiss seem- ed to assure her that she might be forgiven ; and, if God, as we believe, beholds the creatures he has made, it was regis- tered in heaven.

Mrs. Montgomery took the iiifaut into her own' house— and had written, to inform its father of what had happened, when she read in a newspaper that, in a skirmish, Major Marmaduke Stanley had been killed. She then opened a letter he had left with her on his departure—and found that he had bequeathed his small fortune offour thousand pounds ‘_ to Mrs. Montgomery, that slio might settle it properly on the , mother pfhis child, if she survived, if not, upon the infant.

1 The infant orphan was christened Helen Eyre, after its

,3 mother, whom, frail as she had been, there was no need that

3 her child, at least, should ever disown. No one wished to

have the baby that now. belonged to none. And this excel- lent lady, from no whim, no caprice, no enthusiasm, but

’ touched at the. heart With its utter and forlorn helplessness,

by sorrow for its poor mother’s transgression and early fate, and by something of a maternal affection for its dead father, resolved to adopt Helen Eyre as her own child, and to edu- cate her in a woman’s accomplishments, and a Christian’s faith. Some smiled—some disdained—and a few even blamed—the kindness that could rescue an orphan from all orplian’s fate. Many, too, wondered, they knew not why, when it was known that Major Stanley had left all his for- tune to Mrs. Montgomery for lielioof ofthe child. But in a few months it was felt by every one, whatever they might choose to acknowledge, that the brave soldier had had a good heart, atid that he had committed the interests of his orphan, even before she was born, to one whose character was sum- med up in that one word—a Christian.

It often seems as if those children who have fewest to love them in the world, grow up the most worthy oflove. Here was an orphan—born in sin, in shame, and in sorrow—and now left uloueoii the earth—who grew up beautiful to all eyes, and captivating to all hearts. Before five summers had shone upon her blue eyes. the child was noticeable among all other children. Her mother had been lovely, and there was a time, too, it was said, when her presence had been welcome in the balls even of the noble, who lied visited her parents in their pleasant dwelling beside their own Church. Her father, however deficient in more solid worth had been the ornament of polished life; and it seemed as if

g nature preserved in thi small and beautiful and graceful

image the united attractions of both the unfortunate (lend.

The very loneliness ofthe sweet child, without a natural

home in the world, could not but interest every good heart; but her exceeding beauty made an impression almost like that of love even upon the heartless—and “English Helen”

--so she was iiimiliarly called, to distinguish her from ano-

ther child. of the same Christian name at school, was a fa- vourite with all. Besides, the was the adopted daughter of

Mrs. Montgo'iiiery, and that added a charm even to her beau-

ty, her sweetness, and her innocence. ,

. The‘heart .of Helen Eyre expanded, month afier month,

in the joy of its innocence, and felt the holy voice of nature whispering to it new feelings of love and affection. The children Witli'whom she played had fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, and many other friends. She had none.

She loved the lady who was so good to her, and by whose

bed she slept at night on her own small couch. But she knew that it was not her mother with whom she lived, she

had been told that both father and mother were dead; and sometimes the. sweet child wept for those she had never seen, and of whom she knew nothing but that they had bOlh been buried long ago. Something, sad and melancholy, therefore, mixed itselfwith youth’s native gladness, and: corresponding expression settled itself about her eyes, ‘im often smoothed tlie‘dimples on her smiling cheeks—“Lug- lisli Helen’s" own heart told often what she had often heard her childish companions say, that she was an orphan; but she knew that tlio’ that was something mournful, it could not be wicked, and that, therefore, people would pity her more—not love her less—because her father had been kil- led in the wars, and her mother had died, soon after she wins born, ofa broken heart. .

One day, Helen Eyre had wandered With some of her com- panions into the church-yard, near the Old Tower, and, at- tracted by the iniirmuring blossoms ofa shady horse-chest- nut tree, that hung its branches over several tombs and grave-stones, in a corner near the river side, she tripped into the shade, and letting fall her eyes upon a grey slab, she read there her own name, the inscription on her mother’s grave—She went home drowned in tears, and asked her guardian, if'tliat was not the stone under which her mother was buried. The good old lady went with her to the church-yard, and they sat down together on that stone. Helen was now ten years old; and perhaps had heard, although she scarcely knew that she had, some dim intima- tion, in the language of her play-fellows, which they them- selves had not tinderstood, that she was“a natural child.” Mrs. Montgomery spoke to herabout her parents; and while the sweet child kept her weeping eyes fixed upon her face, as she spoke in a bewildered and perplexed grief, she came to know, at last, that her mother had been guilty of a great sin, but liiid been forgiven by God, and had died happy.— The child was told, too, although that she could scarcely be- lieve, that sotne might l0ve her less for that reason; but the truly good might love her the tnore, if she continued to be what she now was, innocent, sweet-tempered, and obedient to God’s holy laws. “Your mother, Helen, was a kind, gen- tle, and religious being; and you must always think so, when you weep for her, here beside her grave, orelsewliere. When you are older, 1 will tell you more about her, and about your birth. But my beloved, my good, and my beau- tiful child, for I do not fear to call thee so, even to thy sweet face—be not ashamed—hold up your head, Helen, among your companions, and my hands, as long as I live, will dress for thee that gliileless bosom, and tend the flowing ofthat glossy hair. Iain your mother now. Helen; are you not wil- ling to be my child?” The orphan could make no reply, for her little heart was full, almost to breaking—and she could only kiss the band that took hers gently into it, and bathe it with happy and affectionate tears. They left the church- yard ; and before they reached the sweet cottage on the river’s side, Helen was gazmg with delight on the Queen butterflies, as they for a moment expander] their rich, brown, inottleil,and sczirlgt wings on the yellow lustre of the lublil‘- nnms, and then glanced, careering away overthe fruit trees, into other gardens, or tip into the sunshine ofthe open day. In Scotland there prevails, it is believed, a strong feeling of an indefinite kind towards those whose birth has been such as that ofpoor Helen Eyre. This feeling is different in different iniuds; but, perhaps, in very few, such as seems reconcdeable with a true Christian spirit. Scorn and-aver- sion towards the innocent, however modified, or restrained by better feelings, is not surely, in any circumstances, a tem- per of mind any where expressly recommended, or indirect- ly instilled by any passages in the New Testament; and, with reverence be it spoken, if we could imagine ourselves listening to the living Christ, we should not. expect to hear from his lips lessons of conturnely, or liard~hezirtedpcss to poor, simple, innocent, orphan children. The morality of society is not to be protected byvtlie encouragement ofany feelings which Christianity condemns; and assucli is the constitution ofghis world, that the innocent often suffer fori the guilty, that it is an awful consideration to deter from vice, { but stirely it is no reason for adding to the misfortunes of‘ virtue. [n coarse and vulgar minds this feeling towards il- legitimate children is a loathing repugnant-e, and a bitierand angry scorn. And the name by which they call them'is one

when the orphan was sitting in her solitude, With no En; near to cheer her, or to disturb. When she read in the Lo tory of real life, or in the fictions of poetry, of chiliractfergtvzre acted their parts well, and walked. in the In; it o 0;. beautiful and blest, or tried and triumphant in the lies-th affliction, these she made the friends of her heart, an! lWI these she would hold silent communion all the day No eyes seemed averted from her, no faces frowned, nan lfr any liar-sh voices rise up among the dead. All the gop . on; whom the grave had closed were felt to be her fricnt s, in d that purified world no unkind feelings could intrude, on the orphan felt no bar to intervene between her beating heart, and those who were the objects of her profound am devout affection. From the sliglits, or the taunts, or the coldness of'living acquaintances, H'elen Eyre could alwayj turn to these sacred intimacies or friendships, unbroken and unimpaired; she could bring a tender light from the W0.l-l of memory to soften down the ruggedness or 'the aspeiity of present existence; and thus,_whilo she was in one selngg an orphan, almost alone iii life, in another she was the c ll of'u family, noble, rich, powerfulhgreat, and good. h

Or such happy nature, and trained by the Wisdom oft e youthful innocence to such habits of emotion and thougbfti. Helen Eyre felt—but not keenly—the gradual falling o and decay ofalmost all her school friendships. Some of her companions left that part of the country altogether, and she heard of them no more—some went home in the neigh- bourhood, and in a short time recognised her when they chanced to meet by a civil smile, question, ctii'tsey, or shake ofthe hand, and no more—some seemed to forget her alto- gether, or to be afraid to remember her—and some treated her with a condescending, and patronising, and ostentatious kindness, which she easily understood to be a mixture of fear, shame, and pride. Such things as these Helen gene- rally felt to be trifles; nor did they permanently afl'ect her peace. But sometimes, when her heart, like'that ofothers, desired a liomely,a human and'a lowly happiness, and was willing to unite itself in that happiness with one and all of its usaful friends, whoever they might be, poor Helen could not ,but feel the cruelty and injustice ofsuch alienation. and perhaps may have wept unseen, to think that she was not allowed to share the affection even ofthe vulgar, the it'- norant, and the mean. Many who at school, before tli ' had learned the lessons of the world, truly and conscienti- ously loved her, and were grateful to “ English Helen” for the assistance she lent them in their various tasks, and for her sweet and obliging disposition in all things, began now to keep down their natural emotions towards her, and to give way to the common sentiment. Tawdry misses, dosti- tiite ofall accomplishments, and ignorant of all knowledge needful or graceful to woman’s soul, were ashamed to be thought friends of Helen Eyre, and thought it necessary to explain that she was only an acquaintance when they were at the Oliver’s Boarding-school, adding, that she was to be pitied, for that although, like all persons in her. situation, she was excessively proud, yet she was certainly very clever, and did not want heart. '

No doubt, it would have been nothing very remarkable, bad Helen Eyre, under such circumstances, become what such excellent judges esteemed her to be, irritable, uiiami- able, and proud. This treatment might have soured her dis- position, and armed her against an unjust and cruel world. Some struggles she may have had against such feelings, for she was not without her frailties and imperfections; her cheek may have flushed. and her heart beat with in- dignation, when insulted by overweeniiig civility, or spite- fiil scorn. Though she felt pride to be a vice, so was mean- ness; and orphan as she was, and illegitimate too, 'consci- ous innocence and virtue, good will to her fellow-creatures, and piety to her Creator, gave her rights and privileges which were entitled to respect, and which, without blame, she might vindicate, when slighted, insulted or abused.— Therefore, though bumble,sbc was not abused, and a mild pensive dignity overspread all her demeauour, which abased the mean and won the commendation of all whose souls possessed a single spark of native nobility. Indeed, in her presence it was no easy matter to maintain or put into prac- tice those unchristian principles which, when she was ab- sent, burst forth in all their abject and slavish violence.

that comes from their mouths steeped in human pride, as if there were in it an odious contamination. Alas! who are they that thus turn away with loathing from beings formed by God in his own image? Are they all pure—and innocent, —and aloof from transgression? 0r, may not in such cases i the scorn ofthe despicable, the mean, the cruel, the ignorant‘ and the licentious, fall upon the head of the generous, the just, the pure, the intelligent, the refined and the pious? It is often so. Now, society has its own laws, and they are often stern enough; but let them never, with the good, pre- vail against the lows ofnature; and let every mind that en- tertains the feeling now alluded to, be cautious, in justice to itself and to a fellow creature, and in due reverence ofa com- mon Creator, to separate from it all undeerved virulence, all .r unchristian contumely—all imbrotherly or unsisterly hatred, and then they will know to how little it amounts, and how easily it must be forgotten in the contemplation of excel- lence ;—atid then, too, will they feel a far deeper compassion for them in whose minds that other rooted passion ofcoii- tempt so rankly grows. There were many who wondered that Mrs. Montgomery could have adopted such an orphan. And with that coarse wonder they turned nwav from that noble, high-born, high-bred, and, what was far better, tender- hearted, compassionate, and pious lady, and from the bean- tiful creature at her side, rejoicing in protecting innocence and awakened intelligence, beneath the light oflier gracious affection.

As Helen Eyre grew out ofher sweet girlhood into the ri- pening beauty of her virgin prime, thisfeeling regarding her became somewhat stronger. For now there Wits thejealousy —tlie envy—and the spite of little minds, painfully conscious oftlieir inferiority, and impatient oftotul eclipse. They had the tone of the world’s most worldly heart on their side ; and it was easy, pleasant, safe, and sntisfactorv, to hang a cloud over her by one single word, that could bot be gain- sayed, when it was felt that in itselfthe flower was fragrant and most beautiful. Campbell has, in the simple words of genius, spoken ofthe “ magic of a name”—-so likewise is there a blight in a name-a blight which may not fall on its object, but which can wither up the best feelings of our na- ture, which the sight ofthat object was formed to cherish and expand. Helen by degrees instructed her heart iii this knowledge, which froin nature alone she never could have had ;_lier guardian had told her the story of her birth ;she read in books of persons situated as she was, and although sometimes her heart rebelled at what could not but appear in her most impious injustice, and although even sometimes she felt a sort ofangry and obstinate pride, which she knew was wrong, yet such was the felicity of her nature, that the knowledge wrought no disturbance in her character; and she was now in her undisputed beauty, hei- acknowledged accomplishments, and her conscious inuoeence, humble and happy, sedate but not depressed, not too ready either with her smiles or tears, but prodigal of both when nature knock- ed at her heart, and asked admission there for gi-ief‘or forjoy.

Helen Eyre was no object ofpity; for her bark had been drawn up into a quiet haven, and moored on a green shore oval-spread with flowers. Yet stillshe was an orphan and the world were a different aspect to her eyes from, that which it presented to other young persons, with troops of friends and relations, bound to them by hereditary connec- tions, or by the ties ofblood. They had daily presented to them food for all the affections of the heart; their feelings had not either to sleep or else to be self-stirred, for a thou- sand pleasant occurrences were coustantlv touching them with almost unconscious delight. Life offered to them a succession of pleasures ready made to their hands and thev had but to bring to them hearts capable of ebjoymeni Little demand is made on such as these, so long as healtli continues, and their worldly affairs are prosperous to look often or deeply, or stealthily, into their own souls But with this orphan the case was very different: I alone, to commune with herown he and feelings, and fancies rose up th desolate. Her friends were not living beings of the same age, and with the some pursuits as herself, for of them she came at last to have but few, but they were still, calm, silent,