respondence during this period, and shall here extract part of a letter, which will sufficiently show the inefficacy of such comforters of sorrow. "Oh, my Eliza! it is in vain, in vain, all in vain-I am wretched in the most brilliant society; the dying shriek of my Edward mixes with the liveliest music, and but for the dread of observation, the hysteric sob of agony would be so too. I sink daily to the grave→ I die of grief, with the forced smile of calmness and composure on my cheek-I must return and yield myself a victim to the destroyer-I must come and repose my aching bead and wrung heart by my Edward, and you must educate my child." My soul was poignantly pained, but I instantly wrote to encourage her resolution of returning to her home. She arrived one dreary evening, when the moaning trees seemed to be breathing a renewed requiem over their departed master, and to mix their sympathies with the deep griefs of the desolate widow. I gazed with the most intense interest on her still beautiful but marble-like features-the finger of death seemed to have already passed over them, and faded on the cheek and lip those beautiful tints that had once promised to the enraptured gaze of admiring affection a long and uninterrupted bloom. Her form was wasted to a shadow, and she seemed the victim of internal conflicts, of suppressed, but never subdued feelings. For more than an hour she wept unceasingly on my bosom, and called upon the name of her Edward;-in that room they had tasted so frequently the sweets of each others' society;-she should know them no more. I attempted not to allay these effusions of grief; I knew they were the natural, the due tributes of her heart to the being who was most worthy of it; to deny them were absolute cruelty to the deep unadulterated emotions of that love which should ever exist between those who bind themselves by the "unrecallable vow." Her tears were the sacred relief afforded to her grief-oppressed soul; it would have been equally vain and unfeeling to have reasoned with her on their inutility to restore the lost; I allowed them to flow in silence, as I would have desired the same indulgence for myself under similar circumstances. She became at length somewhat more composed, and faintly said, " My Eliza, you know my heart better than my mother-it is more tranquil now than since my bitter loss, deeply as these scenes of my past felicity recall it ;you must allow me to indulge my griefs-you know what cause I have to mourn.' Her tears gushed afresh, but there was less of agony in their flow, and I observed with a gleam of hope the returning calm of her voice and manner. That night, however, she slept but little, and wept frequently; in the intervals of composure I endeavoured to call her mind to the contemplation of the bright futurity, and the expectation she might cherish of being re-united to the object of her affection in a happier region. She heard me in silence, but with an eye of tearful supplication turned towards heaven, as if she prayed that this hope might be her only consolation; she could indeed have no other wish, no other anticipation, but to meet him there. I endeavoured in the morning to awaken her maternal feelings, by presenting to her her child. This object, as I expected, at first excited fresh ebullitions of feeling; the fatherless infant of her adored husband could not but give birth to the deepest and tenderest sensibilities. But of all the kindred affections those of a mother are, I conceive, the most arousing; they forbid the selfish indulgence of a grief that prevents the discharge of parental duties. I saw that the appealing helplessness of her child had reconciled her ty the endurance of existence: she looked at me, and then at the little cherub: "you must not talk of dying, my dear Ellen," said I, "while you have that tie to life."-She spoke not, but lifted her beautiful dark eyes to heaven, with an expression in them which I can never forget-it was a faltering petition for resignation to the Divine will-a struggle between a wish to depart, and the tender yearnings of a mother over her child. Could she have performed her duties to her as a disembodied spirit, she had, I thought, preferred it; but this could not be-and-yes-she would be content to live, to bear the cruel separation, for the sake of watching over the pledge he had left; she would strive to perform the offices of both parents, to make this precious relic of his affection worthy of its beloved father. Many a month passed on in which I had frequent oppor tunities of seeing her; tears continually started into her eyes at our meeting, and on no topic would she speak, but her heart-rooted loss. She was as the consecrated marble of the tomb-Sacred to the memory of the loved and departed; no other name could find a place in her breast, no other's virtues meet a memorial there. But amidst this deep and constant impression of her soul, this intensity of devotion to the remembrance of her husband, I could perceive that the withering effects of sorrow had passed away; she freely indulged her feelings and recollections; but she indulged them in conjunction with the everlasting hope which the gospel offers she drank the cup of bitterness, but found at the bottom, even as she conceived amongst its dregs, the honeyed balm of heavenly comfort. The education of her infant daughter also became a source of amelioration to her griefs; and the contemplation of her expanding intellect, though mixed with the tenderest regrets that there was none beside" to watch its growing beauty, still afforded an inexpressible pleasure. Could she have known aught of these in the society of the brilliant crowds of Fashion if that can be called society, where a really social feeling is scarcely found to exist. Would her tortured soul have forgotten its griefs, because she concealed them? or could she have found comfort from those who did not understand her sorrows, or if they did, were ignorant of the means of cure? My lovely friend after the lapse of ten years is still a widow, waiting patiently, as she writes me, her reunion with the only partner of her soul; but soothed in the house of her pilgrimage by the gentle and affectionate attentions of the daughter for whose sake she has lived. Frequently does she recur with pensive gratitude to her return to Solitude, and the softening, nay hallowing effects it has had on her griefs: frequently does she observe, that, though seclusion be the nurse of sorrow, it is also its most delicate consoler, and the most effectual teacher of those divine truths which can alone enable us to support it. THE PRINCESS VICTORIA. On the 24th of May this illustrious lady attained the age at which she is, qualified to wield, with her own hands, the British sceptre. The epoch is an important one in the annals of Great Britain. And there is much of loyal and of manly sentiment associated with it, which vindicates and claims a louder and more general burst of acclamation than its mere political importance would either warrant or suggest. The sex of our future sovereign endears her to the nation, and would do so although Elizabeth had never lived; yet the people of England cannot forget that the reign in which their country made the greatest advances in prosperity and glory, was that of a female. The tender age of her Royal Highness is another circumstance which makes her an object of peculiar interest. She has attained to the present important and interesting stage of her existence, under the guidance and protection of a watchful, affectionate, and judicious parent, who has laboured, and laboured not in vain, to fit her for the duties of the exalted station which she is destined to fill, without having once occasioned to the country or to the royal family a feeling of apprehension or anxiety as to her disposition or her conduct. Whatever alarm has at any time been felt on her account has related solely to her health, and it is a source of great satisfaction to know that in this respect there is no longer the slightest ground for apprehension. At six o'clock the gates of Kensington Palace were thrown open to the public, at which time numbers began to collect. About a quarter before seven a party of thirty-seven gentlemen, in full dress, under the direction of Mr. Weippert and Mr. Rodwell, entered the enclosure of the palace, and, stationing themselves on the terrace under the windows of the Princess's chamber, which is situated in the eastern wing, commenced, as the clock struck seven, the following serenade, from the pen of Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson : ́QUARTETT. O, wake, Royal maiden! from soft repose; And as to the streaks in the eastern skies SOLO. Fear not our numbers Shall break on thy slumbers, To sing of the graces that smil'd on thy birth, The flowers we are wreathing Shall emblem thy virtues and gladden thy worth Fancy pierces the gloom Of time's distant page, Which thy deeds sball illume ; And though years may pass ere the tablet of fame CHORUS. The vision is bright as thine own natal day, The following, written by E. Fitzball, Esq., was next performed : THE FAIREST FLOWER OF MAY. Spring renews its golden dreams, Angels pure, your wings display; |