Then came the prioress, and about one hundred nuns, all closely covered with their black hoods. Afer these followed more friars; and then the procession closed.

They marched round the whole building slowly and carefully, chanting as they went some fragments of their service; until, at last, the priest and the maiden arrived before the high altar, when the rest of the long train formed an extended circle around them.

Then the priest asked the maiden: Whether her heart was weaned from the world? Whether she was prepared to resign it altogether? If she would steadily and without swerving devote the remainder of her life to the service of God?

To each of these questions, the maiden answered with a slight inclination of her head, and her lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

The service was then proceeded with quickly, and the priest was just about to cut off the tresses of the fair victim, when a noise, resembling that of people scuffling, was heard in the middle of the building, and the priest let fall the hair, and, looking forward into the crowd, appeared to demand the reason. The noise ceased, and again were the shears uplifted; when suddenly the uproar came nearer, and a tall figure, clad in a riding-cloak, and hat pulled over his face, burst through the crowd, exclaiming, "Hold !—hold! Touch one lock, and, by Heaven, I'll burn your convent to the ground! She has been deceived duped-tricked; and I must speak with her." "Rash man, stand back!" cried the priest; "take but a step, and I will launch the church's curse upon your sacrilegious head."

"You dare not; and, when you know me, would not!" cried the intruder, throwing off his cloak and hat. "Look! and see in me the church's friend-Lambroni !

A wild, wild scream of joy floated richly through the ancient building, and Teresa (for she it was) fell weeping upon the neck of her long lost, defamed, but still adored, Lambroni.

Our tale is soon told. A thousand ducats pacified the church for the loss of a votary; and the priest, who should have cut off Teresa from the world, united and blessed her and her lover. The Countess implored the forgiveness of her son, which was refused, but afterwards, at the request of Teresa, granted. Pedro was shipwrecked and drowned, shortly after his confession to the Count. And the lovers themselves, more ardent, because tried; more loving, because re-united; lived a long life in the sweet interchange of that love, which is the ruling passion of the world and the spirit and essence of God himself.

THE RETURN.

BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.

"Brother, come home."-American Poet.

"PILE up the hearth, till its blaze outshines The sun when he revels 'mid southern vines! Our loved one cometh, the night is dark,

And the hoarse winds sweep through the forest stark ;Pile up the hearth! all his dangers past,

We will welcome him cheerily home at last!"

There pressed a throng, for the night grew cold,
Round the glowing hearth of that mansion old;
Yet room was made for one vacant chair,
And wandering eyes sought to rest them there;
And hearts beat quicker at every sound
That broke through the tempest-darkness round.

"Our few pale flow'rets begin to fall,-
Trim them anew, for he loves them all!
He has journeyed far on a lonely track,
Let us give him a joyous welcome back!
And strew fresh rushes beside his chair,
For Ranger will seek glad resting there."

With treasured memories around her thrown,
Sate the mother of that expected one:
Deep in her heart lay the love for him,-
Him, her first-born,-and her eyes grew dim
With anxious tears, as the hours passed by,
And the prayer of her soul rose silently!

"Not another song till his own deep voice
Be heard, and our full hearts must rejoice!
The absent tone is the dearest aye,
Our thoughts have flown to the loved away;
And we long, with an anxious hope, to greet
The sound of his homeward bending feet!"

There was the wanderer's sister fair,
With her night-dark eyes and her glossy hair,
Sitting silent by her betrothed one's side,
The morrow would see her a happy bride!
And he, that brother scarce less adored,
Must give her hand to its chosen lord.

"We shall soon see a crowd round that empty chair;

Wonder Alice is not already there!

George is preparing to storm his knee,

And Kate's laugh to ring out more merrily;
And Mary has found a hiding nook

To start from, and meet his wondering look!"

Childhood was there with its gleeful face—
A grief to young hearts was that vacant place!—
Through their jocund frolics in wood and hall,
He was the merriest amongst them all!
And tiny voices were whispering round-
"Will he come?"-then sank in a hush profound.

"Who will be first to hail the tone

Of his clear voice sent o'er the threshold stone?
Whose cheek with the richest tints will burn,
Warmed by the kiss of his glad return?
Ah, we could guess!-but we may not tell
Who loves the best, where all love so well!"

There was one whose pulse did ever beat
Quick at the spring of his bounding feet;
A flush on her cheek was seen to lie,
And a conscious glance in her downcast eye,
And her breath came fast-for a sound was heard,
And all hearts with a trustful rapture stirred!

Why come there three?-there should be but one,
And the speaking soul from his face hath gone!
The tale was soon told,―he had missed the track ;—
Where the mountain gorges yawn deep and black,
His foot had slipped,-his heart ceased to beat,—
And they laid the corse at his mother's feet!

There was no bridal for many a day ;—

There was heart-stricken sorrow, and black array ;-
There were no joyous bells-one low, sad tone,
Pealed from their sullen throats alone;

And never more round that hearth was shed
The glad light of old-it was with the dead!

A TOUR AMONG THE THEATRES.*

BY TIPPO0 KHAN THE YOUNGER.

CHAPTER VI.

Embracing an excursion to the Princess's, the Adelphi, and Olympic Theatres. As our respected relative would not be persuaded to accompany us, we set sail, on that same evening, in the old boat, in the direction of the Princess's Theatre. This is a very charming spot-an arena of admirably measured extent a seeming sanitarium and place of pleasant resort for the wandering Thalia and Melpomene of London, not to be too highly prized by ladies in their present delicate situation. But to what purpose is devoted the soil of this garden?-to the cultivation of wholesome and legitimate English herbs, fruits, and flowers? No; to the production of stringy légumes, sown of foreign seed, worthy of the soupe maigre, to which they impart the sole flavour it has to boast of, or of unknown plants which yield a blossom of sickly appearance and smell; we refer to the customary novelties here.

Before adverting to the sights of the night in question, let us cast a glance over the late performances at this house. Last season, what had we? Clarissa Harlowe ; l'Homme blasé; l'Invention de Poudre; the pawnbroker affair rendered lively by Charles Mathews's busy body; and we care not how many more translations and adaptations. Now, we ask the theatrical world, in candour, could not our English coiners produce metal as attractive as these? We are sure they could: give them but the tools, they have the material; let them but have encouragement, and the natural talent to work on is ready. That the French are better able to interest an audience by cleverness of handling a plot, and putting the scenes and effects together in combinaison, we admit, but this is not the point; we should try our English authors too; this is but the dawn of a Vaudeville age in England; she needs experience in the school, and the experience of original composition. Why is she not allowed to have it?

Well, this state of things did not prepare us to expect more than an opera, on the groundwork, if not exactly wearing the plot, of a French ballet, for the recommencement of operations: a good opera enough, in writing, granted; but, from our experience of the management here, we are tempted to ask, why take

a hackneyed stage subject, because it happens to be foreign? we are at a loss to divine a cause: it is like an artist going over to France to find his model of a horse, as though there were none to be obtained in his own native land. However, our scruples are somewhat removed on this head by the author's preface, to which we refer the reader; le jeu vaut la chandelle in this instance, at all events.

Again, we ascertain, from studying the bills, that the lessee of this establishment, regardless of expense, disinterestedly anxious only for the amusement and gratification of his audience, fearful lest the work which "the unanimous opinion of the public press has pronounced to be the best English opera ever produced" (no mincing matters here), should diffuse too much of delight and rapture amid a nervous, and excited audience, varies the scene by engaging a Mr. J. R. Scott, for a few enthusiastic receptions. Now, it chanced that the night of our arrival in these regions, after quitting our uncle as above shown, this gentleman was exhibiting his powers in Macready's once celebrated and favourite character of Rob Roy. It was the second occasion of his appearance in the part, and we were enabled to judge of the enthusiasm created by the performance in a tolerably empty house. He was listened to attentively; here and there moderately applauded; and called for at the conclusion of the musical drama, to receive the congratulations of some fifty individuals, amongst whom ill-natured people might suggest that there may have been five and forty of his intimate friends or their friends. However, we have no grounds, beyond conjecture, for supposing that the fiat was other than that of the public at large; so let us be impartial. Mr. Scott's was a fair piece of acting, and we should think him a sufficiently sensible man to wish that, if a similar honour be intended him on similar occasions, it may follow a more important representation than that in which he figured on this particular night. Really, and truly, if this calling before a curtain be a criterion of first-rate talent, we have a very considerable number of illustrious actors and actresses, indeed, whose respective sweetnesses are now being wasted on the desert air. Why, in this very Rob Roy, we venture to say that an impartial critic, carefully reviewing the performance, would, notwithstanding the general evenness of the new comer's acting, have classed his bold outlaw on a par with, if not inferior, in artistical delineation, to either Mr. Compton's Baillie, or Mr. H. Hughes's Rashleigh Osbaldistone: one determined piece of rant, and certain somewhat outré attitudes in the Highland garb, towards the conclusion, were quite enough for our humble decision in this respect. Beside the performers already named, there was the usual filling up of the characters of the novel, displayed in the drama; of these, Owen, Captain Thornton,