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paring herself for the throne she was so soon destined to grace.

Many proposals of marriage were now made to Isabella. Louis XI. interceded for his brother. The King of Portugal sued on his own account; and the Duke of Clarence (he who was afterwards drowned in a butt of malmsey) was offered by his brother, Edward IV. But the successful aspirant was Don Ferdinand, son of the King of Arragon. The opposition of Henry to this match led the Archbishop of Toledo to remove Isabella to Valladolid, where the young couple were privately married; she being then in her twentieth year, and Ferdinand a few months younger. In the meantime, the civil war raged till the latter end of the year 1474, when peace was in a great measure restored by the death of Henry, and Ferdinand and Isabella were proclaimed King and Queen of Castile. An ineffectual attempt was made on behalf of Joanna by her uncle, the King of Portugal; but in the campaign of 1476, Ferdinand completely defeated the Portuguese army, and reduced the refractory Castilian nobles to submission. Thus Isabella was without a competitor, and was acknowledged Queen of Castile and Leon;-and three years afterwards, by the death of his father, Ferdinand succeeded to the throne of Arragon. In the same year was born their second daughter, the infanta Joanna, afterwards the mother of Charles the Fifth. It is remarkable that, when young, there was only a remote prospect of either Ferdinand or Isabella reaching a throne, and yet they were the means by which the union of the Spanish kingdom into one grand monarchy was accomplished.

The young king and queen devoted their attention to the internal affairs of their joint kingdoms; the sovereignty was more firmly established; the power of the nobility confined; the laws were simplified; justice more equitably administered; the usurpations of the papal see defeated; and the interests of trade promoted and commerce extended.

The war of Granada was the first great event in the reign of the two sovereigns. Isabella, with deep-seated religious prejudices, was but too easily induced to be an instigator and adviser in this terrible contest. "It was bigotry on the one side, opposed to fanaticism on the other. The Spaniards fought for honour, dominion, and the interests of the church; the Moors fought for their homes and hearths, their faith, their country, their very existence as a nation."

The Moorish power in Spain had long been on the decline, and the descendants of the Mohammedan conquerors were now circumscribed within the boundaries of Granada, which extended 180 miles along the southern shores of Spain, and between the mountains and the sea its breadth was about seventy miles. It was populous, rich in agriculture and commerce; its inhabitants wealthy, warlike, industrious, and polished. Granada, the royal city, stood in the centre of the kingdom on two lofty hills, the one crowned by the splendid palace of the Alhambra, the other by the citadel of Alcazaba. Around this noble city stretched the Vega, or plain of Granada, which resembled one vast and beautiful garden. The patriotism of its inhabitants had in it something romantic and tender. The first step of Ferdinand and Isabella was to demand by an ambassador the tribute due, to which Aben Hassan haughtily replied, "Tell your master, that the kings of Granada who were used to pay tribute in money to the Castilian crown are dead. Our mint at present coins nothing but blades of cimiters and heads of lances."

The war was continued with little intermission for ten years. Isabella was present at every succeeding campaign, animating her generals, providing for the support of her armies, comforting them under their reverses, and by her active humanity, and her benevolent sympathy, extended to friend and foe, softening as

far as possible the rigours of war. The civilised world is indebted to Isabella for the first institution of military surgeons to follow the army. These she paid out of her own revenues; and had always six well-furnished tents for the sick and wounded, which were called the Queen's Hospital.

Isabella, in December of 1485, gave birth to the infanta Catherine of Arragon, afterwards the wife of Henry the Eighth of England. Early in the following spring she joined the camp, and was surrounded by a most splendid array of feudal chieftains of Castile, and cavaliers of England, France, and Germany, who had there assembled, anxious to distinguish themselves in the sight of a beautiful and gracious queen. She was also surrounded by many ladies of noble birth and exceeding beauty, the mothers, daughters, or sisters of the brave men engaged in the war. The grand Cardinal Mendoza, who was, during her life, her chief minister and adviser, was also at her side; he is described as a man of clear understanding, eloquent, judicious, and of great quickness and capacity in business, simple yet nice in his apparel, lofty and venerable in his deportment."

In the spring of the year 1486, amid this proud assemblage of nobles, warriors, and high-born dames, Columbus first appeared as a suitor at the court of Castile. In the midst of the hurry and tumult of martial preparation, and all the vicissitudes and exigencies of a tremendous and expensive war, we can hardly wonder if his magnificent but (as they then appeared) extravagant speculations, should at first meet with little attention or encouragement. His frequent repulses by those about the queen are well known, and it was not until the conclusion of the war that Isabella gave her serious attention to his proposals. Her enthusiasm, however, was at length kindled. "It shall be so," she exclaimed; "I will undertake the enterprise for my own kingdom of Castile, and will pledge my jewels for the necessary sum." "This," says the historian of Columbus, "was the proudest moment in the life of Isabella; it stamped her renown for ever, as the patroness of the discovery of the New World."

The exterminating war was brought to a close by the surrender of Granada, into which city Ferdinand and Isabella made their triumphant entry on the 6th of January, 1492. Thus terminated the dominion of the Moors in Spain, which had endured for nearly eight centuries.

During the siege of Granada, Isabella well-nigh lost her life by an accidental conflagration of her camp. No lives were lost, but the whole of the queen's wardrobe and an immense quantity of arms and treasures were destroyed. The winter coming on, the Moors entertained the hope that the siege would be abandoned. Their astonishment was great when they saw a noble and regular city rise from the ruins of the camp. It owed its existence to the piety of Isabella, who built it as a memorial for her deliverance, and named it La Santa Fé.

In April following the fall of Granada (1492), six years after his first disclosing his views, the compact was signed with Columbus, and in the following August he set sail from Palos. Next to that moment in which Isabella declared herself the sole patroness of Columbus, and undertook the voyage of discovery for "her own kingdom of Castile," the most memorable epoch of her life was his return from the New World, when she received him in state at Barcelona; and when, laying at her feet the productions of those unknown lands, he gave her a detailed narrative of his wonderful voyage. Columbus's fourth voyage, in 1502, was under Isabella's immediate patronage and protection. When the wars were over that had followed her accession, Isabella devoted herself to the cultivation of literature and science. Her example inspired the nobility with a taste for letters, and many of the most dignified became public instructors

in the universities. The enthusiasm was no less strong in her own sex. Isabella's Latin preceptor was a lady; the Lady Doña Lucia de Medrano lectured on the Latin classics in the University of Salamanca; and Doña Francisca de Lebrija filled the chair of rhetoric with applause at Alcala.

The Italian war was one of the next important events under the reign of Isabella; the success of which may be mainly attributed to the great military talents of that extraordinary man, Gonsalvo de Cordova, known in history as well as in romance, by the name of the Great Captain. He was a general of great prudence, coolness, and steadiness of purpose. But of the celebrated men who gave lustre to the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, none was more eminent than Cardinal Ximenes. Of this remarkable man Mr. Prescott observes, "His character was of that stern and lofty cast, which seems to rise above the ordinary wants and weaknesses of humanity. His genius of the severest order, like Dante's, or Michael Angelo's, in the regions of fancy, impresses us with ideas of power that excite admiration akin to terror. His enterprises were of the boldest character, his execution of them equally bold. He disdained to woo fortune by any of those soft and pliant arts, which are too often the most effectual. He pursued his ends by the most direct means. In this way he frequently multiplied difficulties; but difficulties seemed to have a charm for him, by the opportunity

they afforded of displaying the energies of his soul."

The latter years of Isabella's life were embittered by a series of domestic griefs that pressed heavily upon her. Her family dropped fast into the grave. In 1496, her mother died in her arms; and her death was but the forerunner of the almost total extinction of her race. Deep melancholy threw her into a rapid decline, of which she died at Medina del Campo on the 25th of Nov. 1505, in the 54th year of her age, and 30th of her reign.

Mr. Prescott observes::-"Ferdinand's connection with Isabella, while it reflected infinite glory on his reign, suggests a contrast most unfavourable to his character. Hers was all magnanimity, disinterestedness, and deep devotion to the interests of her people. His was the spirit of egotism. The circle of his views might be more or less expanded, but self was the steady unchangeable centre. Her heart beat with the generous sympathies of friendship, and the purest constancy to the first, the only object of her love. He proved himself unworthy of the admirable woman with whom his destinies were united, by indulging in those vicious gallantries too generally sanctioned by the age. Ferdinand, in fine, a shrewd and politic prince, 'surpassing,' as a French writer, not his friend, has remarked, all the statesmen of his time in the science of the cabinet, may be taken as the representative of the peculiar genius of the age; while Isabella, discarding all the petty artifices of state policy, and pursuing the noblest ends by the noblest means, stands far above her age.""

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It has been said by Mrs. Jamieson, that Isabella had all the talents, strength of mind, and the royal pride of Queen Elizabeth, without her harshness, her despotism, and her arrogance; and she possessed the personal graces, the gentleness, and feminine accomplishments of Mary Stuart, without her weakness. Her virtues were truly her own; her faults and errors were the result of external circumstances, and belonged to the times and the situation in which she was placed. The love of her people bestowed upon her the simple but beautiful designation, "Isabella de la paz y bontad"-Isabella of peace and goodness. The establishment of the Inquisition, and the expulsion of the Jews, events which her religious zeal led her to sanction and promote, are spots upon her fame; and left evils which are felt in Spain to this day. To these important events we shall have occasion to advert at a future period.

ORIGIN OF THE TERMS WHIG AND TORY. Tory, a cant term from an Irish word, signifying a savage; the name of a party opposed to that of a whig.

Whig, whey; the name of a party in politics.

Walker's Dictionary.

"THE word Tory is Irish, and was first made use of there in the time of Queen Elizabeth's wars in Ireland. It signified a kind of robber, who being listed in neither army, preyed in general upon the country, without distinction of English or Spaniard. In the Irish massacre, anno 1641, you had them in great numbers, assisting in everything that was bloody and villanous, and particularly when humanity prevailed upon some of the papists to preserve protestant relations. There were such as chose to butcher brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, the dearest friends, and nearest relations; these were called tories. In England, about the year 1680, a party of men appeared among us, who, though pretended protestants, yet applied themselves to the ruin and destruction of their country. They began with ridiculing the popish plot, and encouraging the papists to revive it. They pursued their designs in banishing the Duke of Monmouth, and calling home the Duke of York, then in abhorring, petitioning, and opposing the bill of exclusion; in giving up charters and the liberties of their country to the arbitrary will of their prince; then in murthering patriots, persecuting dissenters, and at last in setting up a popish prince on pretence of hereditary right, and tyranny on pretence of passive obedience. These men, for their criminal preying upon their country, and their cruel bloody disposition, began to show them. selves so like the Irish thieves and murtherers aforesaid, that they quickly got the name of tories. Their real godfather was Titus Oates, and the occasion of his giving them the name is as follows the author of this happened to be present. There was a meeting of some honest people in the City, upon the occasion of the discovery of some attempt to stifle the evidence of the witnesses, and tampering with Bedloe and Stephen Dugdale. Among the discourse, Mr. Bedloe said he had letters from Ireland, that there were some tories to be brought over hither, who were privately to murder Dr. Oates, and the said Bedloe. The doctor, whose zeal was very hot, could never hear any man after this talk against the plot, or against the witnesses, but he thought he was one of these tories, and called almost every man a tory that opposed him in discourse; till at last the word tory became popular, and it stuck so closely to the party in all their bloody proceedings, that they had no way to get it off, so at last they owned it, just as they do now the name of highflyer.

"As to the word Whig, it is Scots. The use of it began there when the western men, called Cameronians, took arms frequently for their religion. Whig was a word used in most parts for a kind of liquor the western Highlandmen used to drink, whose composition I do not remember*, and so became common to the people that drank it. It afterwards became a denomination to the poor harassed people of that part of the country, who being unmercifully persecuted by the government against all law and justice, thought they had a civil right to their religious liberties, and therefore frequently resisted the arbitrary power of their princes. These men, tired with innumerable oppressions, ravishings, murders, and plunderings, took up arms about the year 1681, being the famous insurrection at Bothwell-bridge. The Duke of Monmouth, then in favour, was sent against them by King Charles, and defeated them. At his return, instead of thanks for the good service, he found himself ill-treated for using them too mercifully; and Duke Lauderdale told King Charles, with an oath, that the duke had been so civil to the whigs, because he was a whig himself in his heart. This made it a court word; and in a little while all the friends and followers of the Duke began to be called whigs; and they, as the other party did by the word tory, took it freely enough to themselves."-De Foe, Review, vol. vii. p. 296-7.

It was the refuse, or what was called the whig of the milk, which the poorest people in Scotland used to carry to market, their wretchedness not allowing them to give it to their cattle.-North's Examen. A tory writer of that time defines it to be sour milk, and he says, "It was formerly appropriated to what is still more sour, a Scotch presbyterian!"Caveat against the Whigs, part i. p. 73.

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A ring at the door sent the valentine into the writing-desk; the door opened, and in came two bright, laughing girls.

"Oh, Sophia," exclaimed Ellen Douglas, a young girl, just entering life or evening parties-" look here, see what a sweet valentine, and cousin Anna has three, only think of that! Did you get one? Ah, I can tell by your blush that there is a valentine in that desk."

"Let me see yours first, and then I will tell you," said Sophia; "three have you, Anna? where are they? here are two only give me that one first, it is so prettily cut."

Sophia opened it eagerly, and could not help smiling, for it was one that she had written herself for Ralph Fleming-she opened the other, it was hers, likewise, and lo! Ellen's valentine was from the same pen.

"They are all beautifully cut and beautifully painted," said she; "the verses are like all these kind of verses, full of love and all that, but we do not care for the rhyme nor for the design, you know, it is the pleasant feeling that these little bits of paper give We think of the gentleman the one gentleman-hey, Ellen?-who would so naturally send a valentine. Anna, dear, why did you not bring the other valentine? I have more curiosity about that one than either of these."

one.

"Tell her, Anna, tell her all about it," said Ellen, looking concerned, for poor Anna had a cloud over her fine face.

"There is nothing to tell, Sophia, excepting that uncle came into the room with the valentines himself, and after allowing us to read them, he begged that he might look at the handwriting. Like a simpleton I handed him these two very eagerly, and kept back the third, but he insisted on seeing that too, and so, although I had scarcely read it, I was forced to give it up. Only

think of his seeing such a valentine as that-"

Mrs. Brooks, who had left the room when the girls entered, now came in to ask for Sophia's bunch of keys, as she had mislaid her own.

"Let her open the desk first," said Ellen Douglas, "we want

to see her valentine."

But Mrs. Brooks was in haste; she promised, however, to send the keys back immediately, and the girls were compelled to wait. Ten minutes-fifteen elapsed, and they chatted on, but no keys came; Sophia went after them, and came back with the intelligence that her aunt had gone out, and it was presumed had taken the keys with her, for they were not to be found. After wondering and wondering over and over again who could have sent the valentines, they departed, vexed that they could not get a peep at the one so provokingly locked up in the desk.

Sophia breathed freely as her two friends left the room : not for worlds would she have shown the precious valentine, for the handwriting was well-known to both of the girls. How she blessed her aunt for getting her off so handsomely about the keys; although she thought it must have been accidental, for how could it be imagined that there would be any unwillingness on her part to let the paper be seen?

The gentleman suspected of having sent the valentine, was the last person that any gay, fashionable young lady would care to receive one from. He was Mrs. Brooks's "man of business," for so she termed him, although he transacted all her offices gratuitously. He was a Mr. Samuel Day, no name certainly for a romance; and what was worse, he had no romance in his nature. How so refined, accomplished, and beautiful a girl as Sophia Lee could admire, nay love, a man with such an unprepossessing name, and so little brilliancy of character, it is impossible to conjecture. If he had won her affections by flattery, or by any of the numerous arts in the power of a designing man, it would not have been surprising; but Mr. Day practised none of these; he had not the most remote thought of loving Sophia Lee, loveable as she was; nor did he dream that she ever could think of him as a lover.

He walked into the parlour with Mrs. Brooks, just as the young ladies left it. Sophia blushed deeply as her eye met his,

and he cast a second glance—a glance of surprise at the emotion. Mrs. Brooks apologised for not returning the keys in time to let the ladies see the valentine, but she remarked that another day would do as well; "and at any rate," said she, “Sophia, in the street, and asked him to come in and see it." you can let Mr. Day see it. He came in on purpose; I met him

Day has no desire-no-" "I suspect-I imagine-" stammered Sophia, "that Mr.

tainly can have no wish to do so. "If you are averse to my seeing it," said Mr. Day, "I cerBut who is the happy valentine this year, my dear Sophia?" "That is more than she can tell," said Mrs. Brooks, "for I heard her wondering who it could be."

Mr. Day smiled and then looked queer; for he saw that Sophia was unusually agitated.

"I presume that these valentines have some charm in them -something very pleasant," said he, "for I have heard of them he turned his eye from Sophia as he mentioned the young man's even in my counting-house. Ralph Fleming this morning," and name, "told me that he had sent at least half-a-dozen to dif

ferent ladies."

the one she had received herself, there was no mistaking the Sophia smiled, for well she knew who wrote them all. As to author, there was no doubting that the hand-writing was Mr. Day's; and yet he looked so easy, so unconscious he was so little given to mysteries-that she could not understand it. valentines to several other ladies had not produced any unpleaMr. Day was more at ease when he found that the sending who else, thought he, did she suppose would send her a valensant feeling. If she did not think it was sent by Ralph Fleming, tine? A Colonel Gardiner came across his mind, and it was now his turn to blush and look embarrassed.

"That Colonel Gardiner is a sorry fellow," said he, turning to Mrs. Brooks, "his servant has just sued him for a year's wages. I met a gentleman yesterday who was engaged to dine with him, but on hearing of this suit, he sent an apology."

"I honour the man who has courage to do a thing like that," said Sophia-and Mr. Day turned quickly towards her. "It is not Colonel Gardiner then," thought he. There were but three Anna Jones, the lady who had just left them, Mr. Western, and other gentlemen intimate in the house, Mr. Jones, brother to a Mr. Marshall. It was Mr. Western who had sent an apology to Colonel Gardiner, and the suspicion would have rested on him, only that he was thought to be an admirer of Anna Jones he was divided between Mr. Marshall and Mr. Jones. "What ails you both this morning?" said Mrs. Brooks, "you are stammering and hesitating, and looking as if you had been doing something wrong: perhaps after all, Mr. Day, you sent the valentine yourself."

"I send a valentine !-I do a silly thing like that! no, madam," said he, raising his voice so as to make Sophia start, "never. But I beg your pardon for speaking so earnestly-I never expected that a foolish valentine could have the power of making me behave like a boy. If Sophia would but let me see it, I might relieve her curiosity; perhaps the handwriting is known to me-surely, my dear girl, unless it contains an offer of marriage, there can be no impropriety in showing it to a man almost old enough to be your father."

Sophia had shown so much embarrassment and so much had been said about the foolish paper that she felt extremely awkward, and could not bring herself to open the desk. "No, no," said she, after making one or two attempts, "not now, I will just wait till I see Ralph Fleming-perhaps he can throw some light on it."

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'Well, if he is further in your confidence than I am--but he is younger and-"

"Oh, no, no, do not say that. You are entitled to all my confidence, but the person I first suspected of having sent the paper is certainly not the one, and Mr. Fleming-perhaps he imitated the handwriting—at any rate I will examine it again.”

"Well, see him then, dear young lady, I am content now that it does not come from Colonel Gardiner or Mr. Fleming. I saw by your countenance that you suspect neither of them."

"You saw by my countenance ?-did you not turn your face from mine when you mentioned their names? so how could you see? Be assured that I should not have felt the embarrassment that I now feel, if either of these persons had sent me a hundred valentines."

"In the name of goodness, who then did you suspect?" said

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"Upon my word—but I know who did write it; and surely if you showed it to Mr. Day he must have owned it."

"It is a mistake, indeed it is a mistake. Mr. Day says he never wrote a valentine in his life."

"Well, if that is not too good a joke-why I saw him write it-I saw him write this very paper, I tell you. Nay, you need not shake your head, Mrs. Brooks; I tell you, as an honest man, that Mr. Day wrote it, and I saw him do it. Has he seen it?"

"No, I could not bring myself to show it to him; indeed, Mr. Fleming, there is some mystery about this-pray, when did he write it? it must have been lately, for here is 1837, and yet -stay-I declare there has been an erasure, for I see the top part of a 6 or 5 above the 7, and look here, too, Gift is in paler ink: a word has been scratched out there. It never struck me before, but the paper is not as white as the envelope. What can all this mean? I am more perplexed than ever. Mr. Fleming, you could tell me all about this, if you had a mind." "I can say nothing more than what I have said.-Mr. Day wrote those verses, and I saw him write them." "Did he compose them too? Come, if you certify to his handwriting, you can say who made the rhymes.' "Indeed, Miss Lee, that does not follow. But, instead of talking pleasantly about these little papers, you are looking cross, and very like wishing for a quarrel with me, so to prevent it I will just go over and see how the sweet Douglas looks after her valentine."

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The young man went off gaily, without throwing any further light on the subject. The letters of the writing were very small, and she had seen nothing like it from any other pen. There was a particular turn to certain letters, which always distinguished Mr. Day's from all others; but he had said so positively, so emphatically, that he had never written a valentine, and Mr. Fleming had so positively asserted that he did write it, that she was very much perplexed. Her aunt could not relieve her difficulties; for, when Sophia repeated all that Fleming had said, Mrs. Brooks was of opinion that Mr. Day wrote the verses; but when she was reminded that Mr. Day had denied it, then she was quite as sure that he did not write them.

Again and again Sophia examined the handwriting, and her aunt brought her a little account-book to compare it with the valentine. Mr. Day kept all her accounts with scrupulous exactness, transferring them from his large books to her little miniature one, that she might at any moment, at a glance, see how her affairs stood. There was not the slightest difference that either of them could perceive: indeed, the result of this close inspection was, that Mr. Day, and he alone, had written the valentine.

The evening brought neither a solution nor Mr. Day; and his absence was painfully felt by Sophia, for she feared that he was offended. He generally spent his evenings with them; or, if he was engaged elsewhere, he always called in for a few minutes, either before he went or after he returned. To-morrow was her birth-day, and hitherto he had always called, especially the night before, to find out what little trinket or knick-knackery she most wanted, that he might bring it to her the next day; for he was one of those simple-minded men who liked to do that which would give the most pleasure. He thought, very justly, that if he consulted his own taste or judgment, he might not choose that which would be agreeable to others; but he did not make his appearance, and Sophia went to her chamber with very miserable feelings. She wished there had never been such things as valentines.

"I cannot think what kept our man of business' from us last evening," said Mrs. Brooks, "he surely will be here to-day; he has never missed coming to dine with us on your birth-day, Sophia."

"It appeared to me, aunt, that he was a little hurt because I did not show him the valentine, and I could not do it, you

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know, after his saying so positively that he did not write it, or send it."

"Well, show it to him to-day, for, I will answer for it, that he will be here presently; it is one o'clock, and he, generally contrives to be here early. By the way, Mr. Marshall left his card here yesterday whilst you were out; here it is. P. P. C. Ah! he is going to England. What a fine-looking man he is, Sophia; do you know that I think he would fall in love with you, if he dared?"

"I am glad then that he does not dare, for I assure you, my dear aunt, that I should not fall in love with him.”

"Well, well, time enough, dear, time enough. I hope to keep you with me several years yet. How to part with you at last, I

cannot tell.

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"Oh, as to that, how often, dearest aunt, have I told you that I never would be separated from you? Whoever marries me must marry you, and old Mrs. Tate, and Caty, and Peter, and little Jemmy, and all."

Mrs. Brooks laughed and said, that unless her man of business, Mr. Day, would take pity on her, she feared that no one else would. She did not see the colour fly into Sophia's face as she made this remark; but went on talking about it, until the man of business himself came into the room. Poor Sophia was afraid that her aunt would repeat her observations, but the old lady, luckily, had forgotten to order a particular dish for the birth-day dinner, and she hurried out to attend to it.

Mr. Day walked quietly up to Sophia and took her hand, Mr. Marshall's card was still in it, and in putting it on the table, the name caught his eye.

"Marshall-then it is this Mr. Marshall that sent you the valentine? I know his writing, Sophia-may I have a peep at this wonderful paper to-day?

"Why, your head runs strangely on this valentine, Mr. Day -you that never cared for such trifles; some time or other I shall show it to you, but not to-day. Have you forgotten that this is my birth-day?"

"Forgotten it? no, indeed; when did I ever forget it? but there is a formality now that we did without a few years ago. Then you used to fly to me, and-"

"Oh, yes, I remember, but you forget that I am a sober, quiet girl of nineteen, and expect something far better than sugarplums. You have a box there, and I am dying with curiosity to see what is in it."

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No, Sophia, you care but little for that box. You are not like yourself to-day, nor were you like yourself yesterday; I was so unhappy about it that I staid by myself all the evening, and yet I was half-a-dozen times on the point of coming here. When I finally made up my mind to come, I looked at my watch and found it was too late."

"I am sorry to be the cause of uneasiness to you," said Sophia; "but if you say nothing more about that foolish valentine, I shall forget it myself. Come, pray let me see what is in that box?"

"Only a pretty set of ornaments for you, my dear Sophia. Here is a chain, let me put it on your neck; it is very becoming, indeed, and how do you like this watch, and these rings?"

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"Oh beautiful, most beautiful! and these ear-rings and this aigrette; every thing is indeed too beautiful to be praised. how costly they are-ought you to have thrown away so large a sum on one so little able to "

"The time, I perceive, is not far off, my dear Sophia, when you will require a few ornaments of this kind. I am determined to be beforehand with your lover-for lovers generally make their betrothed a present, you know. The writer of that valentine-nay, Sophia, hear me out-if it be this Mr. Marshall, is fully able to cover your head with diamonds. He is possessor of immense wealth; but rich as he is, you shall not go portionless."

"Mr. Day, you mistake entirely. Look at the card, you see that Mr. Marshall is soon to sail for England. I saw him this morning after breakfast-and-"

"And what, Sophia?"

"Why, I intended to keep the thing from your knowledge, as I did from my aunt-"

"You are then engaged to him," said Mr. Day, laying down the box, and walking to the window to hide his emotion. "Good Heavens!" said he to himself, "why does this so painfully affect me? ought I not to rejoice that she can give her affections to one so worthy?

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By a strong effort he recovered himself sufficiently to return

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to his seat near Sophia. He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips: Forgive me, my dear girl," said he, "I have been for so many years accustomed to watch over you, and to care for all your wants and pleasures, that it goes near breaking my heart, stout as you say it is, at the thought of being nothing more in future to you than a common acquaintance-for a friend you will not then need. You have not known the gentleman long; but I have, and he is most worthy of you. I presume when he returns from Europe-foolish fellow! loving you as he must love you, why does he leave you behind?

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"Oh, Mr. Day, what an error you are in! Now hear me: I tell you truly that I refused Mr. Marshall, that he is not the one who wrote the valentine, and I tell you as truly that I will never marry any other man than the one who did write it."

"Tell me then, dear Sophia, is he worthy of you? who can it be? and why am I, the one most interested in your happiness, to be kept in ignorance? You are in tears. Fear not," said he, as he drew her gently to him, "fear not, my dear girl, tell me all; if the want of fortune on his part be the obstacle, provided he deserves you in other respects, that shall be no hinderance, for are you not my sole heir? Most tenderly and devotedly have I loved you, my dear Sophia, from your child. hood to this hour, but never till this moment did I know it would be so bitter a pang to part with you to give you to another. But you may be convinced of the sincerity of my affection by the great sacrifice I make in thus giving you upand must I must I indeed part with you, just as I have dis. covered that you are so necessary to my happiness?-am I to live in solitary wretchedness, without hearing that sweet voice? -without-oh, Sophia, dear girl, forgive me forget what I have said, and believe me only your friend. Alas! that one so unsuited to you in years, should dare to love you as I do-as I must always love."

Sophia wept, to be sure, but they were tears of joy. She raised her head at length, but he begged her not to speak, not to distress herself further, as he would wait till she were more composed, before he asked who the gentleman was. She went to the writing-desk and took out the valentine; but when she put it in his hand he shook his head and sighed.

"Not now, Sophia, not now," said he, "I only want the name; as to the verses, the handwriting, what is that to me now?" "Everything to you," said Sophia, casting down her eyes, "it is everything to you, if you really and truly love me as you say."

"If I really love you, Sophia !-can he who wrote this paper ever hope to love you as tenderly as I do?"

"Yes, and I hope in time more tenderly-look at the writing, will you? pray do, and hear me again declare that I never have, never can love any other-that never will marry any other than the writer of this foolish valentine."

With a desperate effort Mr. Day tore open the paper, but the colour flew to his temples, he was like one in a dream, he looked at Sophia, her eyes were on the ground, but there was a smile visible; he pronounced her name in a low voice, and then checked himself, as if not daring to realise the truth.

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Sophia," said he, at length, " Sophia, may I believe in the truth of the words you have just uttered?"

"Can I believe in all that you have just said?" replied Sophia, "when you so stoutly denied having written this valentine?"

"Blessed paper!" said he, kissing it, "most precious valentine! little did I dream that it was to be the means of so much happiness."

But when did you write it?" said Sophia, trying to disengage herself from his arms, "tell me all about it, for I am still in the dark-to whom did you send it, if not to me?

"I did not send it to any one, dearest; this was the way of it. About four years ago Ralph Fleming was very desirous of going to the races, and I was very desirous that he should not. He promised me at length, if I would do him a little favour he would give up the races, for that year at least. The little favour was simply to write this valentine. He wrote a large irregular hand, and this required the finest of writing and the smallest of letters. It was you, my dear Sophia, that induced me to form my letters in that way; in fact, I had your wishes, your pleasure in view, in everything that I undertook. How could I have been so blind to the nature of my affection for you?-Dear little paper, but for you, I should never have known that I might aspire to be loved in return!'

Mrs.

Poor Mr. Day! love made him as loquacious as it does those who have lived upon the thoughts of it all their life. Brooks's "man of business" was like all other men, and Sophia, the happiest of the happy, was thinking how well love-speeches became him. He was considered by her young friends to be plain-looking, but in her eyes at this moment, he was positively handsome.

"I was not many minutes writing what I then thought a very foolish thing," continued he; "and to tell you the truth, I wrote mechanically, without considering the import of the words at all. I only recollect thinking it a very silly thing, that a man of business,' as Mrs. Brooks always calls me, and which I am, should have engaged in writing love-verses. Ah! if I could have foreseen-"

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"Well," said Mrs. Brooks, on seeing Mr. Day with his arms around Sophia's waist, looking fondly in her face, "you have made up, I see; why, we were all gloomy enough when I left the room; have you found out who wrote the valentine?"

"Yes, my dear madam," said he, " and as Sophia has determined to marry the one who wrote it, I have given my consent, and I hope you will give yours."

"Oh, my dear, dear aunt," said Sophia, throwing her arms around her neck," Mr. Day wrote it himself; you shall hear all about it."

"But you promised to marry the writer, he says, is it true? and is it my 'man of business' all the while that gave us such disturbance about an old valentine? Ah, Sophia, how often in my heart have I wished for this, but did not dare to speak my mind." Sophia has spoken her mind," said Mr. Day; “God bless her!"

66

THE KREMLIN.

I HAD thought of the Kremlin as the rude and barbarous palace of the Czars; but I found it one of the most extraordinary, beautiful, and magnificent objects I ever beheld. I rambled over it several times with admiration, without attempting to comprehend it all. Its commanding situation on the banks of the Moskwa river; its high and venerable walls; its numerous battlements, towers, and steeples; its magnificent and gorgeous palaces; its cathedrals, churches, monasteries, and belfries, with their gilded, coppered, and tin-plated domes; its mixture of barbarism and decay, magnificence and ruins; its strong contrast of architecture, including the Tartarian, Hindoo, and Gothic; and, rising above all, the lofty tower of Ivan Veliki, with its golden ball, reflecting the sun with dazzling brilliancy, altogether exhibited a beauty, grandeur, and magnificence, strange and indescribable.

The Kremlin is "the heart" and "sacred place" of Moscow, once the old fortress of the Tartars, and now the centre of the modern city. It is nearly triangular in form, enclosed by a high brick wall painted white, and nearly two miles in extent, and is in itself a city. It has five gates, at four of which there are high watch-towers. The fifth is "Our Saviour's," or the Holy Gate, through whose awe-commanding portals no male, not even the emperor and autocrat of all the Russias, can pass, except with uncovered head and bended body. Bareheaded I entered by this gate, and passed on to a noble esplanade, commanding one of the most interesting views of Moscow, and having in front the range of palaces of the czars. I shall not attempt to describe these palaces. They are a combination of every variety of taste, and every variety of architecture, Grecian, Gothic, Italian, Tartar, and Hindoo, rude and fanciful, grotesque, gorgeous, magnificent, and beautiful. The churches, monasteries, arsenals, museums, and public buildings, are erected with no attempt at regularity of design, and in the same wild confusion of architecture. There are no regular streets, but three open places, or squares, and abundance of room for carriages and foot-passengers, with which in summer afternoons it is always thronged. I entered the Cathedral of the Assumption, the most splendid church in Moscow. It was founded in 1325, and rebuilt in 1472. It is loaded with gorgeous and extravagant ornaments. The icanastos, or screen, which divides the sanctuary from the body of the church, is in many parts covered with plates of solid silver and gold, richly and finely wrought. On the walls are painted the images of more than 2,300 saints, some at full length, and some of a colossal size, and the whole interior seems illuminated with gold. From the centre of the roof is suspended a crown, of massive silver, with forty-eight

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