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here called a fine autumnal morning. The trees v»hich were so lately clothed in the livery of the Mussulman Prophet, have now assumed a greater variety of colouring—while some have had their green coats changed into the sober tint of the cinnamon: and others have taken the tawny hue of the orange. The leaves of many, which like ungracious children, had forsaken their parent stem, rustled in our path. Of all the vocal inhabitants of the woods, one little' bird alone, like the faithful friend, who reserves his services for the hour of adversity, fitting on the half-stripped boughs, raised the soft note of consolation to the deserted grove.
Emma, who was our conductress, said she would take us by the private road, which had been a few years ago made by Mr. Morley and her father, to facilitate the intercourse of their families. We soon arrived where the wooden bridge had stood; but, alas! it was now no longer passable. A few of its planks half floated on the stream—the rest had been carried away by the farmer, to makeup a breach in the fence. "Ah!" said Emma, "could poor Mr. Motley now see that bridge !—but do not men tina" it to my father. I knowit would vex him
Vol. II. K
lo hear of it." We proceeded on another load, aud at the distance of a few paces from the house, we met with a second disappointment. Attempting to open a small gate that led to the front door of the house, a little boy came out to tell us that it had been nailed up, and that we must go through the yard where the cattle were feeding.
Emma begged we might proceed no farther, and we were about to comply with her request, when the wife of the person who now rents the farm came to us. "Ah! how glad Miss Percy will be to fee you Miss!" cried she. '* I did not think that my son could have been back from the Dale so soon."
"Miss Percy!" said Emma. "What of Miss Percy? When did you hear of her?"
"Did you not know that she came. here yesterday r" returned the woman. "she sent a letter to let you know that Hie inter.ded going over to the Dale tonight."
-" Sent a letter! returned Emma. Char-" lotte useduot to be so ceremonious."
"Indeed (he is not what she used to be," returned the farmer's wife "She is so melancholy, that I never saw the like. Soou after she came yesterday evening, slie went out to the garden, and, would you believe it? the sight of the potatoes my husband planted in the place my old master used to call his Velvet Walk, and which he used to have mown every week (though the grass was good for nothing, to be sure, but to be swept away as if it had "been rubbish) and where he used to sit of an evening in the queer-looking chair, that now, when it is turned upside down, does so well for a hay-rack for the young calves; would you believe it? her eyes filled with tears at the very sight of it. Now what could make any one cry at the sight of a good crop of potatoes, is more than I can imagine. But, fays my husband, don't you see that it is being so very lonely that makes Miss so melancholy? So I went to her, and though she said she liked to be lonely, I would not leave her to herself the whole evening."
"Your company would be a great relief to her spirits, to be sure," said Deuheigb. "Yes, for certain," returned the good woman; " though lhe took on a little still. And when she went into the paddock, where the little poney that Mr. Motley used to ride about the farm now runs, La! lee Miss, fays I, if there is not your uncle's pone.y, I dare to fay it knows you. She held out her hand, and called it by h.$
name, and, would you believe it? it no sooner heard her voice, than it came scampering up.—Poor Mopsy, said she, as she itroaked its ears, and again the tears came into her eyes. She turned away, but the beast still followed her, neighing, till we came to the gate. She then so begged me to leave her for a few minutes, that I went on the other side of the hedge, and saw her go back to poor Mopsy, and laying her hand upon its head, as it held it out for her to stroak—she burst into tears. Dear heart, fays I, Miss, don't take on so; my husband will buy you a surer-footed beast than Mopsy, at any market in the country, for five pounds.
"Poor Charlotte!" said Emma: "but why did she expose herself to this torture ?"' The good woman stared at Emma, who declined listening to any more of her conversation; but demanding which way her cousin had walked, she hastily requested us to follow.
"How nicely this gravel walk used to be kept!" said Emma j(as we walked along "and fee how it is now destroyed. Thete shrubs too, so broken down by the cattle, how the good old Mr. Morley used to delight himself in taking care of them! He is gone! and, alas! how quickly are the favourite objedts of his attention likely to perish!—But the remembrance of his virtues shall not thus fall into oblivion.—No!" continued the lovely moralist: "the trees he has planted may be cut down by sordid avarice; and the hand of brutish stupidity may root out the flowers of his garden; but his deeds of benevolence and charity shall be held in everlasting remembrance!"
We were now arrived at the gate of a meadow, which was almost encircled by the stream. A narrow path winded through the plantation of young trees that ornamented its banks.—At the root of one of these trees, I perceived a small bright object glittering ia the rays of the fun. I approached it, and found some leaves of ivory, fastened by a silver clasp, which on touching it, flew open, and discovered the hand writing of Miss Percy. "It is "Charlotte's tablets," cried Emma. "It was in these she used to sketch the effusions of her fancy, on any subject that occured.—It is still so," continued she, turning, over the leaves. "Here is some poetry— she cannot think it any breach of faith to read it." "Read it then," said her brother.
She complied, and read as follows—
Why, shades of Morley [ will you not impart Some consolation to my grief-worn mind?
'Mid your delightful scenes- my sinking heart Had hoped the sweets of wonted peace to find.