232 LIONEL LACKLAND. 



wild and wan, her long dark hair, once so bright and flowing in 

 loose curl, now hung down in neglected tangles, shadowing her 

 pale cheeks like a dying nereid's veil ; that lustrous eye was 

 sorrowfully cast down ; her lips, those beautiful lips, were thin 

 and pale ; a light and gauzy scarf fell loosely round her elegant 

 form. How indescribably lovely ! I had looked on her when 

 beaming with health and happiness ; her frame expanding with 

 joyous emotions, and her eye dilated and brilliant as the startled 

 antelope's; but oh, she was less lovely, to me, than on that 

 blissful eve, when we met in that lonely place. As I gazed on 

 her, her eye fell upon mine ; we looked on each other — and in 

 that long absorbing glance our souls languished in their embrace, 

 and still we looked and spoke not — love absorbed all thought, 

 suffused every sense, I drew her to my still heart, and there reck- 

 less, we abandoned ourselves to the bliss of that short moment ; 

 she raised herself from my arms, the loving, all-confiding Ellen ; 

 she felt no shame for that one chaste embrace; but blushing even 

 in her joy, she leaned on my light reclining body, and looking in 

 my fair face, with a melancholy smile, " Lionel, at last I am 

 resolved — we will not pdrt, Lionel." She raised herself from me 

 as she continued — "to-day he swore a terrible oath that I should 

 next week become his bride. I shudder at the thought. Yes, 

 Lionel, to be the wife of Stratton ; move not, but hear me. I 

 reasoned with him ; prayed to him; Lionel, I bowed my knee as 

 I would to my Maker; and there humiliated and agonised 

 besought him to spare me. He was dumb — my father ! he was 

 cold as a marble statue ; he looked on me — oh God ! that look 1 

 thrust me from him ; swore, nay, Lionel, my father almost cursed 

 me ; do I deserve to be cursed ? Oh, Lionel ! I have called on 

 the spirit of my mother, in the dead, silent hours of the night, 

 when the cold moonbeams lay flickering on my heavy breast; 

 I have prayed, called on her for help, but she came not; even in 

 hope she left me no remembrance but sorrow'^; I am alone, help- 

 less" — "Helpless, Ellen !" I replied, " my own love ! my Ellen ! 

 does no one love you ?" " Oh ! yes, yes, Lionel (speaking 

 with great rapidity), I am loved ! I will not give you up. 

 Lionel, do you love me ?" " Ellen !" " Well, well, T am almost 

 mad, Lionel ; I almost fear you should not love me, but you 

 do — you do love me; take me, then, Lionel, I am all your own." 

 She threw herself into my arms, clasped me to her breast — 

 " Take me, I will wander with you, suffer with you, struggle with 

 you, labour for you, worship you, I will be all to you, Lionel ;" 

 she wept hysterically, in the deep agony of her soul. I was 

 satisfied — her tears were dried, her heart stilled — we parted. 

 When to meet again ? 



The superstitions of the Cornish peasantry seem to be com- 

 pounded of Druidical, Pagan, and Christian mythology. In the 

 progression of time, the fables of Roman Paganism were incor- 

 porated with Druidicism, and the superstitions of Christianity 



