Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wrote repeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or ten years afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on her death-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenth birth-day.  She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but the letter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors into which she had fallen, and their sad results.  She had, it would seem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone, and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly, and once more had she injured the peace of others.  Farther she might have gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a most virulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beauty was gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past.  Her affliction was most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had her life been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct.

Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, if possible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters’ principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts to direct their steps aright, might be crowned with success.  Her prayers were heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellent mother.

LINES, ON SEEING IN A LIST OF NEW MUSIC, “THE WATERLOO WALTZ.”

BY A LADY.

  A moment pause, ye British fair
    While pleasure’s phantom ye pursue,
  And say, if sprightly dance or air,
    Suit with the name of Waterloo? 
      Awful was the victory,
      Chastened should the triumph be;
      Midst the laurels she has won,
      Britain mourns for many a son.

  Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
    Nature seemed to mourn the day,
  Which consigned before its close
    Thousands to their kindred clay;
      How unfit for courtly ball,
      Or the giddy festival,
      Was the grim and ghastly view,
      E’re evening closed on Waterloo.

  See the Highland Warrior rushing
    Firm in danger on the foe,
  Till the life blood warmly gushing
    Lays the plaided hero low. 
      His native, pipe’s accustomed sound,
      Mid war’s infernal concert drowned,
      Cannot soothe his last adieu,
      Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

  Charging on, the Cuirassier,
    See the foaming charger flying
  Trampling in his wild career,
    On all alike the dead and dying,
      See the bullet through his side,
      Answered by the spouting tide,
      Helmet, horse and rider too,
      Roll on bloody Waterloo.

  Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire;
    Or wake th’ enlivening notes of mirth,
  Oh shivered be the recreant lyre,
    That gave the base idea birth;
      Other sounds I ween were there,
      Other music rent the air,
      Other waltz the warriors knew,
      When they closed on Waterloo.