lh \‘\\ w"»" .. \I" 'III“ 1A \llllllllllmfl L “‘1 LI Ofthe OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY \I ~- I'llllll __l -‘r vy—w-—~—~v ETKEEJLE” (.(T‘I KEYED 1/711 T5. T1 T6 k ‘TTQ TL T. (- e,» i I‘ _, A4 w my '1‘ 1‘1 1‘11\lu‘l\‘-1, Q! 1“‘_‘1‘M11,.\1h‘[ 'E‘W“ . \ l1 m?" H “H1 dul'g'l M wuswmn. 1 IN“. 53.x. I]? -QU-l "in z¥ \- i .\ ,. Rf \— I v r b 1A.. - - $4 >Lv~\~.w Q MEX ‘I .- i - -_ 1 Ah 1' ‘0 . ~ -;v\'v \‘1'#. “4". u “45> “2'58 » ,‘.;‘.,‘r¢ 'k' . w "W , ‘“ 1Q};S"w ‘1 4'0 ‘ a. . .t’xflhv " .. .‘h _ 3}, ‘l\ l ‘ 0-?) L ".7!!!" '¢'V\‘o 5" ~ Q'n' 1-" 3.. .‘,,¢*. ‘|,».,-)_u¢'q‘| 1 4 ‘ “flu L vm :3" ' .c '_ s I a»; "4“ " "3851.4{16' Nfi'aiég‘z a? ,r ‘ v ~ _" . 1', ' (h,- 9‘", AWN“ .A'i'kuhh ‘va n4 GRAHAM’S LADY’S AND GENTLEMgQAN’S MAGAZINE. (THE CASKET AND GENTLEMAN’S UNITED.) EMBRACING EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE: EMBELLISHED WITH ENGRAVINGS, FASHIONS, AND MUSIC, ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO-FORTE, HARP, AND GUITAR. VOLUME XVIII. PHILADELPHIA: GEORGE R. GRAHAM. I841. \lllluummmu “‘\\uw"" LI BRARY of’the OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY \l i'l'zi'ffir-w \ ““1“~\‘|“‘|“‘-' 1‘ fiKWg-Lil u‘,1j-u\l‘m ::\“\‘X.’ W “Jpv “2‘ “MW {MM ssl'mt. ‘A '1 " " \“SF 'u'i'Azil. H' ‘ |n.| yin;- ,‘hl 5‘E.‘*‘r$' \ \ 1g a.» 1} AI an, MS \‘4 L \: V? L @TL W£iflfi H65 _ ‘ U 5”... V 6) ‘JR 0 E“) $617M '. "2.1 \ HIT/Z"? C , .l‘ .1 .- umwvn W___ _ -‘ ‘.\1‘: I _-__- _~ “I. 1- won-n an... ll GRAHAM’S LADY’S AND GENTLEM'AN’S MAGAZINE. (THE CASKET AND GENTLEMAN’S UNITED.) EMBRACING EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE: EMBELLISHED WITH ENGRAVINGS, FASHIONS, AND MUSIC, ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO-FORTE, HARP, AND GUITAR. VOLUME XVIII. PHILADELPHIA: GEORGE R. GRAHAM. 1841. INDEX TO THE E'IGHTEENTH VOLUME, F'ROM JANUARY, TO JUNE, 1841, INCLUSIVE. ________..__-_--—— Alchymist, the, by Mrs. LAMBERT, -> - 105 Blind Girl. the, by Mrs. C. DURANG, - - 26 Blind Girl' of Pompeii, the, (illustrated) — - 49 Clara Fletcher, - - - -~ . - 40 Confessions of s Miser, the, by J. Ross BROWNE, - - - - - 83, 102,189 Clothing of the Ancients, the, by WILLAM DUANE, Jr. - - - - - - 269 Destroyer's Doom. the, - - - - - 115 Defaulter, the, by J. T. MAULL, - - - 164 Descent into the Maelstrom, a, by EDGAR A. POE, ~ - --- - -- - - 236 Empress, the - - - - - . - 122' Father’s Blessing, the, by Mrs. S.A.WHELPLEY, 132 Grandmother’s Tankard, my, by J ESSE E. Dew, 59 Grandfather's Story, my, by LYDIA J ANE PIERSON, - - - - - - 217 Haunted Castle, the, a Legend of the Rhine, 214 Island of the Fay, the, by EDGAR A. POE, (il- lustrated.) - - - - - - 253 Lost Evening, the, by Jessr: E. Dow, - - 2 Leaves from a Lawyer’s Port-Folio, - - 13, 224 Lady Isabel, the, (illustrated) - - - 9'7, 145 Lost Heir, the, by H. J. VERNON, - ~ - - 261 Life Guardsman, the, by JESSE E. Dow, - 275 My Progenitors, by S. W. WHELPLEY, A. M. 21 Maiden’s Adventure, the - - - - 109 Major’s Wedding, the, by JEREMY Suon'r, Esq. - - - - - - - 129' Murders in the Rue Morgue, the, by EDGAR A. POE, - - - - - - - 166 May-Day. A Rhapsody, by JEREMY SHORT, Esq, - -- - - - - " - 242 Our Bill, by Mrs. LAMBERT, - - - - 150 Outlaw Lover, the, by J. H. DANA, - - 189 Parsonage Gathering, the, by Mrs. E. C. STED- MAN, - - - - - - - 221 Poetry: the Uncertainty of its Appreciation, by Josnrr-r EVANS SNODGRASS, - - 288 Reefer of "76, the, by the AUTHOR OF “CRmz- ING 1N THE LAST WAR,” 30, 51, 125, 180, 210, 256 Review of New Books, - 47, 92, 142; 197, 248, 294 Recued Knight, the - -- - - -- 64 Syrian Letters, the - - - - 36, '78, 265 Sports and Pastimes, ' 44, 90, 140, 196, 246, 292 Silver Digger, the, by M. TOPHAM EVANS, - 68 'Saccharineous Philosophy, the, - - - 81 Sketch from Life, a, by J. TOMLIN. - - 136 Self-Devotion, by Mrs. E. C. EMnunY, - - 159 Thunder Storm, the; by J. H. DANA, - - 285 Unequally Yoked, by Rev. J. KENNADY, - 159 Ugolino. A Tale of Florence, by M. Tor- HAM EVANS, -' - - -- - - 279 Worth and Wealth: or the Choice of a Wife, by ELLEN Asu'rou, - . . . 206 Yoo~ti-hu, by J. Ross BROWNE, - - . 10 931843 IV. POETRY. A Soldier's the Lad for me, by A. McMAKIN, April Day, an, by ALEX. A IRVINE, ~ - [Eolian Harp, to the, - - - - - Alethe, by J. S. FRELIGH, - - - - Brilliant Nor-VVest, the, by Dr. J. K. MITCHELL, - - - - - - “ Blue-Eyed Lassie," to the, by the late J. G. Bacon's, - - - - - - - Callirhiie, by H. PERCEVAL, ~ - - - Comparisons, by C. WEST THOMPSON, - - Chimes of Antwerp, the, by J. HICKMAN, - Dream of the Delaware, the - - - . Departed, the - - - . . . Dusty White Rose, the, by Mrs. VOLNEY E. HOWARD, - - - . . . F airy's Home, the - - - - . I am your Prisoner, by Tnos. DUNN ENG- 1.153, M. D. - - - - - - Invitation, the, by E. G. MALLEnY, - - l Cling to Thee, by T. G. SPEAR, - - Joys of Former Years have Fled, the, by S. A. RAYBOLD, - - - - . . June, by A. A. IRVINE, - - . . . Language of Wild Flowers, by Ti-los, DUNN ENeLisu. M. D. - - - . . Little Childreany Mrs. C. H. W. ESLlNG, - Lines, by E. CLEMENTINE STEADMAN, - - Lake George, - - - - - - Life, by MARTIN THAYER, Jr. - - - Lay of the Afi'ections. the. by Mrs. M. S. B. DA-NA, - - - - - - - Lord Byron, to, by R. M. WALSH, - - Mother’s Pride, the, by Mrs. C. H. W. ESLING, (illustrated) - Not Lost, but Gone before, by CHAS. WEST THOMPSON, - - - - - - Napoleon, by J. E. Dow, - - - - Old Memories, by Mrs. C. H. W. ESLiNe, - Old Rock, to an, by G. G. FOSTER, - - Pine on the Mountain, to the, by LYDlA JANE PIERSON, - - Picture, a, by Mrs. M. S. B. DANA, - - Sabbath Bells, Impromptue, by WrLLis G. CLARK, - . - . . 25 179 179 216 149 223 100 165 192 56 209 8‘7 135 137 234 289 287 243 268 273 , 205 87 113 188 223 158 35 INDEX. Sea Scene, a, by ROBERT Moxius, - - Skating, by Gsonen LUNT, - - - - Soul’s Destiny, the, by Mrs. M. S. B. DANA, - Slighted Woman, :1, by the Author of “ How- ARD PlchNEY," - - - - - Soliloquy of an Octogenarian, by PLINEY EARLE, M. D. - - - - - Sighs for the Unattainable, by CHARLES WEST TIIOMrsoN, - . . . . . Sonnet written in April, by Mrs. E. C. STED- MAN, - . _ . . . . Thine—Only Thine, by Mrs. C. H. W. EsLING, Time’s Changes, by JonN W. FonNnY. - Voice of the Spring Time, by MAn'riN THAYER, Jr. - - - - Voice of' the Wind, the, by EMMA, - - Waters of Lethe, the, by N. C. Bnooxs, - A. M. - - - - ~ - - Winter, by J. W. Former, - - - — Winter Scene, :1, by Mrs. E. C. SrEDMAN, - Winter Scene, 1:, by L. J. PrnnsoN, - - Young Rambler, the, by THOMAS J. SrzAn, (illustrated), - - - - . . STEEL ENGRAVINGS. The Playmates. Fashion for January (three figures) colored. The Blind Girl of Pompeii. Fashions for February (four figures) colored. Why don’t he Come? Fashions for March (three figures) colored. He Comes. Fashions for April (four figures) colored. The Mother’s Pride. Fashions for May. 241 26-1 275' 39 209 255 82 163 Ladies of Queen Victoria's Court—correct likenesses—(seven figures) colored. The Island of the Fay. Fashions for June, (three figures) colored. MUSIC. The Indian Maid, by S. NELSON, - - - Not for Me! Not for Me! by M. W. BALF'E, You never knew Annette, by C. M. SOLA, - Oh! Gentle Love, by T. CooxE. - - - The Sweet Bird: are Singing, by J. Mos- cunLLEs, - - - - - - Let Me Rest in the Land of my Birth, by J. HARROWAY, - - - - - - 42 88 138 193 244 290 ‘1 w . \ ‘ ~ \~ \ \»\\ \ \-_ \ \ I “ r __, ,kadw .\. N . \~...‘ \u.\_\.\ . 4 a v u ~ ~ \u 5?. ,3 . Q \s .i. \l fl 1 . I N0. 1. l and bless’d, gave to its breast. tiful shed, 0st or misled, :heerful and bright, the curtains of night. 1 mellow’d scene, vocal, and green, tnd the air, or was there. a path'where I stray, =0ul-cheering ray- ro' the cloud and the as o’ershadow’d my as a man, Folly began ; l fain to resume, k-coming gloom. ay from the stream, ’d from. a dream, en heard in his heart, low to. depart. ilight was nigh, plaint to the sky, voice at the door, ramble was o’er. nest-bound scene, carpet of green, to restore, 1e oak by its shore. e GRAHAM$ MAGAZINEJ V0L. XVIII. JANUARY, 1841. No.1. THE YOUNG RAMBLER. BY THOMAS O’En a landscape array’d in the verdure of June, While the sky was serene, and the birds were in tune, From his vine-cover’d home, with his dog and his toy, Went the glad-hearted youth in the hey-day of joy. He saunter’d away in his quest of delight, As heedless of rest as a bird in its flight, , Allur’d by the flowers, and sooth’d by the gale, O‘er the green-sloping hill and the fair sunny vale. With a fondness to roam, and a wish to be free, He bounded in triumph, or whistled in glee, Now crushing a blossom, or plucking a bough, 0r climbing a tree by the clifl’s rugged brow. With his dog at his side, o'er the heather he flew, Where the clover-bed bloom’d, or the strawberry grew, And trampled the grass that encumber'd the plain, While fluttcr'd the flock from the clustering grain. He knew the lone spots of the forest and glen, The rook of the crow, and the nest of the wren, And hied as a forager there for his prey, But left the wood-tenants unharm’d in their play. By hedge-row, and brushwood, and briar, and brake, To the pebble-shor'd brook, and the wild-wooded lake, He rov’d, while the pathway was leafy and green, Where bow’d the old oaks o'er the silvery scene. And there by the brookside, when tir'd of play, He gazed on the charms of the slow-dying day, And thought, as it gave to some lovelier land, The blaze of that light which the zenith had spann’d, That a ray there must be to illumine the heart— . A guide and a gaol for man‘s innermost part— 6. SPEAK. A Glory unknown, to be follow'd and bless'd, That again would recall what it gave to its breast. When Love can a lustre so beautiful shed, It were sad if the soul could be lost or misled, Or its flight to its source be less cheerful and bright, Than the blaze of that sun 'neath the curtains of night. With the lovely illusions of day’s mellow’d scene, All around him was radiant, and vocal, and green, But now as he gaz’d on the sky and the air, No melody rose, and no splendour was there. “ Oh! keep me," he said, “in the path' where I stray, Illum'd by the warmth of some soul-cheering ray—- That my glance may be clear thro' the cloud and the storm, When the night of the grave has o‘ershadow‘d my form." He look’d as a child, but he felt as a man, And in Wisdom concluded what Folly began ; Then in silence his steps he was f'ain to resume, Ere the shadowy fall of the thick-coming gloom. Soon up from the shore, and away from the stream, He wended as one that was wak’d from a dream, For the voice of a thought had been heard in his heart, And the lingering whisper was slow to depart. His vine-cover’d home in the twilight was nigh, And the whipporwill sending its plaint to the sky, And the bark of his dog, and the voice at the door, He welcom‘d with joy when. his ramble was o’er. Though dear to his vision that forest-bound scene, With its dwelling of peace on a carpet of green, 1 The wild spot his memory loves to restore, ‘ Is the path to that stream, and the oak by its shore. THE LOST BY JESSE EVENING. E. DOW. “ There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." “ MAURICE stay and go with me- to the ball at Mrs. Wilson’s this evening," said a fairy formed creature with eyes that sparkled with anticipated delight, as she rested her hand upon a young naval officer’s arm and gazed upon his manly features. “ Mary, dearest Mary,” replied the young man in a hesitating manner. “ The stage will leave here at eleven tonight, and if I miss it I shall lose my only chance of reaching my Frigate. She is under sailing orders—and will be off in the twink- ling of a marline spike, and there '5 glory to be won and ” “ A seaman’s sepulchre—” said the lovely girl, as the tears started into her eyes and glittered-like tiny pearls upon her long dark eye-lashes. “ But Maurice, you can go at eleven and accom- pany me to the ball beside. The last evening you spend at Belleview should be spent with your friends'.” The young man hesitated no lenger, uv Mary,” said he, “you have conquered, I will accompany you to Mrs. Wilson’s and leave at eleven—I shall ; then bear with me your last impression; and when the tempest howls and. the billows toss their snowy spray around me, when the never wearied Petril sings in the hollows of ocean astern, and the thun- 1 der awakes the echo of the deep—then while the ! good ship scuds along her lightning way, will I , recall this evening of light and beauty, and with my ‘ dread-nought wrapped about me, keep my midnight watch, happier far, than the lazy commodore who snores in a velvet night-cap in his luxurious cabin.” “ Well, Maurice, you have finished at last," said the laughing girl leaning upon his arm, “ I never expected to hear the end of your raphsody when you commenced—but come let us go in for I have much to do and the evening approaches.” The young man returned her animated glance with a crimson light of the setting sun, and the hollow roar of its distant breakers burst upon his ear. The seapbirds in forked trains were seen winging their garrolous flight toward the land, and the successful fishermen were casting their scaly spoil upon the beach. It was a quiet evening, notwithstanding the wind in cat’s paws ruflled the surface of the deep, and wailed sadly amid the branches of the elm trees that lined the avenue in front of the mansion. As Fitzgerald gazed upon the scene he thought of his lovely cousin and then of the glorious pro- fession that he had chosen. The eye of the mari- ner loves the ocean. His ear delights in its'hollow murmurs, its lashing surges, its misty shadows, and its constant motion. He feels that the land is not for him and that his home is on the deep, deep sea. He sickens in the forest. He grows weary upon the mountain side, the fairest valley smiles in vain for him, and the babbling river but carries him away to that mightier deep whose ebb and flood surrounds the world. The very air—the scent of the sea is far more pleasant to him than the spicy breezes that sigh o’er India’s isles, and the stout ship with its tar and rope-yam, its salt junk, called by seamen mahogany, and its dulf puddings that defy the tooth of time, is far more agreeable to him than the altar’d palace of an eastern prince with tables crushing beneath the weight of costly viands' and richest wines. No one can appreciate the beauty and majesty of the heavens but him who has been shut out from every other prospect for days and weeks together. How beautiful it is to lean upon the tafi'rail in a moonlight night upon an eastern sea while the sails of the gallant ship from sky to water are gently filled by the dying Levanter, and watch the broad bright moon as she travels up the high way of heaven and sheds a gaze of deep devotion and following her, entered the brighter lustre upon the stars. Then the eye pene- house from the garden Verandah. There was no trates, aye even into the deep blue space beyond her one in the drawing-room when Maurice Fitzgerald and as when gazing upon the calm bosom of the and Mary Howard entered. l middle ocean sees naught but mysterious shadow- “ Maurice,” said the young maiden as she pointed 1 lugs—a waving curtain of eternal blue. out upon the ocean, and then turned to a table of The topsails of a ship now flashed upon the edge magazines and annuals, “ Nature and art areplaced of the horizon, the quick eye of Fitzgerald soon before you, and I shall leave you to be amused by discovered her to be a vessel of war. He watched them until my father‘s return." Thus saying, the ‘ her with intense interest, and as she approached the light hearted girl bounded away to dress for the land the sun went down to his rest in the deep. coming rout. Fitzgerald answered with a smile As the last ray of the golden orb flashed upon and then turned to gaze upon the prospect that t the vessel, Fitzgerald saw plainly that the Cross of spread out before his uncle’s mansion. The broad iSaint George floated at her ensign peak. and that Atlantic was seen for several miles rolling in the 1 she Was an enemy of his country. The stranger THE LOST having drawn in sufficiently near to the land, now tacked, and in the uncertain haze of evoning, faded away. “ I will be the first to communicate the glad tid- ings to my commander,” said the young officer, proudly; “ and ere many days the haughty Briton shall humble himself to the stars of the republic." “ Well said, my gallant boy,” cried 001. Howard, as he hobbled up to his future son-in-law, who started like one awakened from a glorious dream. “ Uncle,” said Fitzgerald with a smile, “ I did not hear you enten.” “No matter, boy,” said the old soldier, as he screwed his features into the proper expression for a severe twinge of the gout, and stood silent for a moment, and then as the pain evaporated, continued, “ I heard you and am pleased with your thoughts ; you must leave this evening." “ Certainly,” said Fitzgerald, smiling. The tea urn was ,now brought in, and the family of Colonel Howard assembled around the well spread table. A short blessing interrupted by a few short pishes and pshaws! on account of the severe pains that constantly seized the old gentle- man’s leg, was now said by him; and then the evening meal was quietly and systematically dis- posed ofi Sage surmises as to the course of the belligerent stranger, and eager peculations as to the result of her meeting with an American cruizer, now occupied the thoughts and conversational powers of the little party; at length Colonel How- ard began to grow drowsy. His arm chair was now wheeled to the right about—he gave his bles sing to his nephew with a good will, grasped his hand with the frankness of a soldier, and bade him adieu ; then bringing his crutch to the third position of the manual, he went to sleep. Soon the young couple heard the old man muttering in his visions of the revolution, “ on to Princeton—ha, there goes Knox, I know his fire—onward my boys— huna, they fly—the day is ours,” and then a twinge of the gout played the deuce with his dream, and when it past away he slumbered as sweetly as a child upon its mother's breast. Fitzgerald and Mary now departed for Mrs. Wilson’s, the former having taken his baggage in the carriage, so as to be ready to step from the ball room to the stage coach. Mrs: Wilson Was one of those comets of fashion who regularly appear with every cycle of time, and who after setting the cities in a blaze, retire to the inland towns to renew their fires, and shine forth as planets of the first magnitude amid inferior stars; believing it to be better to be the head of a village than the tail of a city. It was currently reported by scandalising spinsters that she had been a mil- liner in England, zfnd having a handsome person was hired by the manager of a country theatre, there to act the goddess in the play of Cherry and Fair Star. Here she entrapped the affections of a young nobleman, who by a mock marriage became her reputed husband. The honey moon soon pas- sed away, and with the realities of wedded life, came the astounding denoueme'nt that the noble- man’s coachman had ofiiciated as chaplain on the occasion, and that the marriage was a humbug. This was a downfall to Mrs. Wilson, but she had EVENING. 3 no help excepting to marry the butler of his lord- ship, a man of considerable wealth, and emigrate to America. His lordship was generous on the occasion : and the honest butler found himself with a wife, an estate, and an heir presumptive, all at the same moment. Having money and a handsome person, the beautiful and well dressed Mrs. Wilson soon imposed herself upon an aristocratic family in New York as a branch of a noble stock in Eng- land. Mr. Wilson, it may be proper to observe, died on his passage, and Mrs. Wilson was a widow when she made the highlands of Neversink. There is over all those stale meatpies, ycleped large cities, a self-styled upper crust that rises in pufl's above the solids. It rejects every thing that is not as light and as trifling as itself, and to say the least of it, has but little virtue or consistency. It covers the virtues and the vices of the social compact, and smothers in flour and paste the un- happy genius who endeavors to penetrate it. As nothing was made in vain, perhaps this self-im- portant crust, like the web of the spider, was designed to catch the painted and gilded drones, whose presence and senseless buzzing might other- wise have disturbed the working party of mankind at their labors, and have caused them to leave the world to starve. To this upper stratum of society in New York, Mrs. Wilson was introduced by her new made friends, and she continued in the ascen- dent for three months, but unfortunately for human greatness, one evening at a large and fashionable rout, a noble marquis was announced, who to the astonishment of every person present exclaimed, as he was presented to Mrs. Wilson, “ Poll Johnson are you here, when did you leaVe the millinary line '1” Thiswas suificient—the party broke up in confusion, as though a case of plague had occur- red in the circle. Mrs. Wilson fainted, and was sent home in a back as a bundle of soiled linen is sent to the washerwomen, duly marked and num- bered upon the outside; and the aristocratic family who had been imposed upon by her, went through with a three weeks’ purification atSaratoga Springs, whence they returned with a sin offering, in the shape of a real nobleman—a perfect simpleton of a count—whose soul lay in whiskers, and whose heart was in bottle green. Mrs. Wilson, like the jack daw, stripped of bor- rowed plumes, left New York in great haste, and settled upon a country farm near Belleview, where at the opening of my sketch she reigned mistress of the ton. As Mary Howard and Fitggerald entered the saloon, a number of light footed creatures pre- ceded by the super-human Mrs. W. came sailing across the room to meet them. The ball had commenced, and numbers were dancing to a tune which was then in vogue, and which had been made for these words— “Come list to me a minute, A song I ’m going to begin it, There ’s something serious in it, ’T is all about the Law, L! A! W! law! Has got a deuce of a claw.” 4 Herev the ladies all curtesied to the gentlemen, and the gentlemen all bowed to the ladbs, and all continued for five seconds looking in their partners faces with pendent arms, straight under-pinnings, body and breast bent into a half circle, and head erect-— Like some brass God of Heathen make In shape unheard of—; but as soon as the note expressive of the word claw was ended, which in the language of Milton, was like “Linked sweetnes long drawn out;" every body like an unstrung bow, resumed its straight position, and then such a double shufiie commenced as bade defiance to the most agile of the monkeys of Paraguay, and would have caused a mutiny in the lodge of the Upper Mandans had the dance been introduced there by the incompara- ble Mrs. Wilson. The ball went on in its vigor-small talk and sour lemonade, with some of the thinnest slices of smoked beef, between two equally thin slices of bread, oiled on one side, and patted down on the other, filled up the interstices of the evening, and the company were as amiable and as ceremonious as possible. A young gentleman in checkered pantuloons,and a bottle green coat, with 8. spotted cravnt, and n retiring dickey around his neck, now approached Miss Howard and her cousin, and was introduced by the presiding deity as Count Frederick Ampisand, of Hesse Cassel, Germany. Fitzgerald did not' like the appearance of the count; he gave him a formal return of civilities and retired to another corner of the room. Mary Howard who was a perfectly artless creature; but still perverse in her nature from the indulgence of an invalid mother, and proud of having her own way, became pleased with the foreigner as Fitzgerald became disgusted. She admired his pretty broken sentences; his captivating lisp, his manner of pul- ling up his dickey, and of raising his quizzing glass whenever a lady passed him. Forgetting all but her own gratification, and being desirous of giving Fitzgerald a commentary upon jealousy—that green- eyed jade—she neglected her lover, and hung upon the Count’s aspirations as Eve did upon the devil’s whisper in Eden’s bower. Fitzgerald was piqued. In fact he became angry, and joining the dlnce, which he had heretofore declined, became the gayest of the gay. He skipped through a cotillion like a reefer at a dignity ball in Barbadoes, and the light-footed Mrs. Wilson de- clared that She discovered new graces in' Mr. Fitz- gerald every time he jumped over the music-stool. Mary Howard now became piqued in turn, and she joined heartily in the laugh against her lover. A rude remark of the Count‘s, and a heartier laugh of his beloved, at his expense, now Stung the young officer to the soul. He looked at the little knot of critics. The Count was gazing at him through an enormous quizzing glass, and a smile of scorn curled his moustached lip. THE LOST EVENING. Fitzgerald was impetuous and brave. Nature had given him great strength, and a good share of modest assurance. He walked deliberately up to the party—“ Miss Howard,” said he, “I beg of you to excuse the Count for a moment. I have a laughable trick to show him in the hall." The Count did not relish the proposition to go into the dark entry with the officer. He had discovered a spice of devil lurking in his eye. But Mary, sus- pecting that her cousin was about to divert them with a sea trick that required the aid of a second person, insisted upon Count Ampisaud‘s going with him to oblige her. “Aye, ver well to oblige Miss ’Oward. I will go with Neptune," said the Count magnanimously. “Get your hat," said Fitzgerald, as the Count lefi. the saloon. “ I ave him in my pocket," said Ampisand, pulling from his coat an opera hat, that answered the double purpose of a “hustle” and a beaver, and clapping it upon his head. The two lovers now stood at the outside door from, which several steps led to the muddy street. “Count Ampisand,” said Fitzgerald, “ you are an imposter and a pitiful scoundrel. I have called you out to insult you. Now, sir, take that, and be off." So saying, before the thunder-Stricken Ampisand could reply, Fitzgerald seized him by the nose, and, after giving it no infant’s pull, presented his front to the street, and administered an impetus to his after body that carried him into a horse-pond in the middle of the road. “I will ave the satisfacione, begar, Mr. Lieu- tenant to shoot you wid de small sword dis night," said the Count, gathering himself up, and retreating to the two Golden Eagles in no Small haste. F itz- gerald laughed aloud, and closing the door behind him, walked lazily toward the Shore of the ocean. After walking for half an hour upon the wild sea beach, Fitzgerald turned his steps toward Mrs. Wilson’s for the purpose of bidding his cousin farewell. Coming footsteps now aroused him from his reverie, and soon a. young gentleman from the city, accompanied by a surgeon, and Count Ampisand, came up to him. A challenge was received and accepted, and Fitzgerald named the present as the only time. After much haggling about the unsea- sonableness of the hour, and the disturbance the duel might create in the vicinity of Mrs.Wilson’s,—" on the part of the challenging party—the count, who had been refreshing his courage with some old port, prepared to meet his antagonist on the spot. Small swords had been brought by Ampisand’s friend, and the surgeon, who was an acquaintance of Fitzgerald, undertook to act as his second. The gentle breeze was singing a lullaby to the ocean, and the sound of the distant viol broke upon their ears. The ground was now paced out—the prin- cipals were placed, and the words, one! two ! three ! guard! were given, and the duel commenced. For a few seconds the parties appeared to be equally matched, but at length the count, whose body seemed wonderfully to have increased in size since the insult, began to pant and blow like a porpoise THE LOST out of water. Fitzgerald now caught the count’s sword in the fleshy part of his arm, and ran him through the body. The wounded man dropped his weapon, and fell heavily upon the ground. Fitz- gerald and the surgeon ran up to him,—“ Forgive me," said the apparently dying man, whispering in Fitzgerald’s ear, “ I loved Mary Howard, and would have borne her away from you, but now, alas, my prospects are blighted, and I must pay for my folly with my blood.” f “ He does not bleed,” said the surgeon, mourn- ully. “ Alas, my friend is mortally wounded,” said the count’s second, putting a bottle of Scotch snuff to his mouth, instead of a phial of brandy. The wounded man grated his teeth violently, re- jected all aid. Lights now came from .Wil- son’s toward them, notwithstanding the moon shone brightly to dim them. '1- Is there no hope,“ said Fitzgerald to the sur- geon. The medical man raised the body up—a cold sweat was upon the face—death seemed nigh at hand. He shook his head. “ Fly, sir," said Ampisand’s second, “ or you will be taken, the crowd are near at hand.” “Go to my lodgings," said the surgeon, “ and I will meet you there in a few minutes.” Ampisand’s friend and Fitzgerald now took the swords and ran across the churchyard, which made a short cut to the surgeon's. As they reached the street they heard a stage-coach rattling furiously down the main street. Fitzgerald stopped. He saw it was far ahead—he uttered a faint cry—his chance of reaching his frigate was past. The sur- geon soon came. The wounded man was in the charge of a German doctor, at Mrs. Wilson’s. The ladies had nearly all gone home in fainting fits, and Mary Howard had left in a flood of tears. This confirmed Fitzgerald’s suspicions. 5* She loved him,” said he “ and, oh, what have I lost by this evening’s devotion." Fitzgerald’s arm pained him considerably, and the surgeon dressed it. A carriage was then sent for, to bear the young officer to his post; and while it was being made ready, he threw himself upon the surgeon’s truckle bed, and caught an unquiet nap. It was nearly 3 o’clock of a cold wet morning,—for a storm had ushered in the day,- when the unhappy Fitzgerald departed in a. close carriage from Belleview. For the first stage he had a hope of overtaking the post, but his horses began to lag with the advance of day, and it was three, P. M. before he arrived at the point of embarkation. As he drew up at the Bowery House, he watched eagerly for some one of his brother ofiicers, but none appeared to greet him. He paid his coachman and bounded into the passage. The bar-keeper met him at the door. “ Where is the Frigate, Dennis,” said he impa- tiently. - “ She sailed at nine this morning,” said the bar- keeper, “ and is now out at sea." Maurice Fitzgerald, I have said, was a brave man. He could have faced death upon the blood- stained deck, and gloriously braved- the brunt of EVENING. 5 battle, but now he felt his strength depart, and retiring suddenly to his room, burst into a flood of tears. After a few moments, his moral courage returned. “ I have merited this,” said he, “ by acceding to her girlish whims. I must now make the best of a bad matter, and trust to fortune for suc- cess.” He now proceeded to act in a calm manner. He wrote a hasty note to Col. Howard, detailing the circumstances of the case as they occurred, and sending his formal respects to Mary. He wrote a line to his aged father, of the same character, and furthermore stated his intention of joining his vessel by the aid of a pilot boat. Having paid his bill, be sold a check upon his banker, purchased asea-cloak and a brace of pistols, and with his valise in his hand, boarded a fast sailing pilot, at Beckman's Slip. A bargain was soon struck, and the light craft, with Fitzgerald at the helm, turned her head to the sea. On the way down, they met the pilot who had taken the frigate to sea, and ascertained her course. Trusting, then, to the swiftness of the boat, that had several days prevision on board, the young officer boldly steered for the Atlantic, and when the sun set, the highlands of Neversink were astern. During the night, which continued wet and gloomy, the wind, in fitful pufi's, hurled them swiftly o’er the waves, 'and, when the morning came, the long, swelling billows of the ocean tumbled o’er them, and the sheer-water darted ahead along the thunder-chaunting waves. Nothing was to be seen but the clouds above, and the gloomy waves below, which came together at the edge of the horizon like the lid and bottom of a circular tobacco box, when closed. The old pilot was now confident that the frigate had changed her course during the evening preceding, and that all, possibility of his overtaking her was gone. \Vith a heavy heart, therefore, Fltzgerald put his helm down, the tacks and sheets were shifted, the snowy canvass- felt again the side-long breath of the gale, and the little bark drew in toward the distant shore. A suspicious looking schooner now hove in sight, and bore down upon them with the swiftness of the wind. The pilot, from the first, did not like her appearance, and Fitzgerald. although he said nothing to alarm his companion, felt confident that she was a pirate. In less than an hour, the warlike stranger shot across their bows, fired a gun, loaded with grape, at their sails, and hoisted the black flag of the Bucaniers. All resistance to this antagonist would have been madness, and the pilot obeyed the hoarse hail, and ran alongside the pirate. Twenty rough looking rascals, each armed to the teeth, with a young man of higher rank at their head, sprang into the pilot boat, and after making sundry motions, which seemed to imply a speedy cutting of their throats, bound the pilot and his men. Fitzgerald, however, resisted the party that came upon him, and with his pistols soon wounded two of the pirates. A cutlass now flashed before his eyes, and sense and reason departed. When Fitzgerald again became conscious of existence, he found himself in a cot, swinging in a beautiful cottage, in-the vicinity of the sea,,for he 1* 6 could hear the solemn roar of breakers, and the screams of the sea-birds, as they revelled amid the foam. A beautiful Creole maiden stood by his bed side, chaunting a low, mournful tune, while she brushed away the flies from his pillow with a long fan made of peacock’s feathers. He looked at her for some seconds, and then as the thought of his cousin past across his brain, a deep sigh burst from his lips. The maiden started— “hush,” said she, putting her finger to her lips, and stepping to the side table, handed him a composing draught in a silver goblet. He drunk the contents with gratitude, and soon fell into a sweet sleep. It was nearly sunset when Fitzgerald awoke, completely invigorated in body and mind. He looked around him,—no one was to be seen. He called, but no one answered his summons. He now determined to-find out where he was. His clothes were in a chair beside his cot, and his valise was upon the dressing table. He raised himself slowly upon his arm,—finding that he was not in want of strength, he sprang out of the cot and dressed himself. He now viewed his face in a huge Spanish mirror, that hung over a taper, with the holy letters I. H. S. below it. He started back in astonishment. A cruel out had laid open his marble forehead to the scull, and a long, purple scar, scarcely healed, marked the track of the cutlass. Having brushed his long, black hair over the disfiguration, he went to the window and looked out upon the urrounding . face of nature. He saw he was upon a small island, in the midst ofa host of others, and that the narrow passes between them were fil’d with clippers and man-o’-war bouts, apparently returning from cruizes upon the. main. It was a romantic spot, unlike any other in the world. About sixty cottages, like the one he occupied, rose in the distance, each with its garden and verandah. Groves of orange and lemon trees, loaded with ripe fruit, waved their tops of eternal g'rsen around, and filled the atmos- phere with a delicious odor. The waves broke over the long, bold reefs that lined the islands, and the sky was dotted with flocks of sea-birds. Here and there a solitary pine tree sprung from a crevice in the rocks, Where its cone had been thrown up by the dash of some sweeping wave whose crest had borne it across the sea. It was Noman’s Group, and was not far.from Cape Flyaway. Fitzgerald had hardly made the discoveries above related, when the lovely Creole, with an officer in a naval uniform, entered the chamber. They saluted Fitzgerald with kindness, and appeared to be asto- nished athis sudden improvement. He now found a ready market for the smattering of Spanish he had picked up among the Dagos of Mahon, and in half an hour his store was exhausted. From them he learned that the pilot had been set adrift in his boat, after having furnished all the information desired; but that he, from his resistance, had been retained to be killed at leisure. Having, however, from a_ fever of the brain, continued insen- sible so long,_it being then the thirtieth day,— the pirates concluded to send him to the Hospital Island, to be restored to health. He was now with his surgeon and attentive nurse, and would be‘re- THE LOST EVENING. ported “ well," on the coming Saturday. His attendants refused to tell him where he was. All distances and names of places were carefully con- cealed, and all that he could ascertain was, that a direct communication was kept up with the Ameri- can Continent, and that newspapers were brought to the islands from the United States weekly, and would be furnished him if he desired them. Fitzgerald was lavish of his thanks for such kindness, and begged that the latest newspapers from New York might be given him. The Creole girl left the room immediately, and presently a boat was seen putting 011‘ to a brig in the pass, opposite the cottage. The surgeon now drew his chair closer to. that of his tient, and became less reserved. The latter soon fierstood that it had been decided by the pirates that upon his recovery he should join them or be shot upon the cliff. The blood of Fitzgerald boiled in his veins at the bare proposal of the Buc- anier, but before he gave his anger words, his lovely Creole approached with a package of New York dailies, taken the week previous from an out- ward bound brig. Forgetting every thing else in his desire to hear from his native land, he opened the first paper that met his eye, and read the fol- lowing :—"Arrived, the United States Frigate , with His Britannic Majesty’s Ship of forty- four guns, in row, as a prize. The action lasted thirty minutes, when the British frigate struck her flag. Capt. immediately left the frigate and proceeded to Washington with the enemy’s flag. The oflicial account of this gallant action will be given to-morrow. Sullice it to say that every officer and man did his duty, and that promotion, and the thanks of a grateful country await the victors.” In another paper he read a list of pro- motions in the navy, and his own dismissal from the service. The marriage list now caught his eye, and he read,—“ Married in Belleview, on the 1st instant, by the Reverend Mr. Smell Fun- gus, Count Frederick Ampisand, of Hesse Cas- sel, Germany, to Miss Mary Howard, the only daughter of Col. John Howard, of the revolutionary army. “ Love is the silken cord that binds Two willing hearts together." Every word of this paragraph remained like an impression from types of fire upon his melancholy brain. “Doctor,” said Fitzgerald, throwing down the paper, while the blood oozed from his scarcely- healed wound,—“ tell your leaders that henceforthI am with them body and soul. The victim of cir- cumstance—the sport of the world—a cork floating upon the stream of time.—I will be dreaded, if I cannot be loved." The morning came, and Fitzgerald was intro- duced to the bucaniers in their strong hold- Bold and generous, two qualities that always sail in company, he became a universal favorite at the melee, and o’er the bowl; and in the course of a short time, he paced along the weather quarter of ,THE LOST the gun brig, King Fisher,—“ the monarch of her peopled deck." ' It was a beautiful summer‘s night. The sun had sunk in a dense cloud bank behind the Baha- mas; and the small red bow in the northwest, accompanied by a hollow sound, as though cannons had been fired far down beneath the surface of the ocean, gave evidence of the near approach of a norther. \_ The brig was soon prepared for the war of the elements,whose signal guns had been heard waken- ing the lowest echoes of the deep. Her head was brought so as to receive the first burst of the tem- pest’s fury ; conductors were rigged aloft, and their chains of steel rattled sharply as they descended into the sea along side. The light spars re sent down, her storm stay-sail was set, and sh e the heaving billows like a duck. A tall merchantman, bound apparently to the Havana, now swept along to the windward of the islands under a press of canvass. Fitzgerald saw that she was crowded with passengers, and his soul sickened at the thought, that ere the morning dawned that gallant bark would be a wreck upon an iron-bound coast, and her host of human beings would lie the play things of the shark, and the life- less sport of the thunder-pealing waves. A sudden throb of sympathy moved his heart, a tear—the first he had shed for months,—started to his eye. He grasped his trumpet—his topsails were unfurled and in less than an hour he occupied a station to the windward of THE DOOMED SHIP. His canvass was now reduced as before, and under the smallest possrble sail, he stretched ahead of the merchant- man. ’ The norther now came on in its fury—from' the red bow that had reached the zenith, a bright flash of blinding lightning darted in a long bright stream and parted into a thousand forks, and then came a crash of thunder with the almost resistless wind. The King Fisher was borne down to her bearings, and then righted again, and gallantly faced the blast. Not so with the crank rnerchantman. Her tall masts were whipped out of her in a twinkling; the ocean surges swept her deck fore and aft: and she lay tossing in the trough of the sea a helpless wreck. At midnight the fury of the blast died away, and the sea that had rolled in terrific waves began to go down. The brig under a reefed foresail and maintopsail now danced again from billow to tas- seled-Lipt billow, and gained rapidly upon the sea . washed wreck. As the King Fisher drew near the once gallant vessel, Fitzgerald heard a voice crying in agony for help. He looked over the head and saw a female floating upon a spar, a short'distance before him. To brace round his topsail-yard, lay to, and lower the life boat, was but the work of a moment, and with six trusty fellows he launched out upon the midnight deep. In a few moments he caught the almost lifeless female by the hair, and wrapped her in his sea cloak—“To the wreck,” said he, in a voice of thunder, as his starboard oars backed, water to re- turn to their craft. The crew gave way with a will, and immediately the life boat made fast to the EVENING. '7 loose 'rigging of the wreck. Preceded by Fitz- gerald, two of his men mounted the vessel's side. Fitzgerald as he sprang upon the deck started back with astonishment. Colonel Howard stood before him in a long robe of white flannel, apparently as free from the gout as the youngest of the party. “Uncle,” said the young officer, with a cry of delight, “ what a meeting t” The old man looked up, “ rash and impetuous boy,” said he, with a voice trembling with joy and astonishment, “ you have not lost all sympathy'yet; I have been in search of you, but little did I expect such a meeting. Poor Mary, oh, that she had re- mained a few moments longer.” “ Is Mary here ?” said Fitzgerald, casting a tron- bled glance around the anxious crowd that had gathered around the speakers. uNo,” said the old veteran, clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes streaming with tears—“ She was swept out of my aged arms by the last sea, and is now in heaven.” “ She is in my boat," said Fitzgerald, “ I thought that voice was Mary’s as it came from the deep, but come let us haste, the wreck may go down with us while we stand here.” “ Are you all armed in the boat," hailed Fit'z- gerald, in a voice of thunder. “ Aye, aye, sir,” was the grufi' answer 'from the ones who remained in her. _ “ Then shoot the first person who attempts~to enter her without my orders,” said- Fitzgerald; the ‘ pirates cocked their pistols, and sat ready to (axe- cute his co ands. The two men who had boarded the wreck with him were now ordered to make ropes fast to the ends of! hammock ; one rope was then thrown to the boat‘s crew, while the other remained on board the wreck. The aged men and women, one by one, were now lowered ' by this simple contrivance to the boat; and when she was sufficiently loaded, Fitzgerald ordered one of his men on board to steer her, with orders to see that the passengers were not molested until he came on board. Seven times the life boat, filled with the passengers and crew of the Rosalie,whose captain had been washed away, made its voyage of mercy, and having cleared the wreck, the noble- hearted Fitzgerald—plunged into the waves and reached'tht boat in safety—this had been made necessary by the parting of the rigging that held the boat. The whole were saved, and as the life boat was run up to the davits, the wreck plunged heavily to leeward, a heavy wave rolled over her and she was seen no more. , It was a bright morning at the Bahamas when the King Fisher took her departure for the Florida reef. Fitzgerald now entered his cabin for the first time since the rescue, and the thousand thanks that were showered upon him by the aged and the young—by the strong man—the gentle woman— and the lisping child almost overpowered him. He received their congratulations in a proper manner, and'modestly informed them that he had but performed -his duty. He bade them welcome to the beat his poor brig afforded, and promised to lend them at the nearest port. Mary Howard, pale and weak, now came out of her little state- I v . 8 room. beamed fearfully bright upon Fitzgerald. A crim- sou cloud past over her snowy face,—“ It is he,” she screamed, while the tears that had so long refused to flow from their sealed fountains filled her eyes; Fitzgerald sprang to meet her, and in a moment she fell lifeless into his open arms. Colonel Howard now bade the young officer place his daughter upon the sofa in the after cabin : and having seen her revive, retired and left them alone. _ The unfortunate Mary now became calm and col- lected, and with a heart overflowing with gratitude, and eyes suffused with tears, related to Fitzgerald the events that had transpired since his departure, and the cause of her present voyage amid the hor- rors and uncertainties of war. It seems that Count Ampisand had stuffed his clothes with pillows, and that Fitzgerald’s sword had barely grazed his noble body, having been warded off“ by the feathers that filled his stuffing. This accounted for the entire absence of blood. The gaunt of course soon became convalescent. .Mary Hovvard ever generous and feeling that .> she had been the unhappy causé of the duel, pre-_ vailed upon her father to take the wounded for-. eigneruto his house on the night of the duel. Ampisand was delighted with this state of things, and heypt'essed his suit upon Mary Howard warmly: but. she repelled his advances with scorn. Mrs. \V' on, however, and her scandalising circle, could not ait for Count Ampisand to get married in the regulanway, and believing in the a cc of Fitz- gerald that Mary Howard could not refuse the amiable and accomplished chunt, they prevailed upon a travelling letter writer—one of those drag nets for second-handed news—t0 put a. paragraph in his master’s paper for the fun of it. This was the notice that Fitzgerald saw, and which had caused him so much terrible agony of mind. - '_ l “ It ‘is too late to repair the evil," said Fitzgerald, as he paced the cabin 'ith a countenance tortured by despair. “ It is never too late to do a good action,” said Mary Howard, firmly—“ Maurice Fitzgerald you are not the one to bring dishonor upon a patriot father’s name: or to call down the curse of a sainted mother upon your head." The young man bowed his head upon the rudder case, and the fair girl resumed her narrative. . The arrival of the scandalous paragraph caused the speedgejection of the count from Colonel Howard’s domicil, in no ceremonious manner, and the instant departure of Mrs. Wilson, bag and baggage. Colonel Howard raved like a madman for a week ; threatened the editor of the offending paper with a prosecution; discovered the perpetrators of the scandal; placarded the whole party as retailers and manufacturers of falsehoods; and posted Count Ampisand as an imposter and a villain in every section of the Union. The count was shortly afterward tried for stealing spoons and convicted. The next day he changed THE LOST EVENING. She cast her round black eyes which . floor of the castellated building at Moyamensing, which had but one grate, and that was before the window, while Sanderson, the terror of the genteel sucker, had him served up in his amusing diary of a Philadelphia Landlord on the next Saturday. The departure of Fitzgerald from New York was commended by his brother officers, but his long absence from the ship could not be satisfac- torily accounted for, and he was dismissed by the navy department. Enquiries had been made in every section of the country for him by his almost distracted father; and at last a reward was offered in the newspapers for any information concerning him. 'The pilot who had left him wounded with the pirates, now came forward, and related the circu ces under which he and Fitzgerald had parted pany. Fitzgerald’s father, an aged man of great wealth, and who had no other child to attract his love, now insisted upon Colonel How- ard’s proceeding to ransom his son. Mary, whose health was rapidly declining, was directed by her physician to perform a sea voyage, and thus father and daughter were induced to brave the dangers of that sea, whose waves teemed with freebooters, and whose isles flashed with cutlasses and boarding pikes. The Rosalie had agreed, for a great sum of money, to land the Howards at New Providence: and then proceed on to New Orleans, her port of final destination. Once landed, they were to trust to opportunity for the means of transportation to their native land. The norther brought them together as before related; and the warring elements of nature pro- duced a reconciliation between the lovers. Fitzgerald, when Mary had ceased speaking, raised his head. He had been singularly agitated during her narrative; he now calmly opened his soul to her. He kept nothing back ; the catalogue of offences detailed to her was an exact copy of the dark list that had been registered against his name above. .Twice she started as though an adder had stung her; but when he informed her that his hand had never been stained with blood; and that he had never appropriated to himself a dollar of the ill-gotten wenlth, she breathed freer, and as he concluded, a smile lit up her heavenly countenance. “ Maurice," said she, “ I believe you—you have made a false move in life: and I have been the innocent cause of it. It is not too late to repair it—you must leave this bloody craft at the first port you make—the busy times—the deeds of blood—the privateering and the blustering 'of war will cover all, and in our little village we can peacefully linger out our lives, and rejoice that the day of our sorrow is over.” Colonel Howard now entered the cabin. He approved of the plan suggested, and Fitzgerald joyfully consented to its being carried into execu- tion. The next day the brig made the land. The passengers of the foundered ship were immediately sent on shore, with the exception of Colonel How- ard and his daughter; and upon the retum of the his lodgings, ar'td occupied a room on the ground last boat a letter of thanks, signed by the passen~ .551 THE WATERS gers, with a draft for ten thousand dollars, was handed to Fitzgerald. He immediately sent an ofiicer in disguise to New Orleans to get the money; and at twelve o'clock, accompanied by the Howards, left the King Fisher. He had left a letter in his signal book to the next in command, surrendering up the brig, renouncing the service of the bucaniers, and giving his portion of the spoils to the crew. His necessary clothing he had packed with Colonel .Howard’s. Upon reaching the shore, he bade the officer of the boat to inform the second in command that he should be absent for a few days, and that if he found it necessary to move his berth he would find instructions for his guidance in his signal book. A house was near at hand, the little par soon changed their apparel, and procuring a conveyance, proceeded to a little village on the other side of ‘ the island, whence in a fast sailing clipper they stretched over to Pensacola. Having shaved 05' his ferocious whiskers and his long soap-locks“ which gave him the appearance of a nondescript animal, somewhere between a man and a monkey, be dressed himself in the sober attire of a citizen Washington, November, 1840. THE ‘WATERS OF a, , 0F LETHE. 9 of this glorious republic, and in company with his kind uncle and much loved cousin, proceeded by land to Belleview. On the arrival of the party at the homestead, the fortunate Fitzgerald became the husband of the true-hearted Mary; and old Fitzgerald and Colonel Howard danced a hop waltz together, gout and all, on the occasion. The wedding broke up at a late hour, and old Fitzgerald went to bed tipsy, very much to the scandal of a total abstinence society, of which he was an honorary member. Fitzgerald and his domestic wife settled down upon the homestead, and in a few months Colonel Howard and Major Fitzgerald were called to the dread muster of the dead. The property of the old, now became the pro- perty of the young; and the broad lands and splendid mansion of \Maurice Fitzgerald became the envy and the pride of the village. Ofthe King Fisher nothing was heard until after the war, when she was found rotting upon a mud bank, near the place where her commander left her. Her crew had deserted her, and the gallant gun brig never ploughed the ocean furrow more. LETHE. BY N. C. BROOKS, A. M- Written for one in dejection. “ Oh, for a cup of the COME, Peri, from the well, Where cooling waters steep The soul that ’s bound by memory's spell soft oblivion’s‘sleep. ethean power diffuse; could not wake again: Pour o'er my heart its balmy dews, And on my burning brain. The plighted hopes of youth— The perished joys of years— A Affection withered—slighted truth— The sunlight dashed with tears- Baltimore, November, 1840. Waters of Lethe." Letter of a Friend. The cloud, the storm, the strife, I would recall no more, And all the bitterness oflife ; The lethean goblet pour! Remembered tones of old— Of friends in quiet sleep, Make other eyes and tones seem cold, And bid the lonely weep; Come then, Oblivion, seal All memory as I drink; This tortured heart would cease to feel, This fevered brain to think. YOO-TI-H U. BY J. ROSS BROVVNE. I. THE CONSULTATION. YOO-TI-HU, the handsomest and sprightliest Page in the suite of POKATOKA, King of Gazaret, impru- dently fell in love with OMANEA, the flower of the king’s harem. Pokatoka, though sadly afi'licted with rheumatism, was partial to the amusements of the harem. It happened that he had a slight sus picion of Yoo-ti-hu’s integrity, and this rendered him perfectly miserable. TALLY-YANG-SANG, Great Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Harem, was sent lor. “ Mirror of Vigilance,—Quintessence of Piety,— and Disciple of Wisdom,”—such were the Grand Nazir’s titles, and so the king addressed him.— “Well we know thy skill in affairs of tlte heart. Well we know thy penetration is never at fault. We have required thy presence to demand if thou hast noticed anything peculiar in the conduct of our peerless Omanea, since the addition of Yoo-ti-hu to our suite ’l" “ There is a lone dove,” replied the Grand Nazir, in his own mysterious way, “ whose nest is in the grove of love. Even as this emblem of tenderness awaits the coming of a prisoned mate, so pines in secret my lady Omanea." “And by whom think you, wendrous Tally-yang- sang, is this change efl'ected '1” ' “ Your mightiness would scarcely thank me if I made known my suspicions, since they implicate your greatest favorite." “Ha! ’t is Yoo-ti-hu! it !-—-he shall die.” “ God is great," muttered Tally-yang-sang. “Let the page’s head be brought to me,” said the king, “as a. token of my displeasure." “With all my heart, sire. I dislike the youth, and your highness shall be obeyed." The Grand Nazir bowed very low, and left the audience chamber. I thought so! I knew II. THE THREE WISHES. Yoo-ti-hu, being accidentally near, heard what had passed. In the bitterness of despair, he rushed from thepalace, and roamedto a solitary retreat in the gardens. - . - “How miserable am I,” he cried, “to love so hopelessly and so madly. Grant, oh, inventive genius! that I may evade the vigilance and perse- cution of Tally-yang-sang. Grant that the fates may aid me in this dilemma." “Yoo-ti-hu,” said a voice from the shrubbery, “ thou hast incurred my displeasure; but, neverthe- less, s' ce thou art in a dangerous situation, I pro- mise t ree such things as thou shalt choose.” “Verily," quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “ thou art a bountiful genius; and it is a sin to reject aid from so high a source. Know then, generous spirit, that I have peculiar occasion for a bow and a quiver of arrows.” “ A modest request,” observed the Genius, “ and fortunately, I have by me such an one as no living archer ever shot with; for look you this way or that, such are its virtues, that it will hit the mark exactly in the centre.” “ Bless thee a thousand times !” cried Yoo-ti-hu in an ecstacy of jOy ; “ and since thou art so kind, I fancy I may crave a lute,— with which I shall be satisfied, were it never so small." “ Thou shalt have one, my son, of such exquisite tones, that when the same is played, all living things shall skip and dance,—so pleasant is the music.” “ Delightful l—excellent l” cried Yoo-ti-hu. “ What next '!” said the Genius. U “ Indeed, thou art too good," replied Yoo-ti-hu; “ I am going now to rove the world as a simple minstrel. I shalllive on birds, and amuse myself ‘with my lute,-—so I need nothing more.” “ But, son, I solemly swear thou shalt have three things, be they never so costly.”_ > “Well, good Genius, since thou art so kindly disposed, I shall choose an inexhaustible purse,” “The very thing I have in my pocket," quoth the Genius, and handing the inexhaustible purse to Yoo-ti-hu, he disappeared immediately. III. TALLY-YANo-sme IN A Pmom. Yoo-ti-hu seated himself oh the steps of a fountain to admire his bow and his lute. Tally-yang-sang, chancing to roam in the vicinity, espied the page, whereupon he assumed a very severe countenance, and approaching the spot, spoke thus: oo-ti-hu. thou art an unfaithful wretch ! Thou hgetrayed the confidence of thy king. Thou hast en ered his harem and stolen the heart of Omanea! Know, then, that I am commanded to carry him thy head, as a slight token of his displeasure." “Verily, great and worthy nazir,” quoth Yoo-ti-hu, “-I can show thee pleasanter sport than that. Seest thou yon Bird of Paradise, with plumage more bright than the colors of Iris? Behold, your .highness, how I shall shoot him !" Yoo-ti-hu drew his bow—shut his eyes—and let_fly narrow. a .- YOO-TI-HU. The bird fell quivering among the bushes. Tally- yang-sang was no less pious than philosophical, and this feat surprised him exceedingly. With curiosity depicted in his countenance, he walked forward to where the bird had fallen. “ A little farther,” said Yoo-ti-hu. " Here 'I" “ Still farther." “ Here, then.” " On." " Now ?” .“Yes—there lies the bird. But tell me," said Yoo-tLhu, with a boldness that surprised the Grand Nazir, " dost thou certainly mean to carry my head to the king T” “ God is great,” quoth Tally-yang-sang. “ And Mahomined is his Prophet !” added Yoo~ ti-hu ; with which he started up such a tune on his lute, as caused the venerable chamberlain to skip and dance like one possessed of the devil. “ The spirit of Ebris seize thee l" roared Tally- yangsang, capering about among the bushes, and leaving a strip of skin on every thorn, “ the devil take thee for a musician !" and' on he skipped and danced till the tears ran down his cheeks—the blood streamed from his jagged and scarified limbs—and his capacious breeches were completely torn from his legs. Yoo-ti-hu continued the music with unabated ardor. ~Tally-yang-sang forgot his orisons and patemosters; and up and down—left hand and right hand—ladies chain—balancee— reel—jig—and Spanish waltz, danced the bare-leg- ged amateur, roaring with pain, and uttering horrible imprecatious. “ God is great ’1” quoth Yoo-ti-hu. “ His curse be on thee l” roared Tully-yang-sang. “ Music hath charms," said Yoo-ti-hu. “ Exercise is the ' staff of life,” philosophised Yoo-ti-hu. ' - ' ‘ A - “ Blast it t" inked Tally-yang-sang. “Piety is pleasant,” moralised Yoo-ti-hu.. “ Damnable ."2 roared Tally-yang-sang. Yoo-ti-hu perceived the vigor departing from the limbs of the Great Nazir, whereupon he struck up a still livelier air. Tally-yang-sang cur- vetted and pranced—whirled hither and thither his bare spindles, and leaped madly among the thorns. In an agony of pain he cried, “ Dear, gentle Yoo- ti-hu,—-I beseech thee to stop !” ' H Verily," quoth Yomti-hu, “ I value my head." “ I shall not Harm a hair," groaned Tally-yang- sang. s' “ Words are cheap,” said Yoo-ti-hu. “ But I sWear—I solemnly swear I” cried Tally ng-sang. “ in “ By the Prophet l" “ Nay." “ By God himself l" “ Swear by thy. beard l" “ Never 2” ' “ Then dancer!" 0 Another good hour did Tally-yang-sang caper about, roar and blaspheme, till cruelly excoriated from head to foot. “ Do you swear 1'" asked Yoo-ti-hu. _ piteously ll “ I do.” “ By that which is sacred 2'” “ By my beard !" In a truly pitiable condition the Grand Nazir limped toward the palace. Yoo-ti-hu followed— admiring the bandy and scarified legs of the great Tally-yang-sang, and muttering benedictions on the genius. IV. Yoo-ri-rru m Duncan. rI-‘he great rajas, moguls, and lords of Gazaret, belonging to the court of Pokatoka, had sallied out with the king, to take a stroll in the royal gardens. “Ho l” cried thaleen, high master of the fes- tivities, “ what fantastic clown comes hither 'l” “ An Egyptian dancer,” quoth the king. “A self-punished Musselman,” added a raja. “True,” said a grand mogul, “ for behind him walks his koran bearer.” “Rather a shia with his talisman,” observed a lord of Gazaret. . “ Or a sooni,” whispered a pious Mohammedan. “ A blood-stained spirit of Ebris,” remarked a famous Astrologer. “Hush l” exclaimed thaleen, “ by all that is terrible l—by monkin and nakirl ’tis Tally-yang- sang, grand nazir of the harem !" Arid Tally-yang-sang it was, whose woeful figure approached the pageant. ‘ “ Mirror of Piety l” cried the king, “what means this outlandish freak ? Methinks it ill becomes thee to tramp about, bare-legged and bloody, after this fashion. Propriety of conduct, and delicacy, should distinguish a master of the harem; and I much regret that thou hast infringed, not only on these, but on the laws of decency." “ Sure, mighty monarch of Gazaret,” replied Tally-yang-saug, wringing his hands and srniting his breast, “thy page deals with the devil; for, verily, he bath a lute of such bewitching tones, that, when the same be played, I could not help skipping and dancing among the bushes till my bones creaked— my head whirled, and I was flayed- and excoriated within an inch of my life—as your highness may see.” / “ Tally-yang-sang," said the king gravely, “ thy character is impeached—thou hast spoken of im- possibilities; in fact, thou hast lied." “ By. all that is solemn, I have spoken the truth,” cried the grand nazir. “ And nothing but the truth ?" “ As I live I” protested Tally-yang-sang. “ Then Yoo-ti-hu shall lose his head." “ Nay,—I have sworn on my beard to save it." “ Generous Tally-yang-sang l" cried Pokatoka, “thou art too lenient of offence. Nevertheless, Yoo-ti-hu shall be punished.” - “Certainly,” said Tally-yang-sang, “it was my design, to have him decently flayed to death.” “ Which shall be done,” quoth the king, “ if thou provest. the ofl'ence.” Without farther delay the barelegged and exco- » riated Tally-yang-sang led the way to the palace; and caliphs, rajas, moguls and lords of Gazaretp followed admirineg in the rear. o V. THE Tam. AND 11's Erasers. The grand council-chamber of the palace was presently crowded with courtiers, officers of the guard, sicaries, mandarins, and pashas,—at the head of whom, seated by his queen, and attended by a magnificient suite of pages sat Pokatoka, King of Gazaret. At a desk, immediately under the throne, sat a venerable Arabian writer, versed in hierogly- phics, and ready to take a minutes of the whole proceedings. Ranged around, stood a number of beautiful Circassians, Georgians, Nubians, and Abyssinians~slaves and witnesses from the king‘s harem; but the diamond of these gems was OMANEA, arraigned on charge of having unlawfully bestowed her heart on Yoo-ti-hu. The fact is, Tally-yang- sang was determined that the lovers should both be condemned, and had thus prepared matters for the prosecution. In order to establish the truth of his charge, he remained—much to the edification of the young slaves by whom he was surrounded—in the same plight in which the king had met him. “ Quintessence of piety and disciple of wisdom,". said the king, “ proceed with thy charge." “ Know then, courtiers, rajas, mandarins and ofiicers of the guard,” quoth Tally-yang-sang, “ that Yoo-ti-hu hath stolen the heart of Omanea, and that his highness, the king, commanded me to rid the ofi'ender of his head. This very evening I roamed in the royal gardens, meditating on the most agreeable plans of decapitation, when I espied the wicked Yoo-ti-hu. Having lured me into a horrid bush; he struck up a tune on his lute—the infernal strains of which caused me to dance till I was fairly torn to shreds—as you all may perceive. Then—” “ Stop there !” cried Pokatoka, “this story of the lute must be established ere you proceed farther." “ I solemnly beseech your mightiness to take my word," groaned Tally-yang-sang, eyeing the lute with barren—“Do, Great King of Gazaret! and the blessings of heaven be on thee I" “Nay,” cried the king, “ we must have a fair and impartial investigation. Yoo-ti-hu, thou art commanded on pain of loosing thy head to strike as a tune on thy late 1” “For God's sake," implored the grand nazir, “ since ye must bear it, I pray and beseech ye to bind me to a post.” Exactly in the middle of the court stood a post, ornamented with divers beautiful designs, carved in wood and in gold; and to this was the chamberlain firmly tied. “Truth is mighty," quoth the king, “ and will out. So proceed Yoo-ti-hu, in the name of God and Mahommed, his Prophet E" Yoo-ti-hu forthwith struck up his liveliest air; and lords, rajas, and moguls; sages, philosophers and mamelukes; officers of the guard, secaries and mandarins; slaves, young and lovely, and old and ugly ; disciples of Mahommed ; priests, friars, saints and heretics; pages, trainbearers, and virgins of incense-sprang to their feet and danced hither and thither—hornpipe, jig and merry reel—in such glee and confusion as were never heard of before Louisville, Kentucky, December 14, 1840. YOO-TI-HU. or since. The venerable writer had leaped from the desk—the decrepit Pokatoka from his throne; the sharp-featured old queen from her chair of dignity and joined in the general melee. But the groans of the gouty—the blasphemies of the pious—the laughter of the young—and the realm- strances of the sage, were all drowned in the lusty roars of Tally-yang-sang, who cruelly bruised his head against the post in trying to beat time—tore the live flesh from his back so eager was he to dance—and uttered a horrid imprecation at every ornament on the post. “Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!” cried the breathless Pokatoka. “ Yoo-ti-hu !" screamed the dancing queen. “Yoo-ti-hu! Yoo-ti-hu!" was echoed and re- eclioed around by the nobles and courtiers; and to and fro they skipped, as Yoo-ti-hu plied his merriest tunes—the floor groaning—the perspira- tion streaming from their cheeks; and their breath failing at every jump. “ Dear, pleasant, Yoo-ti-hu,” cried the king, in the heat of a Spanish jig, "I do beseech thee to stop." “A thousand seguins for silence I" groaned a gouty raja, prancing high and low in a German waltz. “ I am shamed—disgraced forever !" muttered an Arabian astrologer, in the middle of a Scotch reel. “ Yoo-ti-hu--the devil seize thee!" shouted a pious Musselman. “ Have mercy I" cried a blasphemous beretic. H Mercy! mercy!" echoed the dancers one and all—“ Do, gentle Yoo-ti-hu, have mercy, and cease thy accursed music 2” “ Pardon him! pardon him 1" roared the mag. nauimous Tally-yang-sang—his ribs rattling fright- fully against the post; “ in the name of the prophet pardon him ere I bruise myself into an Egyptian mummy l" i " “Yoo-ti-hu cease! thou art pardoned i” cried the king, in a piteous tone, “ my seal—my life on it thou shall not be harmed l” “ Very well," said Yoo-ti-hu, still striking his lute; “ but I must have Omanea as a bride." “ Thou shalt have her !—-tak‘ her !—she is thine l" shouted the rheumatic monarch. “ Thy oath on it," quotli Yoo-ti-hu. “By all that's sacred—by my beard she is thine!” Yoo-ti-hu ceased—the dancers, groaning and. breathless, returned to their seats—the grand nazir was taken from the post in a pitiable plight—and the pious Mussellman ejaculated—“G is great I” An Arabian historian says that Yoo-ti-hu having, espoused Omanea. carried his bride to the kingdom of Bucharia,_ of which, in the course of time, he became the king; and with his inexhaustible purse built a palace of gold, wherein he reigned for half a century, the mirror of monarchy, and the admira- tion of mankind. ' -LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. THE AVENGER. “Slave, I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die." “ I FEEL that I am dying,” exclaimed the sick man, gazing wistfully toward the window, “ and it seems good to me that it should be so. Lift me up a little that I may look upon this April morn, and throw back the curtains that I may feel the sweet breath of heaven once more upon my brow,—there, that will do, God bless you all.” The speaker was in the last stage of his disease. His eye was sunken, his voice was feeble, his lips were bloodless, his emaciated fingers looked like talons, and his originally handsome countenance, now hollow, pale, and ghastly, seemed already as the face of a corpse. At times his features would twitch convulsively. He breathed quick and heavily. The balmy air of a spring morning stealing sooth- ingly across his forehead, and tossing his long dark locks wantonly about, appeared for a while to kindle up the fading energies of the dying man, and turn- ing with a faint smile toward me, he said, " I promised you my history, did I not? Well, I will tell it now, for I feel my sands are nmning low, and the cistern will soon be broken at the fountain. I have no time to lose ; move nigher, for my voice is weak. Put that glass of wine close at your elbow,—I shall want my lips moistened, for my tale is long. "Do you know what it is to be young? Ah! who does not? Youth is the heaven of our exist- ence. Every thing then is full of poetry. It is the time for love, and song, and more than all for hope. This glorious morning is a type of our youth. The birds sing sweeter than ever; the winds have a mu- sic as of heaven; the distant tinkle of the streams Is like a fountain-fall in moonlight, and the whole earth seems as if it were one cloudless Eden, where life would pass like a dream of sinless childhood. Poetry! did I say? oh ! what is like our youth for that? But more than all, aye ! more than music, or beauty, or even those childish dreams, is the poetry of a first pure love ! I see by your countenance that you have known what that is. God help me! it has been at once the bliss and the bane of my ex- istence. “ I left the University rich, accomplished, and not without academic fame. My parents were dead, and I had but few relations. Life was before me where to choose. I had every thing to make me Shakspeai-e. happy, but—will you believe me 7-1 was not so. There was a void within me. I longed for some- thing, and scarcely knew what. It was not for fame, for I had tasted of that, and turned sick- ened away; it was not for wealth, for I enjoyed enough of that to teach me, it would not satisfy my craving; it was neither fashion nor ease, nor the popularity of a public man; no, from all these I turned away athirst for higher and loftier things. What could it be? At length I learned. My life is dated from that moment. “ It was about a year after I had graduated,when, sick of the world and its emptiness, I left the city, in early summer for a stroll through the mountains of the interior. You have often seen the hills of the Susquehanna: well, I cannot stop to describe them. I was enraptured with their beauty, and de- termined to loiter among them until September, and so dismissing my servant, I took lodgings in a quiet country inn, and assumed the character of a mount- ain sportsman. But I delay my story. Hand me the wine and water. “ It was on a sporting excursion that I first saw my Isabel! Oh! if ever the ideal beauty of the an- cients, or the dreams we have in childhood of an- gels' faces, were realised in a human countenance, they were in that of Isabel. There was a sweetness about it I cannot describe; a purity in every line which breathed alone of heaven. Do you not be- lieve that the face is the impress of the mind; that our prevailing thoughts gradually stamp themselves on our countenances, and that the sinless child and the haggard felon alike carry the mark of their characters written upon their brows? You do. Yes! God branded Cain as a murderer, but it was only the brand of his wild, terrible, agonising re- morse. “ From the first moment of my seeing Isabel, I felt that I had met with that for which I had so long sought. The void in my bosom was satisfied. I had found something holier and brighter than I had deemed earth could give birth to, and I almost worshipped the ground where she trod. I loved her with all the poetry and fervor of a first love. She did not seem to me like others of her sex. There was a holiness cast around her like the mantle of a seraph, which awed the beholder into a reverential 2 4 14 love. And oh ! what bliss it was to gaze upon her face, to hear her lute-like voice, and to feel that I breathed the same air with herself. "- Isabel was the daughter of a village clergy- man, who had been poor without being dependant. Her mother had been dead for many years; and her father had followed his wife but a few months be- fore I first met Isabel. “ How could I help loving such a being '1 Wealth to me was no object: I looked not for it in a bride. Isought for one in whom I might confide every. thought, and in finding Isabel my happiness was complete. “ Why should I delay telling the story of my love'! Day after day found me at the cottage of Isabel, and day after day I grew more enraptured with her artlessness. Together we read in the mornings; and together we wandered out amidst the beautiful scenery around; and together we sat in the still evening twilight, when my greatest pleasure was to hear her sing some of those simple little lays of which her memory preserved such a store. Ah! those were happy hours,--hours, alas! which can never come again. From such meetings I would loiter home beneath the summer moon, with a thou- sand bright and joyous, yet undefined feelings, thrill- ing on every nerve of my frame. And often, as I turned to take a last‘look at the little white cottage, embowered in its trees, I thought I could detect the form of Isabel, standing where I left her as if she still followed me with her eye. ' “ It was not long before I declared my love to Isabel, and found that it was returned with all the fervor and purity of her guileless heart. Oh! with what rapturous emotions did I hear the first confession of her sentiments—with what delight did I clasp her hand in mine, as her head lay upon my bosom—-what tumultuous feelings thrilled my soul, as her dark eyes looked up into my own, with all that purity and depth of atfection which tell that the soul of the gazer is in the look. “ \Vell, we were married. It was that season of the year in which all nature puts on her autumn glory, and when hill and plain and valley are clothed with a garmenture as of a brighter world. The corn was yellowed for the harvest ; the wild flowers were fading from the hill-sides; the grapes hung down in purple clusters from the old, twisted vines in the woods; and the birds, that had been used to sing for us, in every grove, were one by one disappearing, as they took flight for the sunny south. But could I miss their music while Isabel was by to whisper in her fairy voice, or cheer me with her low and Witching minstrelsy? Was I not happy—wholly, supremely happy? It was as if I dwelt in an enchanted land. I forgot, almost, that I was a member of society; saw but little company; and spent the day with Isabel in rambling around the mountain, or when confined by the weather to the house, in a thousand little fireside amusements. We talked ofthe past, ofour plans for the future, of the hollowness of the great world without, and of that mutual love for each other which we felt could not be eradicated by the power of a universe. Isabel was all I had imagined ,her in my fondest- moments. Like myself, she turned away from the companionship LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. of a selfish world, and sought only to spend life afar from human strife, secure in the possession of the one she loved. Alas! little did she think that the thunder-cloud was hanging, dark and lowering, above us, which would eventually burst, and bring ruin on our unsheltered heads. “ We saw but little company, I have remarked ; but among that little was one with whom, as subsequent events developed, my destiny was inextricably woven. He was an old classmate in the University, whom I had casually met at the neighboring county-town; where he resided in the capacity of a medical man. Our former intimacy was revived; for Robert Conway was really a fascinating man. It was not long before he became intimate with our little family, and, seduced by his plausible demeanor, I not only engaged him as my family physician, but entrusted him with the nearest and dearest secrets ofmy heart. I felt the warmest friendship for him, and, next to Isabel, there was no one for whom I would have done so much. I have told you of the poetic nature ofmy character; you may have also noticed its warmth; and, in the present instance, believing I had found a really disinterested friend, I was hurried away into an infatuation from which I awoke only to find that I had clasped an adder to my bosom, and that—oh! my God—all my hopes of life were blasted forever. “ The winter had already set in, when I received a short letter from my town agent, requesting my immediate presence in the city on business of the last importance to my fortune. As Isabel was in a weak state of health, and would not be able to accompany me, I returned an answer, stating my inability to comply with the summons, and declaring my willingness to suffer even some pecuniary loss, rather than leave her at that time. “ In less than a fortnight, however, I received a still more pressing letter from my correspondent, declaring that my absence had already prejudiced my fortune, and that nothing but my personal presence could, in the then distracted state of monetary afi'airs, preserve myself from beggary. This was an appeal which, for Isabel's sake, I could not resist. That the being whom I loved above myself should be subjected to the miseries of poverty, was a supposition too harrowing to entertain. “ Never shall I forget the eve of the morning on which I departed. It was one of surpassing beauty. The landscape without was covered with a mantle of snow, and the trees were laden with icicles spangled in the star-light. The heavens were without a cloud, and the innumerable worlds above, glittered on the blue expanse like jewels on the mantle of aking. It was, in short, one of those clear, cold nights in early February, when the very ringing of a sleigh-bell can be heard for miles across the still expanse of the landscape. “ As Isabel and I stood looking through the casement at the brilliancy of the starry hosts on high, a melancholy foreboding suddenly shot across my mind that we were parting to meet no more. I know not how it was, but the same feeling pervaded the thoughts of Isabel; for as a meteor-star darted across the sky, and instantly disappeared, she LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. heaved a sigh, and, turning toward me, said, as she leaned upon my arm, and gazed confidingly up into my face,— 1“ Do you know, George, that, during all the evening I have been tortured with a foreboding that our happiness is destined, like yonder shooting-star, to last only for a while, and then pass away forever, It may be that this is our last evening. I cannot tell in what shape the impending evil will come,’ she said, ‘ but this I know, that be it what it may, we shall always love each other, shall we not, George ?’ “‘ Yes, dearest !’ I replied, kissing - her, ‘but dismiss these gloomy thoughts; they arise only from your ill-health. Believe me, we shall continue for long, long years to enjoy our present felicity.’ Ah! me, little did my own feelings coincide with what I said. ‘Cheer up, dearest, I shall return in a fortnight or so, and by that time shall be able to assure you that I shall leave you no more.’ “ \Vith words like these I attempted to remove the forebodings of Isabel, but though she smiled faintly in return, I found that I could not wholly dispel the melancholy of her thoughts. I dreaded the parting on the morrow, and accordingly, having deceived her as to the hour of my setting forth, I rose at day-break, kissed her as she lay calmly sleeping, and, tearing myself from her, entered the mail-stage, and before the hour when we usually arose,, was miles away from our habitation. “ I reached the city, and found my fortune, indeed, trembling on the verge of min. For some days its preservation engaged every faculty of my mind, and I found time for nothing else, unless it was to read and answer the letters I daily received from my sweet wife. The times were critical. Stocks of every kind—and nearly my whole fortune was vested in them—were undergoing a fearful depreciation ; and one or two heavy loans which had been made out of my estate, and which completed the balance of my wealth, were in a most precarious situation. I soon found it would not _only be impos- sible to settle my affairs so as to rejoin Isabel at the end of the fortnight, but that I must undertake a journey, personally, to a southern city, which would delay me at least a month more; and, accordingly, I penned a hasty note to her on the eve of my setting out, bidding her look forward, at the expiration of this new term, to a happy meeting, and informing her at what post-towns I should look for letters from her. “ I set forth on the ensuing day, but, though I enquired at the various post-offices along my route, where I expected letters, yet I did not receive a line from Isabel; and the first epistle which I obtained was a letter which I found lying for me, on my arrival at the port of my destination. It had come from P , and was \written prior to Isabel’s knowledge of my second journey. I have it still by me; every line of it is graven on my heart; my only prayer is that it may be buried with me, for alas l—it is the last letter I ever received from. Isabel. “ As day after day rolled by without receiving any intelligence from her, I grew more and more uneasy, until, as the term of my absence drew 15 toward a close, my sensations approached to agony. A few disappointments I had borne with fortitude, if not with calmness, for I knew that the mail was not always regular; but when days grew into weeks, and weeks had almost grown into months, without the arrival of a single line from Isabel, either directly from our residence, or indirectly by the way of P—-—, my fears grew insupportable. I was like Prometheus chained to a rock, and subject to a torture from which there was no escape. At length I could endure it no longer, but hastily bringing my business to a close, even at a consider- able sacrifice, I set out by rapid journeys toward my home, without even passing by P——, such was my eagerness to know what could have been the cause of Isabel’s silence. “ It was on an evening in the latter part of the month of March, when my jaded horses drew up before the gate of my dwelling. Hastily alighting, I entered the little lawn, and was soon at my long- sought-for threshold. But I started back at the sight that met my eyes. The windows were dark and cheerless; the grass was covered with leaves and broken twigs; the knobs upon the door were soiled for want of burnishing; and everything around wore that appearance of loneliness and desolation which marks an uninhabited house. With a fainting heart I lifted the knocker. The sounds echoed with hollow distinctness through the house; but no one replied to the summons. Again and again I repeated it; and again and agaih I was unsuccessful. With a heart wild with the most terrible fears I passed to the back part of the house ; but there, too, I found the same silence and desola- tion. It was like the house of the dead. Unable longer to contain myself I rushed back to my car- riage, and with an air that made the coachman believe me insane, ordered him to drive to a neigh- boring farm-house. “‘Who ’s there?’ asked a female voice from inside of the cottage, in answer to my impetuous knock. “ t I, madam, do you not know me '1 But where, in heaven’s name, is Isabel ? where is my wife ?’ I exclaimed, seeing by the astonished looks of the woman, that she, too, believed me out of my senses, ‘ what is the matter at my house, that I find it closed ?’ “‘Oh! la,’ answered the woman, curtseying as she held the candle to my face, * you are the gen; tleman that lived at the big house nigh to the stage- road, across the creek. Gracious me! how wild you look. But, sit down, sir; we ain’t very nice just now, for baby ’s sick, and we can ’t alford help—’ . ‘t ‘ Woman,’ I exclaimed, vehemently interrupting her, and seizing her fiercely by the arm, ‘ in God’s name tell me all. Answer me at once—is my wile dead?’ and though my voice grew husky, it trem- bled not, as I put the fearful question. *“ Dead! why indeed I do ’nt know, sir,’ she answered, tremblingly, awed by my wild demeanor, ‘for it ’5 been nigh a month since she left here to join her husband.‘ it ‘ To join me!’ M Yes, sir. Why did n’t you,‘ she asked, per- 16 ceiving surprise in every feature of my countenance, ‘ write for her? The neighbors all say so, and Dr. Conway went to see her safe to town; though it ‘s queer, now, since I think on ’t, that he ain't got back agin by this time.’ “ ‘ My God,‘ I exclaimed, staggering back, as a fearful suspicion flashed across my mind, ‘ was I reserved for this? Oh! Isabel, Isabel—’ But I could say no more. My brain reeled; my temples throbbed to bursting; a strange, swimming sensa- tion was in my ears; every thing appeared to whirl around and around me; and, losing all conscious- ness, I fell back, senseless, on the floor. “ When I recovered my recollection, I was leaning against the bed, and a group, composed of the wo- man to whom I had been speaking, her husband, and a farm boy, stood around me. My cravat was untied, and my brow was wet with water. t“ My good woman,’ I said faintly, ‘ I feel better now. Go on with your story; I can bear to hear the worst. God help me, though,’ I continued, placing my hand upon my forehead, ‘it has well nigh drove me mad.’ “ She had, however, but little to tell, beyond what I knew already. I But her husband added, that after my departure, he had noticed that not a day passed without his seeing the vehicle of Dr. Conway in front of my house; and that, too, long after the returning health of my wife rendered professional visits unnecessary. He had thought, he said, it singular, but, as he was not given to gossip, he had kept silence. About a month since, he added, the house had been shut up, and, under pretence of re- joining me, Isabel had set out, no one knew whither, with my old classmate. “ Oh ! who can tell the feelings that, during this recital, and for days after, raged in my bosom? The evidence was unquestionable, irresistible, damn- ing in its character. And yet I could not—though every one else did—believe Isabel to be guilty. She was too pure, too artless, too ardently attached to me. But, then, again, how could I resist the testi- mony staring me in the face? The visits of Conway; his fascinating manners; the false report of my having written for her; and her flight with the seducer, no one knew whither, were circumstances which my reason could not answer, whatever my assurance of her love might persuade me. Who knows not the pangs, the torments of uncertainty? And day after day, while my enquiries of the fugitives were being pushed in every quarter, did I fluctuate between a confidence in Isabel’s purity, and the most fearful suspicions of her faith. It was a terrible struggle, that one in her favor. But at length, as every succes- sive informant brought new proofs of her infidelity, I settled down into the agonising belief of her ruin. “Yet I did not give up my pursuit of the fugi- tives. No—my God ! how could I forget my shame? The dearest hopes of my heart had been overthrown, and she, in whom I had trusted as inan never before trusted, had wantonly deserted me— aye ! even while my own kisses were still, as it were, warm upon her check. I had sacrificed everything at the shrine of her love; was this the return my devotedness had met with? What ! she whom I had pressed to my bosom usa wife,—she LEAVES FROM A LAWYEn’s PORT-FOLIO. whom I had made the incarnation of all ideal loveliness, to be-—oh ! that I should have to speak the word—a mere wanton. God of my fathers! was this the destiny to which I was condemned? “I am calmer- now. I must hurry on, for my breath is rapidly fading me. My brow burns : bathe it—there, that will do. And open the win- dow. There is something in this gentle, balmy breeze, fragrant with a thousand odors, which calls back the memory of happy days, and almost makes me weep. God grant that none of you may ever suffer as I have suffered. “ I pass by three months, three long and weary months, during which I received no tidings of the fugitives. They had never been in P——; even my epistle announcing my departure to the south had never been received by Isabel, but had been sent, with most of the ensuing ones, as a dead letter to Washington. I traced the fugitives only for a single stage; there every clue to them was lost. At length I was about giving over in despair, when chance revealed what I had so long sought for in vain. “ Did you ever visit an Insane Hospital? You start. Ah! you know nothing of its horrors unless you have seen your dearest friend writhing beneath the keeper’s lash, or chained like a felon by his infernal fetters. Do you understand me? No l the truth is too horrible for you to suspect. Well, then, it was in visiting one of these loathsome prison-houses that I saw and recognised, in one of its miserable victims, my own, my lost, my now suffering Isabel. “ You need not think that I shall grow phrenzied by this harrowing recital. I have thought of it too often, and endured subsequent agouies too great, to suffer myself now to lose my reason in reciting it. But neither will I dwell upon that awful meeting. Suffice it to say that all my anger against Isabel departed when I saw her, who had once lain pure and trusting on my bosom, confined as a maniac, in a public hospital. Oh! I would give worlds could I shut out that horrid sight. “ I soon learnt all from the keeper. Isabel had been placed there nearly four months before, by a woman I instantly recognised from his description, to be the one I had procured at my marriage to wait upon Isabel. She had stated that the patient was a half sister, and had left an address where she might be found. “ As the rules of the establishment precluded all hope of my removing Isabel, in spite of my protest- ations that I was her husband, unless I brought her pretended relative, to corroborate my account, I was compelled to rest satisfied with the melancholy plea- sure of knowing, that her disease should receive at my expense, the attention of the best physicians, and with the renewed hope of discovering her wait- ing woman, and thus removing my wife from what I felt was worse than death. Guilty as she was, she was still my wife, and I could not utterly desert her. “ I entertained little doubt of discovering this wo- man, although as might have been supposed, her address was fictitious. I had, in fact, a means ot finding her out which I did not scruple to adopt. She had been an English woman, and had often boasted LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’SlPORT-FOLIO. of rich relations across the Atlantic, to whom in her simple vanity, she one dayexpected to be heiress. As I knew that, at most, she could only have con- nived at my wife’s disgrace, and as I knew also that money was the touch-stone of every avenue to her heart, I had no doubt whatever as to the success of the scheme I intended to put in execution. It was sim- ply this: I caused an advertisement to be extensively circulated, describing her and her relationship to her English cousin, and informing her that if she would apply at a certain office in P——, she would hear of something to her advantage. The bait took. She came in person; I was instantly sent for, and confronted her. But to come at once to the con- clusion of this part of my story; she owned, upon my threats, and promises of forgiveness with a large sum of money if she would confess all, that she could satisfy every particular as yet unknown to me, of this melancholy tragedy. “She stated, in effect, that Conway, from the first moment he had beheld Isabel, had entertained a passion for her, which neither the favor he had re_ ceived from me, nor her own purity, nor the impass- able barriers against its gratification, had enabled him to conquer. Indeed it is questionable if he ever cared to do so. \Vilful, headstrong, remorseless, and careless of every thing but the gratification of his desires, he was perhaps one of the most hardened villains that ever cursed mankind; a villain the more dangerous, because his fascinating manners enabled him to wear the guise of virtue, and perpe- trate his infamous designs without suspicion. But in laying himself out to seduce Isabel, he capped the climax of his villainy. Fora long time, however, he only attempted to gain the good will of Isabel, and to seduce by large presents, her waiting woman to his side. As yet he had not ventured to breathe a word of his unholy passion to its object. But my departure opened new hopes. Flatteted and de- ceived by the attentions paid him by Isabel,—-atten- tions which I now learned with the wildest joy, were only paid to him because he was my friend,—he now resolved to make a. bold throw in his perilous game. He. knew my writing well. In a word, he forged a letter purporting to be from me, to Isabel, requesting her to join me in P——, under his escort ; and by these means he placed my unhappy wife wholly in his power. As he would not travel with- out her waiting woman, he was forced to make her his confidant, and purchase her secrecy by large sums of money. But why linger on this awful his- tory 'I Demons themselves would shudder at its relation. I cannot—yes! I must tell it. Repulsed by Isabel with scorn, when, on the second day, he ventured to declare his passion, he,told her, with the mockery of a fiend, as he pointed to the lonely inn where they then were, that resistance was useless. Yes l—here, hold down your ear, closer, let me whisper it only; he used force; God of heaven, there was none to save her from the monster’s fangs ! “There—there—it is over: unhand me I say. But forgive me: I am well nigh crazed: I know not what I do. Some of that drink. Bless you for fanning my poor, aching brow; I believe some- times that I am becoming a child again. Those tears have relieved me. I am so weak now that 17 they come involuntarily into my eyes, but time was when it seemed as if they had been dried up forever at their fountain, and when, in my uuutterable agony, I would have given worlds to weep. “I forgot to tell you that I felled that bag to the ground like an ex, whenshe told me that fearful tale. I could not help it. A woman! and stand by merciless ! Oh ! my God it was too much. “ And Isabel then was innocent. Aye! it had driven her mad. Oh! I could have crept on my hands and knees to her feet, for a _whole life-time, if by so doing I could only have won from her, forgiveness, for suspecting, for a single moment,’ her angel purity. But it was not so to be. It was my fitting punishment. In the inscrutible designs of that Providence, before whose bar I shall so soon appear, it was decreed that I should never more see Isabel in the possession of her reason. She died. I had only time to hurry from that strange recital to behold her last moments.- Never, never shall I forget that sight. ' “ She was evidently in the last stage of her malady when I entered the chamber where she lay; and as she turned her wild, and wasted, but still beautiful countenance toward me as the door opened, I burst into a flood of tears, and could scarcely stagger to a seat at her bedside. I suffered more—will you believe it ?—-in that mo- ment than I had ever done before. Our first meeting; our early love; our auspicious union; our days of after felicity; that long to be remem- bered night of our separation; and all the hideous succession of ensuing events whirled through my brain as if a wild, shadowy phantasmagoria was revolving, with the swiftness of thought, around me. But more than all my injustice toward her smote me to the heart. Could I Look upon that emaciated face, in every line of which was stamped sufferings the most extreme, and not feel its silent though unconscious reproaches? I bent over and kissed her cheek. As I did so a hot tear-drop fell upon her face. “ ‘ Who is it weeps?‘ faintly said my dying wife, looking vucuntly into my face, ‘ah! I know you not. You are not him. When will he come, when will he come?’ she continued, in a plaintive tone, drawing tears from every eye. She was dreaming still that she awaited my return at our far-off-home. Thank heaven! all else was forgot. “ At this moment one of the physicians entered thev room. Noiseless as he was, her quick ear detected his footstep. She turned quickly around: a look of disappointment stole over her face. She shook her head mournfully. ‘H Why don’t he come?’ she murmured, ‘ ah! he has forgotten Isabel. Well,’ she continued, in a tone that almost broke my heart, *he may desert me, but never can I desert him.’ u‘Isabel—Isabel,’ I ejaculated, unable longer to contain myself, ‘for the love of heaven speak not so. . Isabel, dear Isabel, do you know me? Oh! you do. Say, only say you do: one word. Oh ! my God, she will never awake to reason.’ M Did you talk of Isabel?‘ she said, looking inquirineg up into my face, and for an instant I fancied the light of intellect shone across those 2* 18 pale, wan features. But alas! if so, it faded liket it came. In another moment her eyes assumedt their former vacant, yet sorrowful and imploring. expression, and turning away she began to sing a‘ snatch of an old song-I had taught her in the days of our courtship. “ It flashed across me that, by singing the fol- lowing verse, I might possibly touch a link in her memory, and recall her to reason. I mentioned it to the physicians; They implored me to do so. I obeyed. “ * Who sang that ?’ suddenly exclaimed the sufferer, starting half up in bed, and looking eagerly around, ‘it seems, I do believe, as if it was the voice of George,’ and lifting up her hand to com- mand silence, she bent her car down to catch the sounds. “There was not a dry eye in the room. My own tears came fast and thick; and my utterance became so choked that I could not proceed. “ The hopes we had .again entertained by her sudden question, seemingly so rational, were the next instant dissipated, by her dropping her hand, and sinking back upon the pillows, in a state ap- proaching to insensibility. Need I delay? From that stupor, gradually becoming deeper and more profound, she never awoke; or rather awoke only in that better world where she found relief from all her sorrows, and where, if earthly suffering, or earthly purity can avail aught, she is now one of the brightest of the redeemed. “ Ah! you may well shed tears. It were enough to make angels weep, that death-bed! Night and day, in illness or health, here or in another conti- nent, that closing scene of her life has been present to me, urging me on to avenge her wrongs. “ We buried her. Far away from the spot where she died, amid the green old hills of her birth, and in the quiet, little church-yard where her father and mother slept, we laid her down to her rest; and my last prayer is that I too may be buried there, side and side with that sweet suffering angel. “I was from that moment her AVENGER. I sought out her waiting woman again, and learning from her all the information she could give me respecting the retreat to which Conway had fled, I set out in his pursuit. But her information was too scanty to avail me aught. Conway had left her money enough to hear his victim to P——, and then, alarmed at the catastrophe, fled she knew not whither. Once or twice since, however, he had remitted her small sums of money by mail, enjoining on her continued secrecy. The letters were post- marked New York. “Thither I went. But all my enquiries were useless. After a search of a month I was no nearer to the attainment of my object, than on the day when I first set forth in pursuit of Conway. “ But did my zeal abate? How could it when that death-bed scene was ringing its cry for ven- geance night and day in my ears? No. I had stood beside the grave of Isabel, and vowed to be her Avenues: I had repeated that vow, night and morning since; and I would spend the last cent of my fortune, and go to the uttermost end of the earth, but what I would yet fulfil the oath. LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. H At length I obtained a clue to Conway’s retreat. He had sailed from New York five months before for London, under an assumed name. I now felt sure of my prey. “On my arrival at that vast metropolis, I insti- tuted a cautious enquiry after his present abode, which I felt certain would ultimately place him within my grasp. Meantime I began a course of daily practice at a neighboring pistol-gallery, and soon became so proficient that I could split a ball, at twelve paces, nine times out of ten, upon the edge of a knife. Nor did I neglect fencing. I became by constant attention an invincible swords- man. " But months, aye! years elapsed, and still he evaded my grasp. He hurried from one land to another, under a dozen disguises, but though delayed by my anxiety to be perfectly certain of the road he had adopted, I was ever like the blood-hound on his path. Fly where he would, the unseen or BLOOD was behind him. Thrice he flew to Paris, once he hurried to Rome, twice he hid himself in the Russian capital, four times he visited England under different names, two several times he crossed and re-ct'ossed the Atlantic, and once for nearly a whole year, during which he went on a voyage to ‘Calcutta, I almost lost sight of him. But I re- covered the clue at his return. Years had only whetted my appetite for revenge. My determina- tion was when I met him, to goad him by insult into an honorable encounter, and if this could not be done, to shoot him in the street like a dog. “ Fortune favored me at length. It was scarcely a month after his return from the East Indies, when I learned that three days before he had set out for Paris. Thither, like the angel of death, I pursued him. “ It was the second night of my arrival at Paris, when I stepped into a noted gambling-house in the Rue des The apartment was brilliantly lighted, and in the ostentatious luxury of its fur- niture reminded one of a fairy palace. It was densely crowded. I sauntered up to a table where they were playing vingt et an, and carelessly threw down a guinea upon the chance. I won. I was about taming indifl'erently away, when an individual approached the table, whom, even under his disguise, I recognised, .in a moment, to be Conway. He threw down his stake. At that instant his eye caught mine. Never had I seen human countenance change so fearfully as his did during the instant of recognition. It quivered in every nerve. He turned paler than ashes. I looked at him, for a moment, stemly and calmly. His eye fell before mine. In an instant, however, he recovered, in a measure, his equanimity, and turning away with an air of affected indifference, whistled a careless tune. I stepped up to him. “ * Dr. Conway,’ said I, * you are a scoundrel.’ “tSir, sir,’ stamtnered the abashed villain in French, affecting not to know me, ‘you mistake your man. I am Monsieur De Rivers, at your service.’ H * Monsieur De Rivers then, if you please,’ said I, tauntingly, ‘I congratulate you on understanding a language which you affect not to be able to LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO- speak.’ The villain crimsoned and was absshed. ‘ But think not you shall thus escape. You are my own; and without regard to the name under which at present you choose to go, I pronounce you again to be a scoundrel.’ "‘I—I,’ stammered Conway, ‘know you not. The gentleman is mad,’ he said, with a faint smile of contempt, turning to the crowd which had now gathered around us. A scomful look was the only reply. One of them even went so far as to say, shrugging his shoulders, “ ‘ Sacre—why don‘t you fight '! the gentleman means to insult you.’ " ‘Crazy, did you say, villain?’ I exclaimed, stepping up to Conway, ‘ I am sane enough to see that you are a coward as well as a scoundrel-do you understand me now 7’ and deliberately taking him by the nose, I spat in his face. " ' By God, sir,’ said he, his face blanched with rage, making him, for one moment, forget his fears, l this is too much. I am at your service. Here is my card. When shall it be 7’ H ‘ The sooner the better,‘ I hissed in his ear, as he turned to leave the room. ‘Let it be to-night.’ “ ‘ Gentlemen,‘ interposed a French officer, whom I knew casually, approaching us at my beck, ‘ this matter had better be settled at once. Had it not ?’ he continued, turning to Conway, or rather to an acquaintance of his, whom my enemy had singled out from the crowd as we left the room. “‘ Yes! let it be at once—here,’ exclaimed Conway, almost foaming with rage. “ ‘At once then,’ said the two seconds, simulta- neously, ‘ step this way.’ “ We followed as they lead; and passing up a staircase before us, we soon found ourselves in a small, dimly lighted room, about twelve feet square. " ' We shall be free from observation here,’ said my second, as he closed and double-locked the doom “ During this brief remark the other oflicer had been engaged in an earnest conversation with his principal; and after a silence of some minutes on our part, he crossed the room, and addressed a few words to my second. After the other had ceased speaking, he continued silent for a few minutes. At length, however, he said, “* Well, I will make your proposition ;’ and turning to me he continued, ‘I suppose you are scarcely willing to apologise. The demand comes from your opponent.’ “ ‘ Never,’ said I. “ t Then the affair must proceed.’ “‘Gentlemen,’ said Conway’s second, ‘how do you fight? As you are the challenged party the choice is with you ’1’ “t With pistols—at once—in this room,’ an- swered my second. " “ I observed the check of Conway blanch at these words, and his eye became wild and unsettled. He muttered something about the police, the possi- bility of an interruption, and the unseasonableness of the hour. Even his own second could not re- strain an expression of disgust at his cowardice. Philadelphia, December, 1840. Can’t you see 19 *H I can scarcely hold a pistol, much less hit a mark with one,’ whispered Conway to his second ; but in the death-like silence the remark was heard distinctly throughout the room. “ ‘ Sacre,’ muttered the officer addressed, but checking his anger, he turned around, and asked our party if we should be put up across the room. “‘No,’ said I, ‘Dr. Conway has declared he knows nothing of the use of the weapon I have chosen. Villain as he is, I do not wish to take advantage of him. Let as fire across this table,’ said I, touching one about four feet wide with my foot, ‘ or if that will not suit him, we will cut for the highest card, and the loser shall bare his breast to the pistol of the other.’ “ ‘ My God! do you mean to murder me ?’ said Conway, trembling like an aspen, and scarcely able to articulate. “ ‘ Murder you ! No, miscreant, though you have murdered one dearer to me than life—one, whom friendship, if not gratitude should have preserved— one who now lies in her early grave; while you, for years since her death, have been insulting man and God by your continued existence. “ ‘What do you choose?’ asked my second sternly, as soon as I had ceased, * it were better for all that this matter should be closed at once! M We cut for the chance,’ said Conway’s second. “ The cards were brought, shuffled, and placed upon the table. Isigned to Conway to take one. He stepped hurriedly up, and with a trembling hand, drew. It was a king. A smile of sardonic tri- umph lighted up every feature of his countenance. My second looked aghast. Yet, in that moment, my confidence did not forsake me; not a nerve quivered, as I advanced proudly to the.table and drew my card. It was an ace. “‘Oh ! my God, it is all over,’ almost shrieked the miserable Conway, flinging his card down in despair, ‘is there no hope I’ he said, turning wildly to his second, ‘ oh ! shew me a chance,’ he contim ued, addressing me, ‘for my life. Do n’t murder me in cold blood. Do n’t—do n’t—do n’t,’ and he fell on his knees before me, raising his hands im- ploringly to me, while the big drops of sweat rolled from his face. “‘ Take your place across the table,’ said I sternly to him, ‘ put a pistol into his hands. Villain as he is, he is too miserable a coward to be shot down unresisting—though he would have granted me no such favor had the chance been his.’ “They placed him in his position. No words were spoken. Not many seconds elapsed before the word was given, and we both fired simultane- ously. I felt a slight, sharp puncture in my side; and I knewI was wounded. But as the smoke wreathed away from before me, I beheld Chnway leap toward the ceiling convulsively, and fall, the next instant, dead across the table. He had been shot through the heart. Isabel was avasono. "I fled from Paris. I reached here, saw you, have adjusted my affairs under your supervision, and am dying of that wound.” Reader, that night he expired. D. . Wm. LANGUAGE OF THE WILD FLOWERS. BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, M. D. I. Solanum Dulcamara. Deadly Nightshade. DEATH. I 1mm thy step afar—- I see the flashing of thy blade Out-blazing like a meteor star, Thine eyes are peering from the shade, Burning with smouldering flame; Thy voice is as a woman’s wail, Thy face is bloodless all and pale, A mockery to fame. Thou sportest thee a shad’wy robe—— Thy fingers grasp an air-built globe— A mighty scorn is on thy lip, Haught skeleton! Thy wrath is straining on the slip Unearthly one ! Fire leaves thy nostrils—plague thy breath; Fear is thy handmaid—thou art Death! Smile not so grimly—though an hour May find me powerless in thy pow’r, - And subject me to thy control,— ’T will be my body—not my soul, There victor, I defy thee. For though thou mayest sieze my form, Devote my body to the worm— And all the grave’s corruption—HE, The maker both of thee and me, Decreeth to deny thee Presumptuous one! all power to inherit, That portion of his breath which is my spirit. II. Sambucus Cartadensis. Elder. BE COMPASSIONATE. I The wind blows cold—yon poor, old man Seeks pity for his woe, For naught hath he to bear him on, Though a long, long way to go, All houseless, homeless, weak and tired. While friends are far away, Hi clothes are tattered—locks are white;- Oh! pity him, I pray. His wife is dead—his children gone, He knoweth not where but far; Philadelphia, December, 1840. The sun’s bright light he seeth not, Nor light of moon nor star. For God hath taken sight away, Hath bent him as you see; And made his limbs as thin and weak As those of a withered tree. A very little from your wealth, Some copper’s more or few’r— Will get him a morsel of bread to eat, And cannot make you poor, Give alms.’ the memory will be A balm unto thy heart, A spring to thy limbs—a sight to thine eye— And joy to ne'er depart. Oh.‘ curl not thy proud lip, nor turn Thy form away in pride; As he is, you may be e’er long, When woes of life betide. Then as a wearied, blasted man, From door to door you go— You’ll think with tears of when you scorned The humble blind man’s woe. III. Juniperus Virginiana. Cedar. W I N T E R . The winter has come, and the skaters are here With a falchion of steel On each manly heel, To strike the ice with a stroke of fear; And to make the victim the story tell, With a voice as clear as a tinkling bell. The winter has come, and he howls at the door,~ And pulling his cheeks, He whistles and shrieks,— A shriek of ill-will to the suffering poor, That maketh the widow clasp her sons, And huddle together her shiv’ring ones. The winter has come, and the sorrow besides, And the poor man’s breast Can know of no rest, While his life's troubled torrent onward glides, But when ’t is exhausted, the poor will share A place with the rich, and no winter is there. MY PROGENITORS. BY S. W. Mn. LOWMAN in his treatise on the civil govern- ment of the Hebrews, remarks, that their careful attention to genealogy was a distinguishing trait in their national policy. From considering the He- brews who glory in their descent from the most renowned patriarchs, I was led to reflect on the probable influence which the same custom would have upon other nations. Indeed I have often admired the general indifference of mankind to the names and history of their ancestors; especially considering the veneration which all men feel for every thing that wears the marks of antiquity. From a few obvious principles I shall endeavor to state the benefits which I consider would result to mankind from the universal prevalence of the custom of keeping an exact genealogy in families. It would be a perpetual source of entertainment and pleasure. Who would not feel gratified to look back upon the line of his ancestors, and see their names, characters, occupations, place of resi- dence, and time when they lived ? They would also open numerous and extensive sources of friendly attachment, by closing the ancient alliances of in- terest, honor, consanguinity and friendship, which subsisted between our forefathers, who perhaps fought side by side in battles, ploughed the seas together, or shared the common danger of explor- ing and settling new countries. Genealogical study would operate as a stimulus to laudable ambition, and would enkindle a sense of honor. If a man's ancestors were mean and low, he would often be struck with the animating thought of raising the reputation of his race. If they were high and honorable, he would, at times, be jealous of their honor, and feel strongly prompted to emulate their virtues. Could every man trace back his line, it would level many useless distinctions; for it would appear, that some who are ostentatious of their descent and blood, have beggars, bandits, and the humblest cot- tagers for whole series of links in their chain. That others who are now low and indigent, could look back to lords, princes, and monarchs, who dwelt in ucloud-capt towers and gorgeous palaces.” In fine, it would appear that the descending line of generations is ever wavering, now elevated, now depressed. The grandfathers and grandchildren of lords may have been porters, footpads, or slaves. The other evening, while investigating a knotty point, I prosed myself into a deep sleep, and dream- ed out the sequel. It would be better for many wr-rELPLEY, A. u. metaphysicians, moral philosophers, and writers of all classes, if they did the same. I thought 1 was still pondering on the subject of Genealogy, and considering with what curiosity and pleasure I could look back on the line of my ancestors to the grand progenitors of our race, when suddenly there appeared before me a winged fantastic figure, answering in some measure to the description of Iris. Her flowing robes were of various and varying colors; her eye was penetrating but never fixed; and her aspect might be compared to the shade and light wandering over the folds and margin of a summer cloud. I knew her instantly to be one of the airy powers that preside over dreams. She informed me that she was empowered to give me a view of my ancestors, and bade me at- tend her. Not knowing whither she intended to conduct me, or in what form of vision I was to be enwrapt, a chill of terror and ineffable awe rivetted me to the spot. Turning eastward she.beckoned me with her hand, and with easy volition, we rose to the region of the clouds. We continued to, move with inconceivable speed, till the Atlantic rolled beneath our feet, and we directly alighted on Plinlimmon in Wales. I was now a little recovered from my surprise, and was delighted to see the venerable seat of my fmtfutlters. I could evidently discern the mean- derings of the Severn and Dee, although by distance diminished to a thread. Numberless villages and flourishing farms lay extended in various directions, and I looked with great curiosity over the rocky hills and blue ridges, where a hardy race of men were once able to resist the impetuous armies of the Henrys and Edwards. Here my conductress presented me with a per- spective of most wonderful powers. It would not only magnify objects to their natural size, but this it would do even at any assignable distance. Within the external tube was a sliding barrel, graduated into sixty circles. My guide informed me that a circle denoted a century, and that when the barrel was drawn to the first circle, I might look back one century; and so of all the rest. Upon this she drew the barrel to the second circle, and presented me the instrument, impatient to try its astonishing powers. Looking through it I saw a face of things entirely new. James the I. had just ascended the throne of the United King- donts. I was looking around to observe the ap- 22 MY PROG pearance of the country which had flourished long under the happy reign of Queen Elizabeth. My guide asked me if I could discern a cottage at the foot of the mountain. “That,” said she, " is the dwelling of your ancestors in the male line." The moment I espied the cottage, which was low and poor, an aged man came out. His figure was tall and erect—his head quite gray—his look was grave, forbidding, and shaded with melancholy. My conductress succinctly told me that he had long since buried his wife, and all his children, excepting one son, who was then at sea—that his father was killed in battle, and that his grand- father had emigrated when a youth from Germany. Without further words she took from me the per- spective, and the scene of modern times changed. “’e immediately mounted on the wing, and again moved eastward. As we passed over London I was not a little gratified by a transient glance of that majestic city, the noblest in Europe, and most commercial in the world. The forest of towers, the waters, all white with sails, and the country all covered with villages, by turns caught my eye; but I travelled too much in the manner of young noble- men, who take the tour of Europe, to make very particular remarks; since our rout from Plinlimmon to the banks of the Danube took up but about five minutes. We now stood on a rising ground, having on our right the city of Presburgh, and on our left majestically rolled the Danube. The country ap- peared beautiful, but I noticed, with regret, various vestiges of tyranny and misery in the appearance of an abject multitude. The fantastic power now drew out the third circle, and looking through the perspective I beheld a scene in the reign of Maximillian the I. The comparison was truly at the expense of the present day: a. bold and manly race appeared, in general of larger size and nobler form. Their thoughts seemed full of freedom, and their general air was martial and independent. With something that ap- peared like the first dawn of modern refinement, there was a strong tinge of unpolished and simple manners. While I stood in high expectation every moment of seeing another of my ancient fathers, there appeared a royal personage at the head of a splendid retinue of chariots and horsemen. It was the emperor Maximillian himself, who, at that time was at Presburgh, and was on a party of pleasure that morning on the banks of the Danube. I gazed at his majesty, who was a man of uncommonly fine presence, and said, how happy should I he should he prove to be the man I am in quest of. My guide soon dashed my hopes, by desiring me to observe the coachman of the last carriage,— “ That,” said she, “ is the man 1” I began to fear that my blood “Had crept thro’ scoundrels Since the flood." I observed that I had always understood my ancestors where from Germany, but never knew till now that they were coacbmen—she smiled and bade me not be disheartened. He was a perfect Scythian, and seemed to look like one of the vilest ENITORS. of the human race; there being not discernible in his features any sentiments of honor or humanity. u He is," continued my guide, “ the son of a Tartar by a German mother. His father was one of the wandering tribes that dwelt, at times, near the B05. phorus in Circassia, and on the borders of the Cas- pian sea." I wanted no more, but, delivering her perspective, I stepped back into 1840, and was more than ever struck with the wide difference which the flight of three centuries had made in one of the most warlike nations of the world. Germany! how art thou fallen? Thy councils are divided—thy heroic spirit fled—thy warriors are become women ! I consoled myself, however, that my father was a German coachman in the fourteenth, and not in the nineteenth century. We rose once more, and passed over rivers, soli- tudes, morasses, forests, lakes and mountains, and at length alighted on an eminence near the mouth of the river ‘Volga. My guide, not leaving it optional, drew the glass to the sixth circle. I shivered in every nerve to think that my forefathers for such a period of years, had lived in the dreary regions of mental darkness. But could they have been tossed less at random, or enjoyed a milder sky in any of those countries where Rome had once displayed her eagle ? . The Wolga is one of the largest rivers in the world. It rises in the Russian empire, and receiv- ing a multitude of tributary streams, it winds a course of three thousand miles, and pours an im- mense volume into the Caspian sea. Through its whole course, it is said, there is not a cataract. It rolls majestically, with gentle current, through ex- tensive, rich and beautiful plains, diffusing every where luxuriant vegetation and exhaustless abund- ance. Near the sea, it branches and forms a number of pleasant and beautiful islands. On one of these we stood, and, for a moment, surveyed the romantic scenery. -Near us was a Russian castle and garrison, and the island, which had been used as a military station ince the reign of Peter the Great, was guarded by strong forti- fications, and enriched with an infinite number of boats and vessels, and defended by ships of war and gallies. I now looked through the glass, which threw me back six hundred years. How surprising was the change! One half of the island was a forest. The other half was occupied by a spacious camp, con- taining innumerable wheel carriages of singular forms. Before me lay a. great army marshalled for parade. I was struck with their uncommon dress and armor; and presently more so, by a sight of their council chief, who occupied an elevated platform, and seemed at that moment engaged in deep consultation. At the head three seats were raised above the rest, on which sat three personages of the greatest dignity. The central one, said my guide, is none other than Genghis Khan, and in him you behold your ancestor. He is now holding a council of war, and deliberating on an invasion of China. But you have little reason to boast of your descent from one who has destroyed fifty thousand cities. His tyranny and the perfidy of his queen have .u' ‘ MY PROGEN'ITORS. roused a conspiracy, which, though it will not destroy him, will imbitter his future life. Beneath a dark brow his fierce and jealous eye seemed to dart the fires of glory and valor into every sur- rounding breast. Yet he looked like one on whose heart the worm of care unceasingly preys, and who is inwardly consumed by the fires of ambition. Leaving him, however, to his fate, my guide gave the signal of departure. We crossed the Caspian sea, and the Circassian mountains. The dominions of the ancient Medes and now of the Persians, passed beneath us. In a few moments we alighted on a hill which commanded a view of the fair and delectable vales of Sheeraz, the most celebrated pro- vince in Persia. Sublime conceptions struck my Fancy as we were travelling the region of the clouds, when I saw stretched out on one side the vast ridges of Mount Taurus, and far distant on the other, the plains where Darius and Alexander fought. A sigh rose at the remembrarice of the great cities and powerful empires which once flour ished there. ' Before me was the vale of Sheeraz, for many miles in extent. The surrounding mountains were covered with vines, and widely extended prospects of rural felicity in that happy region. Innumerable flocks and herds were scattered over the hills, the shepherds and shepherdesses looked gay, all nature was blooming, and the Persians, brave, polite, and elegant in every age, seemed the happiest people upon the face of the earth. The sun shone with peculiar smiles from the cloudless azure, and far re- mote the calm billows of the Persian Gulf, drew a silver line on the horizon. On this hill, said my conductress, once dwelt your ancient fathers. At this she drew the glass to the twelfth circle, making from the Wolga a transit of 600, and from this of 1200 years. I looked eagerly through the prospective, and there arose before me a scene of unspeakable horror and desolation. An immense horde of barbarians was ravaging and destroying the whole country. Their faces flashed with fury. They were swift and fierce as tigers. The villages and hamlets, as far as could be seen were in flames ; heaven was obscured by smoke; age, infancy, innocence, and beauty, were mingled in in- discriminate slaughter; and blood poured in all di- rections. They rushed into a house which stood near me, dragged forth its inhabitants, and cut them in pieces. The parents and the children were mangled and slain together. A little infant only was left, and that, to all appearance, by accident. It was fiung upon the ground, and lay wallowing in the blood of its parents, weeping at its fall, although insensible to its deplorable condition. Behold, said my guide, your ancient father. The existence of numerous generations depends on his preservation, and from him multitudes shall descend. Astonished at man’s inexplicable destiny, I gazed, admired, and wept. At length a female barbarian came up. She was black, filthy, deformed, hideously savage, and re- sembled a harpy. She spied the weeping infant, and a sensation of humanity stole upon her heart. Kind nature, and compassion to man, has implanted those heavenly sensibilities in the rudest and most 23 degenerate of her children. She took up the babe, and seemed to sooth it. She wiped away its tears and blood, laid it in her bosom and darted out of sight. The glass dropped from my hand, and I stood rivetted in silent astonishment. That child, resumed my companion, is carried into the bosom of Scythia; there becomes first a robber, then a chieftain, afterward a sage. His de- scendants dwelt at times in India, in the islands, in Tonquin, in China, in Tartary; and a last issue, as you have seen, was the conqueror of Asia. 0 Provi- dence ! how unsearchable are thy ways! What beings of light, what fiends of darkness, are among thy children. 0 listen to the fervent aspirations of a worm, and if thine ear is not inexorable, smile on their destiny. As the glass dropped, the modern vale of Sheeraz returned and as soon vanished. Passing over Pal- estine, the Levant, Archipelago, Greece and Italy, our next stand was'on the banks of the Tiber, among ruined monuments of ancient Rome. The remains of arches, towers and temples, porticos and palaces, where the Cmsars and Scipios once lived, lay before me. A gloomy grandeur covered the scene with awfiil solemnity, and filled my soul with sensations equally sublime and melancholy. “There the vile foot of every clown, Tramples the sons of honor down, Beggars with awful ashes sport, And tread the Caesars to the dirt." My airy governess now drew the glass beyond the eighteenth circle. I looked through it and be- held Rome at the zenith of her ancient greatness. A forest of towers covered her seven hills. Never, even in imagination, had I beheld so grand a scene. Her temples, domes and structures, rose and expand- ed on my view, and at once displayed the glories of that queen of cities. Noble and beautiful villas covered as far as the eye could see, the banks of the Tyber: and the whole prospect appeared as though the wealth, the arts, sciences and elegance of the world, were collected to adorn and beautify the scene. In the forum a vast assembly of people were list- ening to. the address of an orator, who, from his dignified and commanding manner, I took to be Cicero. My guide assured me it was none else. His attitude, his gestures, his whole manner, were sublime. He was pleading for Milo. The occasion had drawn together an innumerable throng of spec- tators. I admired the elegance of the criminal: his appearance was firm, heroic, and great. Pompey was present at the head of a select body of troops. I have seen no man in modern times who can bear a comparison with Pompey. He had the qual- ities of great men with a dignity peculiar to himself. On high glittered the Roman eagle, and the whole group of objects appeared with a majesty and re- splendence not to be described. The judges, the criminal, the orator the general, the nobility of Rome, the army and the spectators, possessed a grandeur of countenance which might have induced one to imagine that all the fine and noble counte- nances in the world had been collected together. 24 MY PR'OG After indulging my curiosity for a moment, my guide showed me my ancestor. He was a common soldier, and stood near the general, appearing to be- long to his life guard. He listened with deep attention to the orator; and at times, roused by the powerful flights of unrivalled eloquence, seemed to lay his hand upon his sword, ready to draw it in defence of innocence. His descendants, continued my conductress, ac- company Trajan in his expedition into Asia, where, after various turns of fortune, some of them, as you have seen, settled in the vale of Shee- raz. Here, I must remark, that I was more inter- ested than I had been before, for, upon noticing him more particularly, I found him perfectly to resemble my father in stature, proportions, and countenance. The next field of discovery carried me back to the Trojan war; The celebrated city of Troy, and the Phrygian shores, the fleet and army of Greece, now engaged my whole attention. I was not a lit- tle gratified to have a glance at a scene which has filled the world with noise, and been so famous in poetry. Yet I trust confess my expectations were not fully answered. The Grecian chiefs appeared with far less splendor than they are made to exhibit under the glowing pen of Homer. I liked Ulysses the best of any of them. He was a sturdy old fel- low, and although in appearance somewhat of a, barbarian, yet he was strong, manly, and sagacious, equally able to ward off as to meet danger. I hoped now my ambition, would be crowned by find- ing Ulysses among my progenitors. My guide, how- ever, directly pointed out to me Thersites, assuring me that he was the very man. To save time, I will give a description of him, as we find it in Pope’s ‘ translation of Homer : Thersites clamored in the throng, Loquacious, loud and turbulent of tongue, Awed by no shame, by no respect controlled, In scandal busy, in reproaches bold: His figure such as might his soul proclaim, One eye was blinking, and one leg was lame, His mounting shoulders half his breast o'erspread, Thin hair bestrewed his long mishapen head, Spleen to mankind his envious heart possessed, And much he hated all but most the best. Ugly as Thersites was, I thought it, however, no small honor to be descended from one of the con- querors of Troy, and I intend at a convenient time, to consult the ancient critics, to see whether Homer has not been guilty of detraction in stating the cha- racter of Thersites. From Troy the genii lead me directly to Meso- potamia, and we halted in the midst of an exten- sive morass, a wild and trackless wilderness, inha- bited by noxious reptiles and wild beasts. Present- ing me the glass, she told me to make the best of it as this would be the last opportunity. with glowing colors and magnificent prospects. In the midst wandered a spacious river, the circumja- cent grounds, although reclaimed from their native state, afforded those rural wild and romantic scenes indicative of; the morning of improvement and in- Under the . eye of the perspective the scene presently kindled 1 ENITORS. vention. Thousands of people appeared busy in building various structures. Many were leisurely roving in the gardens and groves along the river banks. Contentment and tranquility smiled, labor went on with cheerfulness, and the orders of supe- riors were obeyed with a rude but lofty air of con- scious freedom. My conductress asked me whether I had yet no- ticed the Tamer of Babel .7 On which, turning to my right, I saw, not far 05', that massive structure. Its elevated summit rising toward the clouds, seemed indeed to threaten heaven. I could not but remark how much I had the advantage of Herodotus and some of the other Greek Philosophers, who viewed that Tower in a state of decay, and yet gave a most wonderful account of its greatness. I was now fully sensible that this was the seat of the first of empires, and was beginning to observe more atten- tively several things, when the appearance of some personages, at the head of a troop of horse, attracted my notice. Two personages of majestic port, fol- lowed by a numerous train, now drew near. Before them the statue of Apollo Belvidere, would have appeared diminutive. You see, said my guide, Nimrod and Ham. The former was in the bloom and vigor of manhood. In his eye the fire of ambition burned, and all his actions bespoke haughtiness, ostentation and autho- rity. He was the true and original founder of the science of war and despotism. In the appearance of Ham there was something almost more than mortal. His deportment was grave, thoughtful, and gloomy. His snowy locks fell over his shoulders which the flight of centuries had not bowed, and his venerable beard swept a breast where the secrets of wisdom seemed deposited. But yet his eye was fierce and cruel, and gave sign of his inward depravity. Whilst I was scrutinising to discover marks of consanguinity, my guide pointed me to a little fel- low just by me who was making brick. There, says he, is your progenitor. His face was an isos- celes triangle; and a long sharp nose and chin gave him the air of complete originality. He is, continued she, a true and legitimate offspring of Ja- phet. And now, having favored you more than I ever did any other mortal, to give you complete sat, isfaction, know, that from Noah to yourself there have been one hundred generations; and in your line there have been one King, five Princes, seven Butchers, eight Sages, five Commanders, ten Magi- cians, six Pilgrims, fourteen Soldiers, twenty Hus- bandmen, seventeen Mechanics, fourteen Sailors, thirteen Shepherds, eleven Beggars, eight Philoso- phers, tWelve Robbers, ten Hermits, nine Warriors, and one Author. Moreover, some of this illustrious line were pre- sent at the confusion of Babel, at the sack of Troy, the battle of Pharsalia, the destruction of Palmyra, the huming of fifty thousand cities in India and China, the defeat of Bajaret, the assassination of Henry the Fourth of France, the Powder Plot, and 1 many other great events. Here I awoke, and be- i hold! it was a dream. And now the imfofmation I would make of the knowledge derived from my dream, is to publish THE soLntnR’s THE LAD FOR ME. 25 forthwith an address to all the sons of Adam, de- monstrating the importance of keeping an exact genealogy. The plan of which address is devel- oped in the following articles. gate their species. Every man will see the folly and I.—The seven subsequent years must beemployed criminality of remaining single, and the horrid im- in exploring the generations that are past; and as I ' piety of exposing his life in war before he has tied should be obliged to go to Wales and Germany, , himself to some future generations. He will view most of us to Europe and perhaps some to Asia, if it as risking the extermination of an endless chain not to Africa, I believe there had better be an ar- l of beings equally important with himself. And that perishes in the sands of Africa, and never reaches the ocean. The plan contemplated, there- fore, will excite in men a universal desire to propa- mistice; for this business cannot be accomplished ‘ without an universal peace. II.—The scheme of Leibnitz of an universal lan- guage, might also in that time or a little more, be matured. For inorder to know the fair Asiatics and Africans, we must certainly have a common lan- silage- III.—When the scheme is effected, men will see more and more the importance of improving their race. infinitely greater glory and utility than that of War. Nations will cross their breed as much as possible; and a wife from India or the South Sea, will be prized more than a ship-load of silks. IV.—Every man who dies without an issue is the Upon this discovery a Science will arise of when he has become a parent, he will view it still i more impious to hazard his life in any way, now ; become necessary for the preservation and care of ' his children. V.—Thus the art of killing, which has been the main i business of nations, will be superceded by that of com- municating, preserving and improving life. And in v future generations the names of heroes and con- , querors will be eternized only by their infamy, as ' crimes are recorded in law Books, preceded by pro- hibition and followed by penalty. The ages of war will be regarded as the period of universal destruc- tion, or rather as the period in which the human race had not yet acquired the use of reason. Then. I Philosophers and Philanthropists will be celebrated, and of a line. He is like a thread cut from a wea- and a man will only be considered as great as he is ver’s web, and never joined again, or like a river 1 known to be good. December, 1840. A SOLDIER’S THE LAD FOR ME. BY A. THERE ’s a charm in the fame Of a soldier’s name, With his colors so gay, and his spirits so light; At his bold command, No lass in the land, Can withhold from his prowess her smile so bright,— With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier ’s the lad for me. At fete or at ball He is courted by all; ' His step is the lightest that trips in the dance, With his sword on his thigh, And a smile in his eye, Each belle doth acknowledge his bow and his glance, With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—~a soldier ’s the lad for me. Philadelphia, December 20, 1840. ti’ruxtn. When there’s mischief to pay, He is first in the fray, Nor blanchcs when death-shots are falling around, With a tear for the foe I In the battle laid low, He sheds not till victory his valor hath crown’d; With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier ’s the lad for me. In his wild bivonac, With his cup and his sack, His sweetheart remember’d with heart, and with soul; To beauty a fill, ,_ And a cheer with a will, .~ While each comrade to friendship is passing the bowl. 3- With his nodding plume, and his manners so free, A soldier—a soldier ’s the lad for me. 3 THE BLIND GIRL. BY MRS. “CAN nothing induce you to give up the idea of going to the ball to-night, my dear Maria,” said the anxious Mr. Worthington, “ our dear little one seems quite unwell, and surely the loss, orv rather the exchange of one pleasure for another, can not be so distressing, particularly when the one is of so evanescent a nature as a rout." “What good could I possibly do the infant '2” was the reply to this kind expostulation of her doting husband; “you know Sarah is quite accus- tomed to her, and really I think it ridiculous that you should wish me to stay home; but lately you seem to rack your brains to contrive what means you can devise to thwart my wishes: if I ask for anything that will cost the slightest extra expense, the reply is: 'we can ’t afford it.’ Pray how do other people afford to live in more style than we do, with less income than ours 'I" “ Unfortunately, they cannot afford it,” said Mr. Worthington; “ and we see the consequences daily. Many of the enormous failures that have lately occurred, might have been prevented, but for the spirit of rivalry that fashion has instilled into the families of many of our merchants and citizens.” “ So,” said Mrs. Worthington, “ because people fail, I am to be deprived of everything I wish for, and kept at home to see whether the child is going to be sick. I am sure I have taken every precau- tion to prevent its crying after me, for I have carefully covered its eyes every time I have nursedi it since its birth. Nay, I do not let it come into the room where I am without something thrown over its face, that it may not know me; so that if I was to remain home to watch it, it would 'neither be better nor wiser; nay, it might frighten her to see a strange face." Mr. Worthington paused for some time, con- founded by his wife’s unnatural exultation, and want of affection for her infant, at last he exclaim- ed, with considerable sharpness,—-“ Have you a heart ?" it I once did, and do still, possess such an article, notwithstanding I_ presume you consider yourself the proprietor.” “ It must be small indeed," said Mr. Worthing- ton with a sigh. “ Large enough for it to admit the whole circle of my friends,” added the lady. “ I fear it will soon be untenanted,then," uttered Mr. Worthington as'he left the room, finding it was impossible to dissuade her from her purpose, C~ DUB-LNG. and discovering, too late, the misery of being united to one whose education had unfitted her for a wife. Maria Wilson was an only child. At an early age she was left to the direction of a mother, whose partiality for her daughter blinded her to all her errors. The best affections of her heart had been neglected, their place had been allowed to be usurped by pride, arrogance, and self-sufficiency. Their means were circumscribed and insufficient to enable her to shine in the gay world, although her beauty was well calculated to attract the admira- tion of those who moved in it, and her sole ambi- tion seemed to be to gain pro-eminence there, so that when Mr. Worthington, young, handsome, and rich, offered his hand, it was not rejected 2—he viewed her faults with the fondness of a lover, and deceived himself into the belief that, once'his, he could mould her disposition to whatever he wished it to be; but, after marriage, she launched ‘into the' vortex of fashionable life with enthusiasm, regard- 7 less of consequences; she was courted and carressed; in vain he entreated, in vain he expostulated; the wish of her heart was gratified; the goblet of hap- piness, as she thought, was at her lips, and she was determined to quafi' it to the drcgs; misfortune had not yet taught him to despair, and hope still upheld him; he looked forward to the time when she would become a mother, when the bonds of nature would form a fresh tie with those of affec- tion. But, alas! he was doomed to be disappointed; the little stranger was viewed as an intruder, whose smile was not allowed to meet the mother’s eyes; she mourned that the fashion was past for children to be put out to nurse, and never suffered it to be brought to her without its face being covered, that it would not fret for her absence. Every request from her husband to avoid unnecessary expenses, were recorded as evidences of his want of love, or as proofs of a contracted and narrow disposition. She went to the ball,-and, when she returned, her little infant, Adela, lay at the point of death. For the first time, a pang of regret and remorse stung her bosom; repentance caused her tears to flow, as she became a voluntary watcher of its sick bed. Oh! how anxiously did she endeavor to be. hold one look from those eyes she had so often concealed from here; she feared they were closed never to be opened again. She sat in silence and despair, endeavoring to catch the sound of that voice whose plaintive wail she had so often des_ THE pised, but for two days its heavy breathing alone reached her ear. r Providence ordained that it should recover. On the third day it opened its eyes, diose eyes which, for the first time, met those of its mother, and as she beheld it smile, a beam of newly-kindled aflec- I tion woke in her breast; she caressed her child, but it turned from her, and sought the face it had been accustomed to behold; she endeavored in vain to gain the affection of the slighted child; it clung to its nurse, Sarah, who loved her with a mother’s fondness. After many fruitless efforts to regain BLIND GIRL. the treasure she had lost in her infant’s smiles and - love, she abandoned the attempt, and with the child’s return to health, she returned to her old routine of levity and frivolity. Unthinking woman ! how little did she reflect what labor of mind, and sacrifice of personal comfort her husband daily endured. Of what utility was his splendidly furnished house to him? Surely he merited at least her gra- titude, when it was for her gratification that his hours were passed in his homely counting-house, where dreariness was banished by the excitement of business. The wooden chairs, the maps on the wall, the perpetual almanac, table of interest and foreign exchange, pasted in formal array, formed a strong contrast to the splendid rooms where the draperied windows admitted the softened light, which reflected on gilded minors, and carpets, where mingled the colors of the rainbow, to blaze in beauty; while the rich vases, filled with flowers, rivalling in beauty the choicest exotics in their hues, would tempt the locker on to believe it was a paradise. And such it would have been to him in his hours of relaxation, could he but have secured the affections of his Maria there; but fashion was the forbidden fruit, and vanity the serpent; they both proved irresistible; her beauty was the theme of universal admiration; it was that which first attracted him, when he sought her heart and hand. But the movements of the heart are imperceptible, its pulsations are uncontrollable, and it will some- times appear to vibrate on slight occasions. Alas! he too late discovered that with hers it was but the echo of ambition, pride, or vanity that had touched its chords; love had never been awakened in her bosom. As Adela advanced in years, the subject of her education engrossed much of her father’s thoughts; it was there he felt most severely his wife’s defi- ciency of duty. A mother’s watchful care is neces- sary for her daughter's welfare. No one but her can guard the mind, and guide it through that ideal world, which the'youthful imagination creates, and wherein it Wanders, bewildered by false hopes and illusive joys. There is 'no country whose system of female education is free from error. The elite of England and America select the fashionable boarding schools for their daughters to finish their studies in; where, unfortunately, the adornment of the person, and flippancy of manner, often supercede the adornment . of the mind. Can parents reflect that the conclu- sion of a female’s education requires their care the most, and that the dashing boldness of manners, too often learned at a fashionable, school, is but the 27 I mask which covers ignorance, and bravados out the want of merit? How much less estimable is the t character of such a female than the modest, timid, but firm being who has received and finished her 1 education under the watchful guidance of that mo- ther’s eye, whose anxious glance searches unto the soul of her charge, guarding it from evils that threaten and too often besiege the senses, till con- fusion and desolation leave the fair fabric a monu- ment of ruins for parental fondness to mourn over. In France the convent is selected, in a measure secluded from the influence of fashion: there the mind is more unfettered by folly, and becomes pre- pared to receive necessary instruction. Hence they are more capable of encountering the vicissitudes 0f life, and prepared for that intercourse which French women are allowed in society. Thus their minds become strengthened; no nation has produced so many celebrated women as France. An English husband condemned for treason will be allowed to linger in prison, unless the entreaties and petitions of his wife and friends have suflicient influence to procure his release; if they fail, she sinks beneath the weight of her misfortunes, and an early grave yields repose to the bruised spirit: not so with the French woman; it awakens all the energies of her soul; every effort is made; every stratagem is resorted to; the prison doors though barred, are still accessible to love, artifice, and in- genuity, these combined, generally contrive to elude the vigilance of the keepers; thus Madame Lava- lette, Roland, and several others, have given bright examples of what fortitude, education, and energy may achieve; thus the Bastile’s dungeons have been insufficient barriers to the influence of the French women. As time passed on, the aspect of Mr. Worthing- ton’s affairs seemed to become less prosperous; day after day losses occurred, until at last his bank. ruptcy served to convince his wife that his admoni- tions had not been needless; remorse again visited the unhappy woman; she felt that her huband‘s forbearance had been great; and determined that the neglect of her first born infant should be amply atoned for, by double attention to the second, whose birth was now at hand. After Mr. Worthington’s bankruptcy, it became necessary that he should leave his native place, and enter into business where it might prove more suc- cessful; he settled his wife in a small house till he should be enabled to send for her, and for a short time enjoyed more comfort than when splendor shone around them; they looked forward with liOpe and joy to the time when they would behold a child that would be mutually attached to each. The infant was born; a lovely girl, but alas ! its eyes Were denied to see the blessed light of heaven 1 It was blind! The wretched, self-convicted, soul-struck woman dared not complain ; conviction of her errors bowed her spirit to the earth; what would she not now have given to recall some years of her past life? But it was too late, and the only resource now left her, was to submit with resignation to her fate. After Mr. Worthington had departed for the Island of Martinque, his wife had to struggle for I. . 28 THE BLI the maintenance of her children till he should be enabled to establish himself in business; she pro- posed opening a seminary, and called on some of those friends whose presence had often enlivened her assemblies, and who had partaken of her hos- pitality. One had just sent her children to Mrs.—-, who was all the ton. Another thought it would be better style to have a governess in the house; and if she thought she could take the entire charge of the children, she would have no objection to give her the preference, if she could make the terms very low; others were “ not at home” when she called-— while some more candid than the rest—at once informed her, that any other occupation would be more suitable to her as her former dislike to chil- dren could not be so easily overcome; among them were those, who with sneers, regretted the change in her circumstances. Thus it is to live in the world without studying human nature. We will be sure to find nought but disappointments, if we trust to those we meet in the giddy throng of fashionable assemblies; they are like the fieecy vapors that float over the blue expanse, their brightness is only the reflection of the light by which they are surrounded, and their aspect is as changing. The human family taken in the mass collectively, are cold and senseless, the philanthropic sensations of the heart are extinct, and an apathetic illusion usurps the place of the genuine effusions of benevolence, with which the refined soul overflows when in its unsophisticated state ; it is in the domestic circles that friendship is found, given, and reciprocated, it is there that the best human feelings reign monarchs; but in the busy scenes of life, coldness, and contempt are the answers to an appeal for compassion and hu- manity. _ With a mind forlorn and desolate, Mrs. Worth- ington sought consolation from her children. The cherub smiles of one yielded it; but the early afl'ec- tions of the other had been blighted by its‘mother’s neglect, and it sheltered itself among strangers. It was no longer swayed by the same gentle passions, but fierce and uncontrolled, they became an ocean of contending emotions. Adela, at the age of sixteen, eloped with a young man, whose worthless character precluded any chance of felicity for the unhappy girl, and added to the tortures of the miserable parents: but the winning softness, and amiable disposition of the sightless Isabella, made ample amendment for all. her mother’s misfortunes. ' With calmness and cheerfulness she bore her calamity: ‘“ What,” said she, “though darkness is over those veiled orbs; my mind’s vision sees beyond this world, the men. tal light that flashes through the long vista of ex- istence, gleams with brilliance to direct my course. Why should I sigh to behold this world? Do I not enjoy the delightful fragrance of the earth’s flowers, and am I not nourished by its fruits? Do I not possess the affections of those I love, and has not the philanthropy of man instructed (us children whose existence is one still night of calm,) in reading, working, and employing ourselves use- fully, so that we feel not that the light of day is darkened from our view 7" ND GIRL. And truly might it be called useful, for by her efforts she had supported her mother during a long sickness. The physician, Dr. Morris, that attended Mrs. “’orthington, beheld the beauty of Isabella; respect and humanity first guided him to the assist- ance of a lovely, interesting creature, who deprived of one of the most essential faculties of our nature, exerted those she still possessed for the support of her mother. Her progress in music had been so rapid that before she had been two years under the instruction of one of the directors of the institution for the Relief of the Blind, she was even enabled to fill the situation of principal chorister in a church. That respect soon ripened into love, and she. only waited the return of Mr. Worthington to bestow her hand on one altogether worthy of the amiable girl. The many years that passed with Mr. Worthing- ton, wherein all his efforts proved unsuccessful, finally broke his spirits. Every prospect of raising his family to their former splendor proved unavail- ing; the separation from his wife had not been felt by him as severely as it would have been, had not her conduct, during the early period of their marriage, alienated his affections; thus those disappointments, which at the time he deplored, proved to be mercies, that in the end were as beneficient as the morning and evening dew which temporises the soil for the fruits it is hereafter to produce. The final blow was yet to come. He had deter- mined on returning to his native land, and settling in some humble manner of life—when a letter arrived, informing him that his daughter Adela was not expected to live. He immediately arranged his affairs, and departed for those shores which blighted hopes had driven him from in despair. The sun was about to set, as Dr. Morris sat by the bedside of the dying Mrs. Worthington. Isa- bella knelt by the side of her mother, and breathed a secret prayer, that the spirit of her parent might be permitted to-remain on this earth till the return of her father. Every knock at the door for the last three weeks, had awakened in her bosom a throb of expectation, hoping it might be him. An awful pause ensued, as her last wish and prayer ascended to heaven; it was interrupted by the heavy breathing of the sufferer; when a step was heard approaching the door, it opened, and her father stood there. A shriek from her mother acquainted her, whose eyes were denied the sight of him, that it was him to whom she owed her being, that had come. “ My prayer is heard,” said she, “ father let your daughter receive a second blessing, He who is in heaven, ‘ the Father of all,‘ has already blessed me, by your presence. Mother rejoice, our prayers are heard; and if it is His will that you should soon return to your heavenly home, you can bear with you the last embrace of him you so wished to see, to be assured you die with his blessing on your head." “ Bless you, my child! bless you, my wife! but there is one that craves your blessing, Maria, if you have yet the strength: it is indeed, needed." He waited not for a reply, but left the room, to which TO THE PINE ON THE MOUNTAINS. 29 in a few moments he returned, bearing in his arms ; her presence, but she knew not the full extent of the wasted and almost inanimate form of Adela; the lust effort of nature gave almost supernatural strength to the mother; she caught her child in her arms, they were folded in one long embrace: the spirits of both departed together. Heaven! in its horrors. It was the last trial Mr. Worthington had to endure. The union of Isabella with Dr. Morris banished every solicitude; and taught him that the goodness of God is shown most conspicuous, when mercy, veiled the sight of so much misery from I by granting those wishes that seem opposed to Isabella; she felt that a solemn scene had passed lILi Ifis, our folly, and His wisdom is manifested. December, 1840. _! 1’... TO THE Pl-NE_ON t 41¢- \Jw ~ THE MOUNTAIN. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. THOU giant Pine of patriarchal years, O’er the rock helm of the stern mountain bending, As watching you glad river, which appears Like a bright dream through bowers of beauty wend- ing. . Mocking thy bleak and solitary pride With warm and flowery scenes, and soft wings gleam- ing, Bright fountains laughing on the mountain’s side, ’Neath bow’rs of blossom'd vines, profusely stream- ing. And igh’st thou o’er those visions of delight, As my lone bosom o’er the glowing treasures Which live in fancy’s realm before my sight, Mocking my spirit with ideal pleasures? Or art thou holding converse with the wind, Waving majestic assent to some story Of mournful interest, how thy stately kind Have perish‘d from the places of their glory? Or are ye talking of the noble race Stately as thou, with the Wind's freedom roaming; Who o'er these mountains once pursued the chace, Or stem’d the river at its spring tide foaming l Oh knew I all the legends of the past ! With life and love, and death and sorrow teeming, On which thou hast lookeddown, since first the blast Play'd with thy plumes, in morning sunlight gleam- mg. Thou ’st seen the free born hunters of the wild, Chasing the fleet deer in his antler’d glory; Or with his chosen maid, rich nature's child, Breathing in whispers love’s ungarnish'd story. And thou hast seen him on the mountain path, Victor and vanquish’d, fleeing and pursuing, Conquer’d and writhing with vindictive wrath. Liberty, December, 1840. _, Or agonising o’er his nation’s ruin. While the fierce conqueror gaz’d with gloating eye On mangled forms, in mortal anguish lying; ‘ Or where the wigwam’s flame was wreathing high, Showing its inmates, wild with terror flying. Seemed he not king-like, with his plumy crown, _ And like a tiger, streak’d with hideous painting! With hand that sought no treasure but renown, And heart that knew no fear, and felt no fainting. Full many a time, perchance beneath thy shade, The youthful sachem stood with pride surveying His wide domains, and the soft valley‘s shade, Where through the bowers his dark-eyed love was straying. Yet sometimes still there comes a wasted form, With locks like thine, by many winters faded ; Well has he brav’d the battle, and the storm, The sachem whom thy youthful branches shaded. Ye are a noble pair, ye stand the last, Each of a noble race; and ye are staying Magnificent mementoes of the past, Glorious and wonderful in your decaying. And thou dost toss thy branches to the wind, And sigh sad dirges of thy perished glory; And he is brooding, with a saddened mind, Over a perish’d nation's wrongful story. A few more years, and the wild eagle’s wing Shall seek his long-lov‘d rest with mournful scream- ing; A few more years, and no dark form shall cling To this stern height of perish’d glory dreaming. And who will mourn when thou art lying low, And o’er thy shattered limbs green mosses creeping; What noble heart will melt with generous woe, When the last warrior of his race is sleeping? 3* THE REEFER OF BY THE AUTHOR. OF “CRUIZING ’76. in THE LAST wan." ' THE RESCUE. uGon bless you 1" said my old schoolmate, Harry St. Clair, to me, on a bright morning in April, 1776, as I shook his hand for the last time, and leaping into the stern-sheets of the boat, waved my hand in adieu, and bade the crew, with a husky voice, give way. I could scarcely trust myself to look again at the group of old classmates crowding the battery, for a thousand memories of the past came crowding on me as I gazed. The tears, despite myself, welled into my eyes. Determined that no one should witness my emotions, I turned my face away from the crew, affecting to be en- gaged in scanning the appearance of the brigantine destined to be my future home, the Fina-FLY. She was as beautiful a craft as ever sat the water. Her hull was long and low, of a mould then but lately introduced. There was no poop upon her quarter deck, nor was she disfigured by the unsightly forecastle then in use. Never had I seen a more exquisite run than that which her glossy hull developed; while her tall, rakish spars, tapering away into needles, and surrounded by their cobweb tracery of ropes, finished the picture. She was, indeed, all a sailor’s heart could desire. When I stepped upon her decks my admiration ‘increased to a tenfold degree. She had seemed from the water to be a craft of not more than a hundred tons burthen; but the illusion vanished on ascending her side, when you found yourself on board of a brigantine of not less than thrice that size. Her Well-scraped decks; her bright burnished binnacle; the boarding-pikes lashed to the main- boom; the muskets placed in stands shaft the main-mast; the nicety with which even the smallest rope vvas coiled down in its place ; the guns ranged along on either side under her bulwarks, and espe- cially the air of neatness, finish, and high discipline perceptible about her, convinced me that I was embarking on board a man-of-war of the highest professional character. In fact I knew Captain Stuart’s reputation to be that of a rigid disciplina- rian. “ Mr. Parker—glad to see you," said my supe- rior, as I touchedvthe deck and raised my hat, “you are punctual, but allow me,” said be, turning to an officer on his right hand, whom I knew to be his lieutenant, “to present you to Mr. Lennox— Mr. Lennox, Mr. Parker.” The usual salutations were exchanged; the boat was hoisted in; and I dove down into the mess- room to stow away my traps. It was full of officers. The second lieutenant, the purser, and my three fellow reefers greeted me heartily, as they rose from a long, narrow table, on which was a formidable display of salt junk and old Jamaica. “ Just in time, Parker," sang out my old crony, Westbrook, “ we ’re stiffening ourselves to keep up against the fog outside. Push the bottle, Jack—a cut of the junk for Parker—and as there ’s nothing like beginning right, here ’9 a jolly voyage to us.” The toast had just been drunk, amid a whirlwind of huzzas, when the shrill whistle of the boatswain shrieked through the ship, followed by the hoarse cry, “ all hands on deck, ahoy I” In an instant the gun-room was deserted, and we were at our several posts; while the gallant brigantine echoed with the tramp of the crew, the orders of the first lieutenant, and the monotonous creaking of the windlass, as the anchor was being hove up to the bows. By the time the anchor was catted the morning sun was just beginning to struggle over the heights of Long Island; and as the mists upon the water curled upward in fantastic wreaths beneath his rays, the head of our brigantine began slowly to incline from the breeze. In another instant, as her sails filled, the water could be heard rippling under the cutwater. Then as a sudden puff of wind pressed her down toward her bearings, and we shot rapidly ahead, the bubbles went whizzing along her sides, and eddying around her rudder, swept an ay astem in a long and glittering wake. I stood, after the bustle of making sail was over, gazing on the scenery around me, with feelings such as I had never experienced before. It was to be my first voyage in a man-of-war: I would soon, doubtless, imbrue my hands in the blood of my fellow men; and I myself might never return alive from my cruize. I could not help, therefore, being filled with strange and new emotions, as I leaned over the flatbed, gazing on the now {sag-receding town, and recurring, again and again, to the many happy days I had spent in my native city, and to the dear faces there which I might never see again. But gradually these feelings were lost in the admi- THE RE'EFER. OF ration enkindled in my bosom by the beauty of the surrounding scenery. It was indeed a glorious sight which opened around me. Right in the wake of the brigantine lay the city, still partly shrouded in the morning mists; while the back-ground was filled up by a range of uplands, through which a narrow opening disclosed where the Hudson rolled his arrowy course. To the right lay Governor‘s Island, the East River, with its shipping, and the verdant shores of Long Island; while on the left rose up the blufl" highlands of Staten Island, emerging, as it were, from a cloud of mist, and crowned with antique farm-houses, rich fields of verdant grass, and here and there a strip of woodland, as yet sparsely decked with its new-found leaves. Directly ahead were the Narrows, with the frowning heights on either hand; while a white, glittering line on the horizon without, and the long, undulating swell, heaving in through the streight, betokened our near approach to the ocean. A few sails flashed in the distance. All was still, beautiful, and serene. Oc- asionally, however, the measured sound of oars would give token of a passing fishing boat, or a snatch of a drinking song would float from some craft idly anchored in the stream. A few gulls screamed overhead. A flock of smaller water-fowl wheeled and settled on a strip of white, sandy beach just outside the Narrows. The surf broke with a hollow roar, in a long line of foam, along the neighboring coast; while out on the sea-board hung a dim haze, undulating slowly beneath the sun’s rays as he rose, blood-red, in the eastern horizon. “A fine breeze for our first day’s cruize," said Westbrook, “ and, faith, a deuce of a one it will be, if we should happen to be caught by one of King George’s frigates, and either be strung up for rebels at the yard arm, or stifled to death in one of his cursed prison hulks. What think you of the pros- pect, comrades, is n’t it pleasant ?" h Pleasant do ye call it ?" said Patrick O’Shaugh- nessy, a reefer of about my own age, who was a. dangerously late emigrant to the colony, “ shure, and it is myther at my father’s hearth I would be, in dear, ould Ireland, afther all, if we ’re to be thrated as rebels the day." “Your father’s hearth, Pat," said Wiastbrook, “and do you really mean to say that they have such things in Galway, or wherever else it was that you were suffered to eat potatoes in ignorance, until your guardians brought you out here on a speculation.” “ By St. Patrick, your head must be hard ;” said the irritated reefer, “ and it ’s well that my shillelah is n’t on the wrist—” “ Pshaw! now you ’re not angry, comrade mine,” said Westbrook, laughing good-humoredly, but re- penting already of his reckless speech, “ come, we ’ve got a long cruize before its, and we shall have enough of quarrels with those rascally British, without getting up any among ourselves,” and he frankly extet‘ded his hand. “Sbure, and it ’s a gentleman ye are, Misther Westbrook, and I ’d like to see the spalpeen that says ye amt,” said O’Shaughnessy, grasping the proffered hand, and shaking it heartily. ’76. 31 uYonder are the white caps of the Atlantic, rolling ahead," said I, as we stretched past Sandy Hook, and beheld the broad ocean opening in all its vastness and sublimity before us. We were now fairly afloat. At that time the enterprise in which we had embarked was one of the greatest danger, for not only were we liable to the usual dangers of nautical warfare, but we were, as yet, uncertain in what manner we should be treated in case of a capture. But we were all con- fident in the justness of our country’s cause, and being such, we were prepared for either fortune. Nearly a week elapsed without anything occur- ring to dissipate the monotony of our voyage, excepting a momentary alarm at the appearance .of _ _ a frigate, which we at first took to be an English one, but which subsequently turned out to be a Frenchman. Meanwhile, we were not without many a merry bout in the gun room, and over our salt junk and Jamaica, we enjoyed ourselves as hilariously as many an epicure would over his Bur- gandy and turtle-soup. The jest went round; the song was gain trolled; many a merry story was rehearsed, and anticipations of a successful cruize were mingled with determinations to bear the worst, if fortune should so will it. Under the broad flag of New York, we were resolved H to do or die,” against the prouder ensign of an unjust, and tyranni- cal king. ‘Ve had run down well nigh to the Windward islands, and were beating up against a ltead wind, when we spoke a French merchantman, who in» formed us that he had passed a rich Indiaman, but the day before, bound from London to Jamaica. After enquiring the course of the Englishman, our skipper hauled his wind, and bidding the friendly Gaul, “an lxm voyage,” we steered away in pursuit of our prize. Night settled down upon us before we caught sight of her; but still crowding on all sail we kept on in our way. It was about eight bells in the middle watch, and I was on the point of preparing to go below, after the relief should have been called, when I thought I heard a rattling of cordage down in the thick bank of fog to leeward. I listened attentively, and again heard the sound distinctly, but this time it was like the rollicking of oars. “ Hist! Benson," said I to the boatswain, who was standing near rrte at the moment, “hist! lay your ear close to the water here, and listen if you do not hear the sound of cars." The old fellow got into the main chains, and holding on with one hand to them, cautiously leaned over and listened for several minutes. “ I hear nothing, sir,” said he in a whisper, “ it ’s as still as death down in yonder fog-bank. But I ’ll keep a sharp look-out, for it may be there ’s a sail close on to us, without our knowing it, in this met.” The night had been intensely dark, but was now breaking away overhead, where a few stars could be seen twinkling on the patches of half-hid azure sky. All round the horizon,however, but especially to leeward, hung a dark, massy curtain of mist, shroudtng everything on the seaboard in impenetra- ble obscurity, and, like piled up fleeces, laying thick \‘ 32 and palpable upon the immediate surface of the ocean, but gradually becoming thinner and lighter as it ascended upwards, until it finally terminated in a thin, gauze-like haze, almost obscuring the stars on the mid heaven above. So dense was the mist in our immediate vicinity, that the man at the helm could not discern the end of the bowsprit; while the upper yards of the brigantine looked like sha- dowy lines in the gloom. Occasionally, the light breeze would undulate the fog, lifting it for a mo- ment from the water, and disclosing to our sight a few fathoms of the unrufi'led sea around us; but before a minute had passed the vapors would again settle in fantastic wreaths upon the face of the deep, wrapping us once more in the profoundest obscurity. Not a sound was heard except the occasional rub- bing of the boom, the sullen flap of a sail, or the low ripple of the swell under our cut-water, as we stole noiselesst along in the impenetrable gloom. The tread of one of the watch, or the sudden thrashing of a reef-point against the sail, broke on the ear with startling distinctness. Suddenly I heard a noise as of a stifled cry coming up out of the thick fog to leeward, from a spot apparently a few points more on our quarter than the last sound. The boatswain heard it also, and turning quickly to me, he said— “ There ’s something wrong there, Mr. Parker, or my name is n’t Jack Benson. And look—do n’t you see a ship’s royal through the fog there—just over that gun—that shadowy object, like a whifi' of tobacco-smoke, down here to the right, is what I mean.” “By heavens! you are right—and—see !-—yonder comes her tore-top-mast, rising above the undulating mist." “Ship ahoy!" hailed the second lieutenant, at that moment appearing on deck, and listening to my report, “ what craft is that 'I" The hoarse summons sailed down to leeward, like the wailing of some melancholy spirit, but no answer was returned. A couple of minutes elapsed. - “ Ship ah-o—o—y !" sung out the oflicer again, “answer, or I ’ll fire into you—this is the Fire-Fly, an armed vessel of the free state of New York.” “'We are a merchantman, belonging to Philadel- phia," answered a gruff voice in reply. “ Send your boat on board.” “ We can ‘t," answered the same voice, “ for one of them was washed overboard, three days ago, in a gale, and the other one was swamped." At this instant, one of those sudden pufi's of wind, to which I have already alluded, momentarily swept away the fog from around the approaching ship, and we beheld, to our astonishment, that her sails had been hacked, and that she was slowly falling astern of us, as if with the intention of slipping across our wake, and going off to wind- ward. “ Fill away again, there,” thundered the lieuten- ant, perceiving their mantsuvre, “ or I 'll fire on you—fill away, I say." “By the holy aposthles," said O’Shaughney at this moment, “ is n't there a schooner’s mast, on THE REEFER OF I ,P/ 6 . the lee-quarter of the fellow—yes—there it is— see ?" Every eye was instantly turned in the direction to which he had pointed. A single glance estab- lished the keenness of his vision. Right under the weather quarter of the merchantman, might be seen the mast of apparently a small schooner. The sails were down, and only the bare stick could be discerned; but the whole truth flashed upon us as if with the rapidity of lightning. “ The ship is in the hands of pirates," I exclaimed involuntarily, “ God help the poor wretches who compose her crew.” “Boarders ahoy!" sung out the voice of the captain, breaking, like a trumpet-call, upon the mo- mentary silence of the horror-struck crew, umuster on the forecastle, all—up with the helm, quarter- master—ready to grapple there—heave,” and the huge irons, as we bore down upon the ship, went crashing among her hamper. The instant that discovered the true nature of our position, worked a change in the whole appear- ance of the merchantman. Her deserted decks swarmed with men; her silence gave place to shouts, oaths, and the clashing of arms ; and after a momentary. confusion, we saw, in the obscurity, a dark group of ruffians clustered on the forecastle, awaiting our attack. “ Boarders ahoy 1" again shouted Captain Stuart, brandishing his sword on high, “follow me," and springing into the fore-rigging of the merchantman, he levelled a pistol at the first pirate attempting to oppose him, and followed by a score, and more, of hardy tars, rushed, the next instant, down upon her decks. “Stand to your posts, my men," thundered the pirate captain, as he stood by the main-mast, sur- rounded by his swarthy followers, " stand to your posts, and remember, you fight for your lives—come on," and drawing a pistol from his belt, he levelled it at the first lieutenant, who, pressing on, aside of Captain Stuart, received the ball in his side, and fell, apparently, lifeless on the deck. “ Revenge! Revenge l” thundered the Captain, turning to cheer on his men, “ sweep the miscreants from the deck, on—on,” and waving his sword aloft, he dashed into the fray. The men answered by a cheer, and bore down upon the pirates with an impetuosity, doubly more vehement from their de- sire to avenge the fallen lieutenant. For full five minutes the contest was terrific. Desperation lent additional vigor to the freebooters’ muscles, while our own men were inflamed to mad- ness by the fall of Lennox. I had never been in a conflict of any kind whatever before, and for the first few moments—I will not hesitate to own it— a strange whirling sensation, akin to fear, swept through my brain. But a half a minute had not passed before it had vanished; and I felt a wild tumultuous excitement which seemed to endow me with the strength of a Hercules. I lost all sight of the turmoil around me. I could only see that it had become a general melee, in which personal prowess was of more importance than discipline. I heard a wild mingling of oaths, shouts, cries for mercy, the clashing of arms, the explosion of pistols, THE REEFER OF the shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce tramping of men struggling together in the last stage of mortal combat. But I had no time for more de- tailed observations. A giant rufiian singling me out from the crowd, rushed upon me with uplifted cutlass, and the next instant I would have been clove in twain, had I not caught the blow upon my blade. But so tremendous was its force that it splintered my trusty steel to fragments, and sent a shock through every nerve of my system. I stag- gered. But not a moment was to be lost. Already the gigantic arm of the pirate was raised on high. Happily my pistols were both as yet untouched. Springing back a step or two I jerked one from my belt, levelled it at his brain, and fired. He whirled around as if intoxicated, staggered, would have caught at the mast for support, and fell over dead upon the deck. But I had no leisure to regard my fallen foe. The contest still raged around me fiercer than ever. On our side of the ship, however, the pirates had broken, and were retreating slowly and doggedly toward the stern. We pressed on hotly in pursuit, while shouts, curses, and huzzas, the groans of the dying, and the fierce rattling of cutlasses, formed a tumult around us of stirring excitement; but just as I rushed past the gangway, followed by a few of the bravest of our crew, 11 wild, long, thrilling scream from the cabin below, rose up over all the uproar of the conflict. It could come from no one but a woman—that prolonged cry of mortal agony! In an instant the retreating pirates were forgotten; I thought only of the danger of the sufferer below. Dashing aside, with the power of a giant, a brawny rufiian who would have impeded my progress, I sprang, at one leap, half way down the gangway, and with another stride found myself in the cabin of the ship. Never shall I forget the scene that there met my eyes. The apartment in which I stood was elegantly, even luxuriously furnished, presenting the appear- ance rather of a sumptuous drawing room, than of a merchantman’s cabin. The state-rooms were of mahogany, elegantly inlaid with ebony. A service of silver and rich cut glass was ranged in the beau- fut around the mast. Silken Ottomans stretched along the sides of the room; a silver lamp of en- quisite workmanship, depended from the ceiling; and a carpet of gorgeous pattern, and of the finest quality, covered the floor. But not a solitary indi- vidual was to be seen. A lady’s guitar, however, lay carelessly on one of the ottomans, and a few books were scattered around it in easy negligence. Could I be deceived with this corroborative testi- mony? Yet where was the owner of these little trifles ? These reflections did not,however, occupy an instant; for I had scarcely finished a rapid survey of the cabin before another, and another shriek, ringing out just before me, roused every emotion of my heart to an uncontrollable fury. Catching sight of an undulating curtain at the farther end of the apartment, which I had imagined was only the drapery of the windows, I darted forward, and lifting up the damask, started back in horror at the sight that met my eyes. ’76. 33 This after cabin was smaller, and even more luxuriously fitted up than the other. But I did not remark this, at the time, for such a scene as I then witnessed, God grant I may never be called to look upon again. As I pushed aside the curtain, three swarthy, olive-complexioned rufiians, dressed with more ela- boration than any of their comrades I had yet- seen, turned hastily around as if interrupted in some infamous deed, scowling upon me with the looks of demons. It needed but a glance to detect their fiendish work. A well-dressed elderly man was extended at their feet, weltering in his blood. On an ottoman before them half lying, half sitting, was one of the fairest beings I had ever seen, her night dress disordered, her frame trembling, and her hair, wild and dishevelled, hanging in loose tresses from her shoulders. Her hands were covered in one or two places with blood; her eyes were wild; her face was flushed ; and she panted as one does whose strength has been nearly overtasked in a desperate struggle. Never shall I forget the trout- terable agony depicted on that countenance when I first entered; never shall I forget the lightning-like change which came over it as her eye fell upon me. Rushing frantically forward, while joy beamed in every feature of her face, she flung herself into my arms, shrieking hysterically, “ Oh! save me—save mc—for the love of your mother, save me.” My sudden appearance had startled the three ruflians, and for a moment they stood idle, suffering her to dart between them; but at the sound of her voice, they rushed as one man upon me. The odds were fearful, but I felt, at that instant, as if I could have dared heaven and earth in behalf of that suf- fering maiden. Clasping my arm around her waist, and retreating hastily into the other cabin,I shouted aloud for aid, parrying, with a cutlass I picked up at random, the attack of the miscreants. But the attempt was desperation itself. Already I had re- ceived two cuts across my arm,and I could scarcely 1 ' hold my weapon in it, when the foremost rufiiant leaving my death, as he thought, to his comrades, laid his unholy hand once more upon the maiden. Good God! I thought my heart would have burst at this new insult. My determination was quicker than the electric spark of heaven. Hastin releas- ing the lovely burden from my hold, I seized my remaining pistol with the disengaged hand, and before the villain could perceive my purpose planted it against his face and fired. The brains sputtered the ceiling, and even fcll upon my own face and arm. But the miscreant was death. Oh, the joy, the rapture of that moment! I heard, too, as the report subsided, the death-groan of another of the ruffians falling beneath the avenging cutlass of our men, who now, victorious on deck, catne pouring down the hatchway. In another instant, as a shout of victory rang through the cabin, I had raised the almost senseless girl from the floor. She looked eagerly into my face, gazed wildly around, uttered a cry of joy, and convulsiver clinging to me, as if for shelter, buried her head upon my bosom, and burst into a passion of hyste- ric tears. 34 THE REEFER 0F ’76. The emotions of that moment were such- as I | went—for such was the name of her I rescued— had never deemed mortal being capable of expe- was at the burial of her uncle on the evening riencing. Feelings I cannot even now describe succeeding the re-capture of the ship. She appeared, whirled through me, until my brain seemed almost 1 leaning on the arm of her maid, and as her eye,‘ to spin around in a delirium of joy. Yet there i just lifted for one moment from the deck, happened was a holiness in my emotions, far, far different; from the common sensations of pleasure. I felt—I knew not how—a sudden interest in the fair being, sobbing convulsively upon my shoulder, which made I her already seeln dearer to me than life itself. I pressed her involuntarily to me; but a motherl could not have done so with more purity to ai new-bom infant. Her sobs melted me so that Ii, could scarcely keep my own eyes dry. l “ God bless you, my poor, sweet girl," I said in a husky voice, “ you are among friends now." The tone, the words went to her very heart; she clasped me convulsively again, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Poor dove! she had just escaped from the hands of the spoiler, and fluttered, as yet, involuntarily on her rescuer’s bosom. “ God—in—hea—ven—bless you," she mur- mured, betwixt her sobs, after a while, raising her tearful countenance from my shoulder, and looking upon me with eyes, whose depth, and whose grati- tude I had never seen equalled—“God—bless— you, sir, for this act. Oh! if a life of prayers for your welfare can repay you," she continued, with uplifted hands, and a countenance, which, in despite of its earnestness, was crimsoned with blushes, “it shall be freely given by me. But my uncle! my poor uncle! alas! they have murdered him," and she covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out the fearful sight. “ Say nothing, my dear girl," said I, the tears standing in my own eyes, “ all are friends around you now. The ship has been rescued—the pirates are no more. Compose yourself—none here will harm you—your slightest wish shall be attended to, and you shall be served with the purity with which we serve a saint. Do not thus give way to grief-— let me insist on your retiring—here is your maid," said I, as the trembling creature emerged from a state-room, in which she had locked herself when her mistress was in danger, a little rest will com- pose you." “ Oh! my uncle, my more than parent—heaven bless you," sobbed the beautiful, but still agitated girl, as she suflercd herself to be led away by her little less agitated maid. The prize turned out to be the British West- Indiaman, which had been surprised by pirates about a quarter of an hour before we hailed her. The beautiful being and her uncle were the only passengers. It is needless to say that very few of the ruflians survived the conflict, and that those who did were tried summarily by a court-martial the next day, and hung at the ship’s yard-arm. Their little schooner, or rather oyster-boat, was scuttled and sunk. The wounds in my arm proved serious, though not dangerous, but they did not disable me from continuing on duty. I would willingly have lost the limb in such a holy cause. The first appearance on deck of Beatrice Den 1 to catch mine, her face became sufliised with crim- son, and such a look of gratitude toward the living, combined with grief for the dead, flashed over her countenance as I never saw equalled. But in an- other moment her eyes dropped once more on the corpse, and I saw, by the convulsive heaving of her bosom, how fearful was her grief. When the corpse was launched into the deep, her sorrow broke all the restraint of custom, and she sobbed aloud. Directly, however, they subsided partially; and as she turned to re-enter the cabin, the last rays of the setting sun, gilding the mast-head with a crown of glory, and glittering along the surface of the deep, lingered a moment on her sunny hair, like the smile of the departed spirit. The prize meantime, proving to be richly laden, was allotted to me to conduct into port, as the first lieutenant’s wound prevented him from assuming the command, and the second lieutenant chose rather to remain with the brigantine. Beatrice Dcrwent was, as a matter of course, to continue on board the merchantman. Thus did destiny again link my fate with this lovely creature, and by one of those simple accidents which so often occur, open for me a train of events, whose transaction it is my purpose to detail in the following crude auto- biography. The sensations with which I watched the reced- ing brigantine, after assuming my new command, and hauling up on our course, may well be imagined. Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed since I first launched on the deep, a nameless, unknown, irresponsible midshipman; and now, by one of fortune’s wildest freaks, I was commanding a prize of untold value, and become the protector of the loveliest of her sex. “There ’s a divinity that shapes our fortunes, Rough hew them as we will." It was not till the third day after parting com- pany with the brigantine, that Miss Derwent, with her maid, appeared once more upon the deck. The shock of her uncle’s death had brought on an ill- neBS, which confined her during that time to the cabin; and even now, there was a languor in her fine countenance, and a melancholy in her dark eye, which, though they added to the interest of her appearance, betokened the acuteness of her grief. She was attired in a dark silken dress; her hair was plainly braided back, and she Wore no orna- ments of any kind whatever. Rarely had I beheld a vision of such surpassing lovliness. I stepped forward to assist her to a seat. She smiled faintly, her eyes sparkled a moment, and then a. deep blush shot across her saddened features. But I will not detail the scene that ensued. Suffice it to say that, from that moment I loved Beatrice; and that though she had not bid me hope, there was nothing in her conduct to bid me despair. SABBATH BELLS._IMPROMPTU. sv WILLIS G. CLARK. SWEET Sabbath! to my ear, Sweet bells! They have a voice, Thy bells, with mingling tone, Lost to the usual air, Tell oi the distant and the dear Which bids the sorrowing heart rejoice, In you far blue unknown. Though life no more be fair. Of happier days they tell, Though dust to dust has gone, When o’er the vernal ground, They speak of brighter hours, Fairer than Ocean’s richest shell, then Memory, as from a throne, Young Nature breathed around: ‘ Surveyed her paths of flowers. When Hope, as at a shrine, l Of sunny spots, where Love To Fancy poured her lay, Unfurled his purple wings, And hues, inspiring and divine, And filled the spirit and the grove Painted the live-long day. With glorious offerings! M‘efifli" A SEA SCENE. BY ROBERT KORRXS. Tm: world is hushed and still, save where the sea Against the rock-bound shore, in monster glee Rushes and roars, and far along the coast, In solemn thunders o’er the loved and lost A constant requiem pours. Above—beyond— No glimmering light is seen! No cheerful sound Steals from the distance. Not a lonely star Gleams from the dim, mysterious depths afar, To win the eye, and, like a spirit chart, To chase the sadness from the sea-boy’s heart. His craft is small and frail—the waves are high-— And fresh and chill the wild breeze whistles by! On, madly, blindly, rushes his slight sail, An arrow winged before the maddened gale. His heart is stout and firm; his messmates true, Will, at his call, their hopeless toil renew! But hark! that peal! Old ocean reels and rings, While wilder still, the poor craft bends and springs; And see yon flash—like lava from the sky Poured rashly out by some dread hand on High, And dealing death to those unfit to die! Again—again! And mingling with the sea The frail thing sinks and mounts. Eternity Now yawns at every plunge, and each strong wave Seems hurrying on to some cold ocean grave! Now lost to view—now soaring with the swell— Ah! who the thoughts of that pale crew may tell! How radiant, Home, must seem thy beauties now! How far thy low roof from that vessel’s prow! How angel-like fond features, sunny eyes, Rise o’er the Waves in memory's paradise! Sweet gentle words are heard amid the storm, And hands are clasped, whose blood flows fast and warm. The future breaks upon the mental sight, And Hope’s eternal watch-fire gives it light! The soul again is nerved—the storm rolls on— Morn breaks, and with it comes the welcome sun, And though, as yet, no land salutes the eye, Some tropic bird comes wheeling gaily by; The air seems sweeter, and the ocean’s foam Looks fresher, brighter, and reminds of home! Oh! who may paint the rapture of that hour— The peril past, the breeze, with fresh’ning power, Filling the out-spread canvass! Who may tell The wild emotions that each bosom swell, As the glad morrow dawns upon the soul; And feeling’s fountain bursts beyond control— As welcome voice greet, or lip to lip, In speechless joy, the heart’s companionship— Is mutely told—or, as in some fair face A gentler, deeper, thought of love we trace, And mark with joy the chosen one’s embrace! THE SYRIAN LETTERS. \VlllTTEIN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS 0F CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDISG AT ATHENS, AND BUT N0\V TRANSLATED. LETTER 1. Damascus. Smwruus TO Conunrus—Gnta'rnvc: How cheering it is, my dear Cornelius, after a long and perilous voyage, and the fearful pitchings of a frail vessel, to feel your accustomed security of footstep, and trace in the wide plains and lofty mountains the varying forms of nature’s loveliness, doubly enchanting after a temporary separation. Such were my emotions after landing on the shore of Berytus, heightened by the delightful and unex- pected surprise of meeting an old friend in a strange land. Sulpicius behaved toward us in the most elegant and hospitable manner, and so swiftly did the in- terval between arrival and departure fly, that the scene of parting salutation was in sad contrast with the joy of our first greeting. But as I have revived these recollections, let me give a hasty sketch of what passed on the second evening of our landing. Having gathered around the tables to the evening repast, cheerfulness reigned triumphant. Tossed for days upon the whirling waters, we were now in conscious security gaily, assembled in the harmo- nious circle, with not a care to distract, and every reasonable pleasure to elevate. The music ceasing, Lactantius observed he was sure he had heard that strain before, he thought, when off the coast of Cyprus. “ Yes,” I replied, with a smile, “Lactantius you are right, I also heard it." “ Ah 1" said he, “ I believed every eye had been closed in sleep. It was my custom at the dead hour of night, that time so fruitful of meditation and of- better thoughts—When silence reigns and unarmed repose throws her soft mantle over every living thing; and the air robbed of its noon day heat grows cool and balmy, to order before me the events of the day, and mark wherein I had done amiss. Pardon me, Lactantius, this was not all, have I not heard you, on more than one occasion, breathe passages not of poetry only, but of bright description and solid thought? Come, I call upon you, in the name of those around, should you ap- prove, to narrate the story of our voyage." “Yes! a good'thought,” they cried. “And interweave,” says Marcus, “ as much poetry in the narration as you are wont.” “ Stay," cries Sulpicius, “ if you mean by poetry, play of fancy, at the expense of geography, I should heartily prefer the unpainted narrative, for how is it that travellers love the wonderful so much, and delight to make the stbrms more dangerous, the mountains higher, and the valleys greener than nature ever made them '1" “Such Sulpicius, is not my meaning,” rejoined Marcus, “ but only that one so competent to color nature as she should be colored, should perform the task, and who, if he but wave the gay wand of fancy, may bring before you every hill in its green- ness, and temple in its sculptured whiteness, so that you might almost believe you saw them on the painter’s easel, or starting up in beautiful reality at your feet." “ Stop Marcus, the subject of this undeserved eulogy is present, and if you say another word I shall hesitate whether to begin, since our friends may form expectations which cannot be realised." With this he described the whole course of our voyage, fi'om our embarcation at Constantinople to our landing at Berytus, its perils and its plea- sures: the countries we saw, the cities we visited, in that full and flowing style for which he is so celebrated. At one moment he would bring so faithfully to our eye, the terrors of that night on which we were so near engulphed, that the shudder of fancied danger shot through our veins, and the billows almost seemed to toss us, so vividly can a master’s hand summon up an image of those hor- rors one has but lately passed through. Indeed at one part of the recital, Fortunatus who was present, uttered a smothered cry to the sailors, as if he was again acting the part of a commander upon his ship. At this strange ejaculation, notwithstanding the ex- citing story, we could not repress our laughter; Lactantius himself joining in the general merriment. When he began to describe the difl'erent cities we had entered, he used considerable action, and so clearly did he bring the representation to our view that in pointing, as if to the real object, we instinC- tively followed with our eyes the motion of his fingers, as it were, in expectation that the rising walls of some palace, or the rich scenery of some THE wooded valley, would meet our gaze. Such is that silent homage which we unknowingly pay to elo- quent genius. When he had finished, some expression of plea- sure or admiration burst. from every tongue, and Sulpicius ordered as to fill our glasses to Lactantius, accompanying this token of friendship with other marks of high wrought satisfaction, such as he dis- plays only on those occasions, when his feelings are strongly enlisted in the object of them. “Lactantius,” he remarked, “having always at my elbow a ready scribe, who, committing to parchment with the most wonderful facility all that falls from the lips of those distinguished men from Rome, Constantinople, or other great cities, who in their travels may chance to honor me with a visit, I have been enabled to accumulatca rich collection, over which, whether as memorials of genius or of friendship, I linger, whenever I peruse them, with fresh delight. This day‘s conversation, as it fell from your lips, is already deposited on the precious pile." Here I perceived an uneasy play upon the fea- tures of my friend; as I quickly traced the cause, for it was none other than his retiring diflidence, I felt anxious to change the topic of our conversation. The announcement of a stranger’s name, repeated, however, in so low a tone that I did not hear it, diverted the attention of the company. Entering, he walked toward the couch of Sulpicius, and we were all struck, at the first glance, with his c0m_ manding air and dignified deportment. An ample forehead, dark and piercing eye, and venerable beard, that sported with by a passing wind, care- lessly floated about the graceful folds of his tunic, elicited instantaneous respect. “I come,” he said, addressing himself to Sulpi- cius, “ to seek the great Lactantius, and understand- ing he was present, took the liberty of entering without ceremony.” Sulpicius with this, rose, kindly welcomed and invited him to join us at the tables, but politely refusing, he continued,—“I come to consult him upon a subject which I hold to be en- titled to the friendly countenance of every lover of generosity and toleration, be he of whatever faith.” With this Lactantius arose and joined him, and as he clasped his hand, there seemed so much Christian sincerity in his manner, that a tear spark- led in the eye of the stranger, but it passsed away, and his settled demeanor was resumed. When they had left, a hundred conjectures sprang up, as to what might be the object of this interview. But Sulpicius informed us he was an eminent citizen of Beryt'us, that he had held a responsible office under one of the last Emperors, embracing, however, the creed of that new sect called Christians, he fell into disgrace, and stood in jeopardy of his life, but was saved through the earnest intercession of an influential friend residing at Baalbec, and a solemn promise to retire into distant and perpetual banishment. Upon the death of the Emperor he returned from exile, and would have been re-instated in all his former digni- ties, but tiring of the turmoil of public life he prefer- red the quiet of retirement, and the peaceful enjoy- ment of domestic bliss. But you have not given us, observed Valerius, your conjecture of the object of SYRIAN LETTERS. .37 his visit, nor the name of that worthy citizen whose intervention was so happy in its results. The object of the interview is doubtless to arouse the feelings, or invoke the powerful aid of Lactantius inthe establish- ment of a Christian Colony, or perhaps in the build- ing of some Christian temple, since Constantine has proved so munificent in the erection of the most gorgeous edifices to the Christian’s God. The name of the citizen whose good offices were so fortunate, was ZEmelianus of Heliopolis. When this name was mentioned, I noticed that the countenance of Lucre tia became pale, and her lip was compressed, as if in the suppression of some hidden emotion, but its cause I was not able to divine. The sun upon the following day shining through the windows' tapestry, awoke me by his reddening beams, and warned me to rise and behold the gran- deur at my feet. Throwing the lattice open, I be- held a panorama unequalled in sublimity and beauty by any thing I had ever seen. Berytus stretched away below me, sparkling with shining domes, glis- tening house tops, and here and there arose some marble monumental pillar, or an obelisk, commem- orative of some signal event, which, peeping from their encircling grove, appeared to rest upon its sum- mit like flakes of freshly fallen snow. Beyond the city lay the ocean, with many a sail, but dimly visible upon its heaving bosom; behind me rose, towering and precipitous, eternal Lebanon, bathed in a flood of various lights, like a vestment died with many colors, and the pines which crown its heights, spread- ing their fringy leaves against the clouds, borrowed all their hues. With nature clothed in gladness, and the scented freshness of the morning air, filled with the warbling of birds, you may entertain surprise when I tell you, that my feelings were those of sadness, for I reflected that this great city must, in its turn, as other cities have, either sink into insignificance, or become much diminished in splendor, and its thousands of busy people, with the unerring certainty of the rising sun, be gathered generation after generation, to their fa. thers, while the hoary mountain at whose base it lay, would through all time raise its head in haughty glory. How vain to boast of immortality, how vain to live solely for ambition’s sake, when the fame of the hero rests upon the mercy of a parchment, or the treacherous reliance of tradition. A convulsion of the earth may overthrow a temple, the pride of centuries, the boast of a nation—a spark consume a city, and time’s wasting finger in the interval of but a few years, destroy the golden record of genius, however perpetuated, so that the celebrity of the ora- tor, and the works of the poet, shall have but a flickering existence, and finally shall perish from the recollection of their countrymen. The morning of our departure being new at hand, we began our journey from Berytus, through Baal- bec to Damascus, and as it lay through a rocky re- gion, we knew it would be rough and wearisome, but when we remembered the grandeur of nature, the mountains, valleys, forests, temples, palaces, we should behold, we trusted we would be able to drive away fatigue. Among those who performed the journey with as, were Lactantius, Marcus, and Valerius ; also Corne— 4 38 THE ha, and Placidia, the daughter of Lucius Sergius, and their kinswomau Lucretia. Lucius having purchased a. chariot, the ladies ac- companied him by another route, the rest of us hav- ing bought chargers at the market place of Berytus, well accustomed to the rocky patltway, determined to travel by the via Antoniana, cut at some spots into the solid rock, through the liberality of Antoninus, who has left in this country endless works of art, which I hope may remain imperishable monuments to his genius, generosity, and enterprise. The jour- ney from Berytus to Baalbec by this route is of more than a day—arduous and perilous—but as I said, the traveller finds an ample return for all his toil, in the awful sublimity of countless rocky peaks, which cap these hoary mountains with an imperishable crown. Rising into the clouds, they seem to bear the decay vapors upon their broad summits, while their terrible height obscures the morning sun, and for the while hides their base in impenetrable darkness, and even throws a gloom upon the trdubled bosom of the ocean, which occasionally lashes their everlasting founda- tions in its fury. Ocean always in motion, moun- tains ever at rest, both as thou wert a thousand years ago—unchangeable! what a fruitful comment upon the perishable creations of man’s feeble arm. Crossing the river Lycus, which having its birth among the purest fountains, and finding its channel in the hollow of a deep cleft of the mountains, shoots beneath your feet with impetuous dashings, we after a space arrived at the banks of the purple Adonis. You may remember it was near this river, that he, from whom it derives its name, came to his end. Many temples have been dedicated in these wild re- gions to the memory of Adonis, and to her who the poets tell us mourned so bitterly for his loss. Hav- ing passed over Lebanon, we fell upon luxuriant gardens ; endless groves of olive trees ; purpled vineyards ; hill sides clad with trees laden with ripe fruit, that shining from their dark surrounding foli- age, were bright with every tint of heaven, frotn the richest golden to the deeply blushing red. Such was this enchanting prospect, heightening in its beauty at each succeeding step, and when at last we came in full view of the great Baalbec, or as some call Heliopolis of Phenicia or of Assyria, built upon the level of a broad and verdant plain, and starting from among deep embosoming thickets, our admira- tion was irrepressible. High and conspicuous above the city walls rose that greatest temple of the world, the Temple of the Sun, now lit with his departing beams; and we could plainly trace its portico, its courts, and surrounding temples. In one spot a monument or an obelisk npreared itself, or the gild- ed dome of some Palace, shining like a Pharos above the dark enshrouding groves. Having approached the northern gate of the city, we were obliged to pass through established cere- monies ere we secured an entrance. This enabled me to examine the beautiful architecture of this no- ble portal. Four Corinthian pillars upon an elevated basement, supported a heavy architrave, with niches between their intercclumniations, filled with two statues, one representing the founder of the city, King Solomon in royal robes, the other Sheba. In the centre hung a lofty brazen gate, covered with SYRIAN LETTERS. massive mouldings cast in brass, one I recollect much resembling that upon the great shield in the temple of Mars at Constantinople. So weighty was this structure, that it must have proved a labor of years to construct it, as it surely would one almost of months to batter it down. It looked impenetra- ble. On beholding this gate, I could not but fancy it opened into some new region, that when drawn aside, I should be presented with a scene novel and wonderful. Directly the immense mass began to yield, and the harsh rattling of its bars and chains, and the low rumbling of its enormous hinges, re- minded me of distant, deep mouthed thunder. Its ponderous folds were now fully opened to admit us, and the issue realised what fancy had portrayed, for an exhibition of the gayest kind was passing before us. Young and ardent charioteers in streaming and many colored robes, and mounted upon chariots, richly inlaid with sparkling gems and gold, were driving their highly mettled coursers in various di- rections, through the broad and'noble avenues, some of which seemed to terminate at this northern gate. So rapid and complicated were the movements of these young votaries, that it was matter of wonder to me they did not come in dreadful conflict. Others on prancing steeds were displaying their gallant horsemanship. Here you saw a gathering group of youthful citizens at some athletic sport, and there a little knot of philosophers, who may be readily dis- tinguished by their long mantles, grave countenan- ces, and earnest conversation, as if in the hot dis- cussion of some exciting topic. You may have no- ticed after an attendance at the theatre for hours, with nothing to fix your wandering gaze, except the curtain of the Proscenium, how gladly you have hailed the lifting of it, revealing the actors in full dress, and all the dazzling arrangements of the Dra- ma. Such were my sensations at this moment. Asking for the house of a kinsman of Sergius, some friendly citizen informed us he had just left him at the baths, but that he had perhaps returned, and he would conduct us to his mansion. Arriving there, we found the owner at his hall of entrance, when instantly recognising Sergius, he pressed us im- mediately to dismount, else, as he alleged, we would violate the customs of Heliopolis. Not choosing at the very first, to violate so hospitable a custom, we cheerfully entered the splendid mansion, and as gladly were we received. Having assembled in the Hall, after the freshening influences of the bath, we Were greeted by a number of distinguished citizens, who, were invited to meet us, as eminent Romans upon our journey through Syria. Under such favorable aus- pices though wholly undeserved as they respect your friend Servilius, it was not long ere we cemented a friendship. “ Highly welcome” exclaimed Mobilius, (for thi was his title,) upon his first acquaintance, for on such good terms\did he seem to be with himself and those around him. " Highly welcome to Bash bec, but this you will not find a. very Christian spot, while these priests of Heliopolitan Jove are so nu- merous: “Is it true," he continued in the same breath, “ and you must bring the latest news, that Constantine intends to close our temples, and con- vert them into others, for the observance of the rites of this new sect called Christians 7" THINE—ONLY THINE. “There was such a rumor my friend,” replied Lactantius, “ but of its truth I cannot speak, would it were correct." At this, his eye flashed and I plainly saw, he was a true convert to the worship of the sun. ‘- You would not speak thus," he said, “ had you ever witnessed the splendid ceremonies of our reli- gion ;” and whispering to him as if bestowing a pecu_ liar mark of confidence, “you shall if you wish from a secret undiscoverable nook, see all," and darting a quick enquiring glance, he added in the same low whisper, though distinct enough to be heard by me, “ you may be a convert." “I will behold the spectacle," was Lactantius’ Philadelphia, December, 1840. THINE—ON BY MRS. CATHARINE H. W. Tame—only thine, The bland winds whisper it at every breath, And thou art mine— Mine thro’ all changes—mine alone till death. Years will pass by, And write their records upon either’s brow, Will dim the eye, But alter not one heart pulse beating now. Changes will come, And the light foot, less lightly tread the ground, The gentle hum Of voices, will have lost their softest sound. And clinging ties Will be dissever’d—from the household band Some may arise To the bright mansions in the “Happy Land." In all their youth, The sunny gladness of their early years, To realms of truth Their spotless souls soar from “ the vale of tears.” Strong links may break, Links that are twined around the inmost heart, And dreamers, wake To see their sand-built fabrics slowly part. Philadelphia, December, 1840. 39 brief reply. I doubted not but that this great warrior in a self denying cause, had in this ready compliance, some wise purpose, possibly, to persuade this youth- ful votary of the danger of his faith, or to convert him to his own : and such I believed was partly M0- bilius‘ design, so I felt there would be no difficulty in securing a share of this undiscoverable nook, for Iwas eager to witness these strange ceremonies. But I have exhausted my parchment, and I fear your patience, so I shall reserve my account until the next epistle, which I hope may find you as I trust this does in continued prosperity and health. Farewell. E. A. WW LY THINE. ESLING- But thou wilt be, Even as the oak, in all thy strength and pride, An unscath’d tree, While I, the Ivy, cling thy form beside. And when we leave The sunny paths of youth, where flowers grew bright We will not grieve That our brief morning hid its beams in night. Edging each cloud, Hope's silver ray shall light us near and far, No darken’d shroud Can hide from us love's ever-burning star. Like noon’s sweet close Before the shades of eve grow dim and dark, When flowers repose, _ And angels' eyes day’s slow departure mark. Like that, shall seem Our parting from this world of earthly bloom, And lit‘e’s calm stream, Shall gently lave us as we near the tomb. Thine—only thine, The bland winds whisper it at every breath, And thou art mine—— Mine thro' all changes—mine alone till death CLARA FLETCHER. 0R, FIRST AND LAST DOVE. “ Wear a beautiful creature Clara Fletcher is l” exclaimed Mr. Tressayle. “ Beautiful l” replied the lady by whom he stood, tossing her head disdainfully, “ why la !” and she raised her glass to her eye, “ I think she 's posi- tively plain looking.” “ Beautiful indeed !” echoed her mamma, a fat, vulgar looking woman, the flaunting colors of whose dress, betrayed her character at once, “ why now, I do say, Mr. Tressayle, its astonishing—it is—bow a gentleman of such tone as you, should think that pert Miss Fletcher any thing but com- mon-like. Why do look at her hair now, I ’d be bound she done it up herself—and then her dress, why that stufl‘,” said she, with a contemptuous curl of her lip, “could n‘t have cost a dollar a yard. Do you think it could, Araminta, my dear 1'" Mr. Tressayle was decidedly the most fashionable man at Saratoga. With a fine person, a handsome countenance, the most courtly manners, and more than all supposed to be possessed of a fortune as extensive as his establishment was fashionable, he was looked up to by all as the match of the season. The Belvilles, therefore, with whom he was now conversing, were not a little flattered by the atten- tions which he paid them. True they were the wealthiest family at the Springs; but then Mr. Belville had made his princely fortune as a distiller. Originally the keeper of a green-grocer’s shop, he had risen afterward into an obscure tavern-keeper, and from thence by slow gradations, he had become 1 i look at the subject of his remarks, the ci-devunt a wine-merchant, a distiller, a usurer, and a million- aire. affecting to despise tradesmen’s wives, had set up for a woman of fashion, and nothing gave her, in her eyes, more importance than the attentions ob- viously paid by Mr. Tressayle to her only child, Araminta Melvina Belville, a long, scraggy young lady of about two-and-twenty, but who affected the manners of “ sweet sixteen.” The devotion of Tressayle to such a being was indeed surprising to all who did not know how involved was his fortune. What reply might have been made by Tressayle to this remark we know not, for his answer was cut short by the appearances of no less a personage than Mr. Belville. “How are you/Tressayle, fine girls here, eh!” said this gentleman, slapping the young man some- what familiarly on the shoulder, “ deuced handsome gal that, just come in, and has fell heiress to a cool three hundred thousand. By Jove she ’s a Latterly, his lady, discarding the shop, and . ‘ wealth, thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pockets, lucky thing to get the hunk of money old Snarler made in the East India trade." “ Clara Fletcher heiress to Mr. Snarler !—you surprise me,” said Tressayle, “ I thought he had sworn to cut off her mother, who was his sister, you know, and all her family with a shilling, merely for marrying Mr. Fletcher, who, though poor, was in every respect a gentlemln." , “ Ay, so he did—so he did, but he died at last-— d’ ye see ?-without a will,-—and so Clara Fletcher, the only daughter of his only sister, cuts into his fortune fat.” “It ’s singular I never heard of this before,” said Tressayle, half musingly. “ Mamma, la! if I don’t think Mr. Tressayle has seen Miss Fletcher before,” whispered the daughter behind her fan; and then raising her voice and simpering and blushing as Tressayle looked down on overbearing her, she continued, “ dear me, you have n't been listening all the while, have you ? But do tell, Mr. Tressayle, who is that young man talking with her 'I" “ I believe it is Mr. Rowley.” “ Gad is he the feller,” broke in Mr. Belville, “ that published the poems so many people are cracking up. Why he is n’t much after all I guess. For my part I do n’t see why some people get praised for writing poetry—its nothing—I could do it myself if I ’d try," said he, with a sneer. “ I don’t think this Mr. Rowley a man of talent; no poet is.” And finishing his sentence with a supercilious green-grocer, inflated with the consciousness of his and marched off to join another group. “ Why, my dear Miss Fletcher, how (1’ ye do '2" said the shrill voice of Mrs. Belville, at this mo' ment, as Mr. Rowley led his beautiful partner to a Seat near the pretender to ton, “how have you been this age? Why how well you are looking. Laws me, and so you know Mr. Tressayle. Well now I do say how quiet you ’ve all kept it." It was as Mrs. Belville said. Clara Fletcher had scarcely replied to the Vulgar address of her neighbor by a distant though polite inclination of her head, before she caught the eyes of Tressayle fixed upon her with a look of mingled inquiry and delight, and as he bowed and stepped forward a. slight blush passed over her beautiful cheek, and a scarcely perceptible tremor of the voice might have been detected in replying to his salutation. ' CLARA FLETCHER- That night mother and daughter held a long con- sultation, the result of which was, that Miss Fletcher might prove a formidable rival, and that therefore no arts were to be omitted to detach the fashionable and wealthy Mr. Tressayle from her suite. Meanwhile, Tressayle reached his room, and throwing himself abstractedly into a large fautt'eul, sat for nearly an hour, with his face leaning on his hand. At length he started up, and pacing the room rapidly, exclaimed, as if continuing a train of thought, ' “ It is no use denying it, Clara Fletcher is far more beautiful than I ever dreamed she could be. Yes! and I once loved her,—at least I told her so. I wonder if she would refuse me now,” and he paused before the glass. “Pshaw! it is idle to think so. True, she is not more than half as wealthy as this inanimate little fool, Miss Belville; but, then, there is the vulgar mother, and coarse father of the latter. Clara has none of these. I never saw their vulgarity so plainly as I did to- night. Ah! I forgot, there is that coldness I showed to Clara when her other uncle disappointed every one’s expectations in omitting her in his will. I ’m cursedly afraid she ’s not forgotten it. But, then, how could one know she would ever become an heiress? It ’s deucedly unlucky, now I think of it, that I never called on her in New York, after my return from Europe. But ‘ faint heart never won fair lady ;’ and, besides, if Clara ever loved me, as I really think she once did, it ’s not so diffi- cult a matter for Henry Tressayle to re-kindle that afl'ection in her bosom. Besides, I ’m really making a heroic sacrifice in giving up a fortune twice as large for my old flame.” From that time Tressayle was almost ever at the side of the beautiful Clara Fletcher. He rode with her, sang with her, danced with her, promenaded with her, and did this too, without a rival, for her former suitor, Mr. Rowley had been compelled to re- turn to New York by business, and few cared to enter the lists against so resistless a beau as Tres- sayle. Every body declared that they were already afiianced lovers, or they soon would be so, except the Belvilles, whose chagrin could not be con- cealed, and who sneered even at the probability of such a thing. Tressayle, however, was not so well satisfied with his progress as was the world at large. His know- ledge of the sex told him that the conduct of Clara toward him, was not exactly that of one whose af- fections he had anew engaged. She was too easy, too composed, possessed of too much quiet calmness at all times, not to awaken uneasy suspicions, lest her love was not yet gained. Still, however, she did nothing to shew any distaste for Tressayle’s so- ciety, and his own vanity led him on in the pursuit. Nor was his love any longer a mere matter of calculation to Tressayle. It had become a necessity —-it had grown into a passion. If ever he loved a woman, that woman had been Clara Fletcher, and when it had become known that she was not her un- J cle’s heiress, it was not without a struggle that Tres- sayle left her. 41 heiress. Now, however, all his old feelings toward Clara were revived, and revived too in ten-fold force Her fortune was no longer an obstacle. Yes, Tres- salye loved; loved for the first time; loved with more than the fervor of which such a man might be thought capable. He could endure his suspense no longer, and determining to propose at once for Clara, he chose for his purpose, an afternoon when they rode out unaccompanied together. Words cannot describe the eloquence with which the lover—for Tressayle’s talented, though selfish mind, was capable of the highest eloquence—poured forth his passion in the ear of his mistress. But it drew no answering emotion from Clara. A slight blush perhaps tinged her cheek a moment, but her eye calmly looked into his own, and her voice was firm and clear, as she replied, “ Listen to me, Tressayle," she said " I am young still, but I was once younger. You remember it well. Then I met you, and—need I disguise it ?— you spake to me of love. I know it was but once you said so, but it was after you had paid attention to me which you knew, as well as I, was more elo- quent than words. I had never seen one whom I thought your equal, and I loved you. Stay—hear me out. I loved you with all the ardor of a girl’s first love. But how was it returned ".1 While I thought only of you,--while a word from you was my law—while the day seemed gloomy without your presence—while, in short, I gave to you freely every emotion of my heart, you were coolly calcula- ting how much my fortune would be, and preparing, as you subsequently did, to discard me altogether in case I was not my uncle’s heiress—" " Oh, Clara,Clara, hear me.” “ Yes, Tressalye, but listen first, and then I will hear you. You left me without cause when my un- cle’s will was opened and I was found to have been overlooked. I need not tell you the agony of my heart on discovering your character. Let that pass. Reason conquered at last. They say a first love," continued the beautiful girl, looking at her compatr- ion until his eye quailed before the calm dignity of her own “can never be conquered ; but believe me it is a mistake. When the object of that love is un- worthy, it is not impossible. And now, Tressayle, you understand me. You are to me as a stranger. Never can I love you again. I am, more0ver, the afi-ianced bride of Mr. Rowley.” Tressayle could not answer a word. Mortifica- tion and shame overpowered him, and he was glad when he saw that they were near the termination of their ride. The first person they met on alightiug was Mr. Belville. Ashamed of himself and stung to the very quick, Tressayle took advantage to propose to the millionaire for his daughter. “ Gad, and are you the only ignorant man here of your loss of fortune ?” said Mr. Belville, super- ciliously. “ But I forgot the mail came in while you were riding with Miss Fletcher. Good morn- ing, sir.” _ Tressayle hurried to his room, opened his letters, But supremely selfish, and with a I and found that the Bank in which he was a large fortune impaired by extravagance, he looked at it as stockholder was broken. In two hours he had left an impossibility that he should marry except to an i Saratoga. H. J. V. 4* . THE INDIAN MAID. l A BALLAD. l SUNG BY MRS. WATSON, THE MUSIC ARRANGED BY S. NELSON. Geo. W. Hewitt 6: Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia. Poco Allegretto con Espressione. '4'! 1i 4 Morning‘s dawn is in the skies, Whilst o'er the Mountain height, Fast the glorious beams a - rise, PP THE INDIAN MAID. 43 -'_ 1E_ "SK?" *“m'rmr [2:35 IEIQQ‘I—3: 9 FE PTFIII - --:—'-- "—3— " '—P"r“" r Hailwe their golden light: Ere the brightness of those rays Dies on the distant. sea, . _ __HHH— s-“FHH: hII'i-"s: _ __ -1:qu7': :7733 UT; ___,q._(g_ missus H1194 A___ 1 we,» a_ ___Q_g~__ _@_6__ a , 49-" 0 a :T::7: : ,::i _7a_ma®_E_,_____ 61?. l _ _I_o___L__ T __ __ ' 151’- '_ ""“5'1'! 15:15: “us—51¢ *g l l __ _1_ 1.322322 2::1_:;:-n_m1;___ 3_W_w;£sia_;_1 - _ _Q_ §______-_ I _§____ Q__;1_ _J_Q_U__l_____; 'L __ r- _ '1 F M {May the hopes of my youngdays Be warm‘d to life by thee. Maythe hopes of my youngdays Be, -—'15H:P":‘:"HH: ___ “H—P"—-1-H_Ffi-H-qu'r- H3 : " :i:1-11_“:-1_—n-1_ ~1- :W:fi:::s:-fin_" ::—’n-q:-;_ fifi. fi—ifi—i fi-j -] I—'—1-11 '1 ', 2:19:11": .dq:_:e;Q; ;::::!:g:::i;:_ 9-1157}; ~1— v‘d-d sing "9-? ? ego i 9‘ i 9 0 0 0 o o o ' I ' /-——-r=i__\ ‘ "-71-, H "'_'l__"— '0__"— oil—To"? efTfir— ____s__q-._._ _ _. __._____ as”; _ir~n__e_,qa__{rr-__ . c F l: r ——¥‘—'—E—-ev--—Aa'£*el-l\§:‘> ‘ ' 'ib -p—--- - p as ______________,________ Fairest flow‘r ’neath eastern skies, Stor'd in thy peaceful mind More of wealth for me there lies Than in the gems of Ind. Never from thy trusting heart, Ne‘er from thy smiling brow May the hopes, the peace depart Which beam upon them now. Hours and days will wing their flight, Still never day shall fade ; But I ‘ll share some new delight With thee, my Indian maid. In the passing hour of gloom Rest thou thy cares on me; To restore thy pleasure's bloom, Will my best guerdon be. SPORTS AND PASTIMES. ' WE havebeen favored with the Edinburg copy of “The Rod and Gun," an excellent work, from the pen of the author of the celebrated “ Oakleigh Shoot- ing Code." The most important parts of the essay are expanded in this volume, and many valuable hints to sportsmen, gathered from all parts of the world, and from the experience of the author, are thrown in. With this work, the ablest decidedly that has of late years been given to the sporting world—we propose this month to make somewhat free, and intend here- after to push the acquaintance to the utmost verge of familiarity, and shall present the writer to our readers each month in form. He will be found to improve, “like good wine upon acquaintance." and we feel assured that no good gentleman “ and true," will fail to appreciate the honor, or to derive va- luable and instructive hints relative to manly exer- cises, from his conversation. He makes his own introduction : “The wand with which we now desire to charm an enlightened and discerning public, was first waved some seasons back. We think the butt end is not much the worse for wear—we have strengthened the mid-pieces, repaired the top, and given the whole a coat of varnish, hoping that in the hands of others now more fit for the practice of the gentle art than we ourselves, it may prove a steady friend and true, whether in still or troubled waters." ANGLING. THE PIKE. Tut: pike is in season from May to February, and is most frequently angled for by trolling with a strong topped rod. The hooks are generally fastened to a bit of brass wire for a few inches from the shaft, to prevent the line from being snapped. Different me- E thods are used in angling for pike. Trolling, in the more limited sense of the word, signifies catching fish with the gorge-hook, which is composed of two, or what is called a double eel-hook; live bait fishing is practised with the aid of a floated line; and snap fishing consists in the use of large hooks, so baited as to enable the angler to strike the fish the moment I he feels it bite, immediately after which he drags it nolens volens ashore. Trolling for pike may be practised during the win- ter months, when trout fishing has ceased; and the colder season of the year is in fact more convenient for the sport, owing to the decay or diminution of the weeds which usually surround their favorite haunts. With the exception of chub and dace, which ; bite pretty freely at the bottom all winter, scarcely any other fish can be relied upon for sport during the i more inclement portion of the year. To bait a gorge ] hook, take a baiting-needle, and hook the curved end to the loop of the gimp, to which the hook is tied. t Then introduce the point of the needle into a dead bait’s mouth, and bring it out at the middle of the ‘ fork of the tail, by which means the piece of lead which covers the shank of the hook, and part of the 1 connecting wire, will lie concealed in the interior of l the bait: the shank will be in the inside of its mouth, and the barbs on the outside, turning upward. To keep the bait steady on the hook, fasten the tail part _ just above the fork to the gimp, with a silk or cotton SPORTS thread ; or a neater method is, to pass the needle and thread through the side of the bait, about half an inch above the tail, so as encircle the gimp in the interior. The baits used vary in weight from one to four ounces, and the hooks must be proportion- ed to the size of the fish with which they are baited. The barbs of the hook ought not J to project much beyond the - sides of the mouth. because1 as the pike generally seizes his prey cross-wise, and turn it before it is pouched or swal- lowed, if he feels the points of the hook he may cast it out entirely. In trolling for pike, it is advised to keep as far from the water as possible, and to commence casting close by the near shore, with the wind blowing from behind. When the water is clear and the weather bright, some prefer to fish against the wind. “After trying closely,” says Mr. Salter, “make your next throw farther in the water, and draw and sink the baited hook, drawing it straight up. ward near to the surface of the water, and also to right and left, searching carefully every foot of water; and draw your bait with the stream, be- cause you must know that jack and pike lay in wait for food with their heads and eyes pointing up the stream, to catch what may be coming down; there- fore experienced trollers fish a river or stream down, or obliquely across; but the inconsiderate as fre- quently troll against the stream, which is improper, because they then draw their baited hook behind either jack or pike when they are stationary, instead of bringing it before his eyes and mouth to tempt him. Note—Be particularly careful, in drawing up or taking the baited hook out of the water, not to do it too hastily, because you will find by experience that the jack and pike strike or seize your bait more frequently when you are drawing it upward than when it is sinking. And also farther observe, that when drawing your bait upward, if you occasionally Shake the rod, it will cause the bait to spin and twist about, which is very likely to attract either jack or pike.” These fish are partial to the bends of rivers and the bays of lakes, where the water is shallow, and abounding in weeds, reeds, water lilies, &c. In fishing with the gorge-hook, when the angler feels a run, he ought not to strike for several minutes after the fish has become stationary, lest he pull the bait away before it is fairly pouched. If a pike makes a very short run, then remains stationary for about a minute, and again makes one or two short \ ~\\I\ AND PASTIMES. 45 runs, he is probably merely retiring to some quiet haunt before he swallows the bait; but if, after re- maining still for three or four minutes, he begins to shake the line and move about, the inference is that he has pouched the bait, and feels some annoyance from the hook within, then such part of the line as has been slackened may be wound up, and the fish struck. It is an unsafe practice to lay down the rod during the interval between a run and the supposed pouching of the bait, because it not unfrequently happens that a heavy fish, when he first feels the hooks in his interior, will make a sudden and most violent rush up the river or along the lake, and the line is either instantly broken, or is carried, together with both the rod and reel, for ever beyond the angler’s reach. “\Vhen the pike cometh," says Colonel Venables, “you may see the water move, at least you may feel him; then slack your line and give him length enough to run away to his hold, whither he will go directly, and there pouch it, ever beginning (as you may observe) with the head, swal- lowing that first. Thus let him lye until you see the line- move in the water, and then you may certainly conclude he hath pouched your bait, and rangeth about for more; then with your trowl wind up your line till you think you have it almost streight, then with a smart jerk hook him, and make your pleasure to your content." ' The fresher and cleaner the bait is kept, whether for trolling, live-bait, or snap-fishing, the greater is the chance of success. As pike, notwithstanding their usual voracity, are sometimes, as the anglers phrase it, more on the play than the feed, they will occasionally seize the bait across the body, and, instead of swallowing it, blow it from them repeatedly and then take no farther notice of it. The skilful and wily angler must in- stantly convert his gorge into a snap, and strike him in the lips or jaws when he next attempts such dan- gerous amusement. The dead snap may be made either with two or four hooks. Take about twelve inches of stout gimp, make a loop at one end, at the other tie a hook (size No.2,) and about an inch farther up the gimp tie another hook of the same dimensions; then pass the loop of the gimp into the gill ofa dead bait-fish, and out at its mouth, and draw the gimp till the hook at the bot- tom comes just behind the back fin of the bait, and the point and barb are made to pierce slightly through its skin, which keeps the whole steady: now pass the ring of a drop-bead lead over the loop of the gimp, fix the lead inside the bait’s mouth, and sew the mouth up. This will suflice for the snap with a couple of hooks. If the four-hooked snap is desired (and it is very killing,) take a piece of stout gimp about four inches long, and making a loop at one end, tie a couple of hooks of the same size, and in the same manner as 46 SPORTS those before described. After the first two and the lead are in their places, and previous to the sewing up of the mouth, pass the loop of the shorter gimp through the opposite gill, and out at the mouth of the bait; then draw up the hooks till they occupy a posi- tion corresponding to those of the other side: next pass the loop of the longer piece of gimp through that of the shorter, and pull all straight: finally, tie the two pieces of gimp together close to the fish’s mouth, and sew the latter up. Some anglers prefer fishing for pike with a floated line and a live bait. When a single hook is used for this purpose, it is baited in one or other of the two following ways: Either pass the point and barb ol‘ the hook through the lips of the bait. toward the side of the mouth, or through beneath the base of the an- terior portion of the dorsal fin. When a double hook is used, take a baiting-needle, hook its curved end into the loop of the gimp, and pass its point beneath the skin of' the bait from behind the gills upward in a sloping direction, bringing it out behind the extremity of the dorsal fin; then draw the gimp till the bend of the hooks are brought to the place where the needle entered, and attach the loop to the trolling line. Un- less a kind of snap-fishing is intended, the hooks for the above purpose should be of such a size as that neither the points nor the barbs project beyond either the shoulder or the belly of the bait. Snap-fishing is certainly a less scientific method of angling for pike than that with the gorge or live-bait; for when the hooks are baited, the angler casts in search, draws, raises, and inks his bait, until he feels a bite. He then strikes strongly and drags or throws his victim on shore; for there is little fear of his tackle giving way, as that used in snap-fishing is of the largest and stoutest kind. “ This hurried and un- sportsman-like way of taking fish," it is observed in the Troller’s Guide, “ can only please those who value the game more than the sport afi'orded by killing a jack or pike with tackle, which gives the fish a chance of escaping, and excites the angler's skill and patience, mixed with a certain pleasing anxiety, and the reward of his hopes. Neither has the snap-fisher so good a chance of success, unless he angles in a pond or piece of water where the jack or pike are very numerous or half starved, and will hazard their lives for almost any thing that comes in their way. But in rivers where they are well fed, worth killing and rather scarce, the coarse snap-tackle, large hooks: &c. generally alarm them. On the whole, I think it is two to one against the snap in most rivers; and if there are many weeds in the water, the large books of the snap, by standing rank, are continually getting foul, damaging the bait, and causing much trouble and loss of time.” Pike sometimes rise at an artificial fly, especially in dark, windy days. The fly ought to be dressed upon a double hook, and composed of very gaudy materials. The head is formed of a little fur, some gold twist, and (if the angler’s taste inclines that way, for it is probably a matter of indifference to the fish) two small black or blue heads for eyes. The body is framed rough, full, and round, the wings not parted, but made to stand upright on the back, with some small feathers continued down the back to the end of the tail, so that when finished they may exceed the AND PASTIMES. length of the book. The whole should be about the bulk of a wren. During clear and calm weather in summer and au- tumn, pike take most freely about three in the after- noon: in winter they may be angled for with equal chances of success during the whole day: early in the morning, and late in the evening are the periods best adapted for the spring. This fish is also angled for in a variety of' ways by fixed or set lines, and also by trimmers, or liggers, as they are provincially called in some pans of England. Horsea Mere and Heigham Sound are two large pieces of water in the county of Norfolk, not far from Yarmouth, noted for their pike, as partly immortalised in old Camden's famous lines oflengthenod sweetness long drawn out,— " Horsey Pike, None like." Mr. Yarrell received the following returns from a sporting gentleman, of four days' fishing with trim- mers in these waters, in the month of March, 1834: viz. on the 11th at Heigham Sounds, 60 pike, weighing 280 pounds; on the 13th at Horsea Mere, 89 pike. weighing 379 pounds; on the 18th, again at Horsea Mere, 49 pike, weighing 213 pounds; on the 19th, at Heigham Sounds, 58 pike, weighing 263 pounds: the four days sport producing 256 fish, weighing together 1135 pounds. As the mode of using trimmers in these extensive broads afi‘ords great diversion, and is rather peculiar, we shall here quote Mr. Yarrell’s account of it. “I may state that the ligger or trimmer is a long cylin- drical float, made of wood or cork, or rushes tied together at each end; to the middle of this float a string is fixed, in length from eight to fifteen feet; this string is wound round the float except two or three feet, when the trimmer is to be put into the water, and slightly fixed by a notch in the wood or cork, or by putting it between the ends of the rushes. The bait is fixed on the hook, and the hook fastened to the end of the pendent string, and the whole then dropped into the water. By this arrangement the bait floats at any required depth, which should have some reference to the temperature of the season,— pike swimming near the surface in fine warm weather, and deeper when it is colder, but generally keeping near its peculiar haunts. When the bait is seized by a pike, the jerk looses the fastening, and the whole string unwinds,—the wood, cork, or rushes, floating at the top, indicating what has occurred. Floats of wood or cork are generally painted, to render them more distinctly visible on the water to the fishers, who pursue their amusement and the liggers in boats- Floats of rushes are preferred to others, as least cal- culated to excite suspicion in the fish." Pike are occasionally taken in the English lakes above 30 pounds in weight, and Dr. Grierson mentions one killed in Loch Ken, in Galloway, which weighed 61 pounds. The color of the young fish is of a green- ish hue, but it afterward becomes rather of a dusky olive brown upon the upper parts, marked on the side! with mottled man and yellow, and silvery white on the abdomen. \Vc do not think highly of its flesh, although by many it is held in some esteem. REVIEW “ Mercedes of Castile,” a Romance, by J. Fennimore Cooper. 2 vols. Lea t} Blanchard, 1840. As a history, this work is invaluable: as a novel, it is well nigh worthless. The author deserves credit for presenting to the public, in a readable form, so much historical information, with which, otherwise, the great mass of the community would have never become acquainted; and he ought, also, to receive proper commendation for having woven that informa_ tion in any way whatever, into the narrative of a novel; but at the same time, if called upon to speak of his work as a romance, and not as a history, we can neither disguise from ourselves, nor from our readers, that it is, if possible, the worst novel ever penned by Mr. Cooper. A hasty sketch of the plot will fully sustain our assertion. The work opens with the marriage of Isabella of Castile, and Ferdinand of Arragon, after which a hiatus occurs of more than twenty-two years. This, in the first place, is a grand error in the novelist. Had he commenced his narrative at the siege of Granada at once, we should have been spared an ungainly ex- crescence on the very front of the story. We shall, therefore, consider the novel as beginning properly at an ensuing chapter. The scene opens on the day when the city of Gra- nada is taken possession of by the Moors; and when Columbus, as a suitor for vessels to carry on his contemplated discoveries, is almost worn out with seven years of delay and disappointment. A young Spanish Grandee, called Luis Bobadilla, wild, adven- turous, and fond of roving at sea, happening to be introduced to him in the crowd, is half persuaded to embark with the navigator on his dangerous voyage; an inclination which is strengthened to a firm resolve by his mistress, who, forbidden by Queen Isabella to marry so roving a nobleman, and thinking that such a voyage would be takenas a sort of expiation by her sovereign, advises, nay! commands him to embark with Columbus. The dificulties; the hopes; the final disappointment, and solitary departure of Columbus, are then faithfully described, as well as his udden recall by order of the queen, and her determination to fit out the expedition from her own purse. This, however, we pass over, only remarking in passing, that the fiery pursuit of the young grandee through the Vega after the departing} Columbus, and the scene where he overtakes the'dejected navigator, are worthy of the best passages of the Pioneers, the Water-Witch, or the Last of the Mohicils. The young nobleman, consequently, disguised as a OF NEW BOOKS. sailor, sails with Columbus out into the, as then thought, shoreless Atlantic. To describe this voyage was manifestly the sole object of the author in writing the work. Availing himself of the journal of the admiral, and mingling just enough of fiction with the incidents recorded there, to make it generally read- able, Mr. Cooper has succeeded in producing the most popular, detailed, readable history of that voyage which has yet seen the light; and for this, we again repeat, he deserves much credit. But the very prepon- derance given to the narration of this part of the story, injures the work, as a novel, irremediably. It makes it, in short, “neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red- herring.” There is, indeed, an attempt to redeem the interest of the story by the introduction of an Indian princess, who, of course, falls in love with Bobadilla, and whom, of course, he does not marry. She, however, accompanies Luis home to Spain, and is the cause of much jealousy on the part of his mistress, of much anger on the part of the queen, and of just sufficient clap-trap in the last few chapters, to satisfy the con- science ofyour inveterate novel readers,—a class who think no novel is good unless it has a pretty strong dose of jealousy, reconcilement, and marriage, as a finale, much as Tony Lumpkin thought “ that the inside ofa letter was the cream of the correspondence.” In one thing we are disappointed in this novel. We did not look for character in it, for that is not Cooper‘s forte: nor did we expect that his heroine would be aught better than the inanimate thing she is,-hut we did expect he would have given us an- other of those magnificent sea-pictures for which, “ in all their sternness and sublimity, he is so justly celebrated. We were mistaken. Excepting a storm, which overtakes the Nina, we have nothing e'ven approaching to the grandeur of the Pilot and the Red Rover. If Columbus did not figure in the romance,— and what, after all, has he to do personally with the denouementl—Mercedes of Castile would be the most tame of romances. Cut out the historical account of the voyage to San Salvador, by merely stating in one, instead of a core of chapters, that the hero per- formed his penance, and—we. shake our grey goose- quill against the copy-right on it—that not two out of every dozen, who read the novel, will pronounce it even interesting. It is but justice to the author to say that the neces- sity of adhering closely to fact in his romance, is the true secret ofits want of interest; for how could any hero, no matter whom, awaken our sympathy strongly, so long as Columbus figured in the same narrative? 48 Besides, the voyage which the hero undertakes to win his mistress, being a matter of history, we are from the first without any curioity as to its result—we want, indeed, all that exciting suspense, without which a novel is worthless. Our author appears to have been aware of this, and therefore introduces Omenea, and makes Mercedes jealous, and the queen suspicious, in order to create this suspense. For all the purposes of a love-story, therefore, the novel might as well have begun toward the close of the second volume, an introductory chapter merely being affixed, narrating rapidly the events which, in the pre- sent work, are diluted into a volume and a half. The interest of aromance should continue, let it be re- membered, throughout the whole story; but in Mer- cedes of Castile it does'not begin until we are about to close the book. REVIEW OF “American Melodies.” Containing a single selection from the production of two hundred writers. Com- piled by George P. dIorris. For sale by Henry Perkins, Philadelphia. This is one of the prettiest little gift books of the season. The typography is good as well as the binding. The title of the work has been the subject of much captions criticism by the herd who are constantly de- tecting spots in the sun, and who lack the calibre of intellect necessary to a manly and liberal criticism of a literary performance. The selections were origi- nally made of songs set to music, but as this was found to narrow down, rather much, the limits assign- ed for the work, the compiler took a wider range, and included in the volume pieces adapted to music also. He has been candid enough to say in the dedication, that in making these selections he has not been guided so much by the literary worth of the articles, as by their admission into the musical world. A second volume is already under way, in which many names of note, necessarily omitted in the first, will be included. The compiler has every reason to congratulate him self upon the happy performance of his task. A more interesting or valuable little volume has not been given to the public for many-a-day. If the second is like unto it, General Morris will have added another to the long list of obligations which the public owes him, in creating a taste for national melody, “Frth Writersqf Eminence." By Mrs. Shelley, and others. 2 vols. Lea <9 Blanchard. This compilation, for it is nothing more—~has the merit of presenting well-known Encyclopedia bio- NEW BOOKS- graphies of French authors, to the general public, in a cheap and portable form.—thus bringing down much valuable information within the means of those who could not afl'ord to purchase the larger and more com prehensive work. The design is praiseworthy. The sketches of Rabelais, Racine, Corneille, Mo- liere, Voltaire, Rochefoucald, and others, will prove highly interesting to those who have not perused them before. A more valuable work, when consider- , ed solely as an introduction to French literature, has not, for some time, been issued from the American press. We would guard our readers, however, from fancying that Mrs. Shelley was the principal author of these sketches, as it would neither be truth, nor, in fact, add to her reputation. By J. N. MeJilton. Broader: (5' Co. “ Poems." Boston .- Otis. This volume is a compilation of pieces, most of which have appeared in the prominent American Magazines. Many of them were written at the time the author was connected, as editor, with the Balti- more Literary Monument. Several pieces in this volume may take a high rank in American poetry, and all of them do credit to the writer. The work is beautifully printed. “ The Literary Amaranth of Prose and Poetry.” By N. C. Brooks. Author of Scripture Anthology. Philadelphia.- Kay 1} Brother. This is chiefly a collection of the fugitive pieces of Mr. Brooks, with some emendation. Of the talents of the author we have had occasion before to: speak, both in the Magazine and elsewhere. His Scripture Anthology established his claims as a writer. The work is beautifully got up. in the annual style, and is worthy of a conspicuous place upon the centre-table, among the presents of the season. Reviews of the Third Volume of Bancrofl’s History of the United States, of Mrs. Gore’s volume of Tales, and of several of the Annuals, have been crowded out by our press of matter. We shall, perhaps, be able to notice Bulwer’s last novel,—Morning and N ight,-—in our next. ;_ >1 on .\ t. ‘- .3 A Var/2’4}?! Jr. / /. m '/ I ‘ ’2 ' / , ’ . , . . , I ‘ . '. ). I Y - , u, f/l/J” /-¢'/‘ fj/rz/w/r/J /k/£47/1.'//!f. //z;//'z 1/?! 0/5ymm/ /// far: jm/Aw u. .415 l/M/f'z/E/W/ a/YZS/Z/fik‘y, /,’/.~ ." 0'" ' ‘v "'fi"; 6 ‘1 \*'_;H- I; - . '0 In J A'arn’aé'n' .115“. z f/W ” if /)'///.//a//./.;' /i/zyz/:/}zz. 0/2/22 9?: fizzy/22% HUM? [I’ll/13!. 1'” j :a \/ J fi6/ff/Q07/ fi/ -ZJ'X/j/Zsy, f'kv/f' I .1 ,_ fjitw \ \“u nlsg. ' GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. VOL. XVIII. FEBRUARY, 1841. No.2. THE BLIND GIRL OF POMPEII. Wuo that has read the “ Last Days of Pompeii” can forget Nydia, the blind flower-girl? So sweet, and pure, and gentle, and devoted in her unrequited love, she steals insensibly upon the heart, and wins a place therein, which even the brilliant Ione fails to obtain! Poor, artless innocent, her life, alas! was one of disappointment from its birth. We cannot better portray the character of this guileless being than by copying the exquisite de- scription of Bulwer. The scene opens with a company of gay, young Pompeiians—among whom is Glaucus, the hero of the story—taking a morning stroll through the town. We'let the story speak for itself. “Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light and graceful temple threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music she gracefully waved her flower basket round, inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce was showered into the basket, either in compliment to the music, or in compassion to the songstress—for she was blind. mIt is my poor Thessalian,’ said Glaucus, stop- ping; ‘I have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! her voice is sweet ;let us liten.’> THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL’S SONG. Buy my Flowers—0 buy—I pray, The Blind Girl comes from afar: If the Earth be as fair as I hear them say, These Flowers her children are! Do they her beauty keep'.I They are fresh from her lap, I know; For I caught them fast asleep In her arms an hour ago, With the air which is her breath-— Her soft and delicate breath— Over them murmuring low !— On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet, For she weeps,—that gentle mother weeps (As morn and night her watch she keeps, With a yearning heart and a passionate care,) To see the young things grow so fair; She weeps—for love she weeps—- And the dews are the tears she weeps From the well of a mother‘s love! Ye have a world of light, Where love in the lov’d rejoices: But the Blind Girl’s home is the House of Night, And its Beings are empty voices. As one in the Realm below, I stand by the streams of we; I hear the vain shadows glide, I feel their soft breath at my side, , And I thirst the lov’d forms to see, And I stretch my fond arms around, And I catch but a shapeless sound, For the Living are Ghosts to ma. Come buy—come buy !— Hark! how the sweet things sigh (For they have a voice like ours) “ The breath of the Blind Girl closes The leaves of the saddening roses;— We are tender, we son of Light, We shrink from this child of Night ; From the grasp of the Blind Girl free us, We yearn for the eyes that see us— We are for Night too gay, In our eye we behold the day—- 0 buy—O buy the Flowers l” t 5 50 " ‘I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,’ said Glaucus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small coins into the basket; * your voice is more charming than ever.’ “ The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian’s voice—then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples. “‘So you are returned !’ said she in a low voice; and then repeated, half to herself, ‘Glaucus is re- tumed!’ “ ‘Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden wants your care as before, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.’ “ Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing the violets he had selected in his breast, turned gayly and carelesz from the crowd. “ ‘ So,she is a sort of client of yours, this child 7’ said Clodius. “*Ay—does she not sing prettily'l She interests me, the poor slave !—besides, she is from the land of the Gods’ hill—Olympus frowned upon her cradle—she is of Thessaly.’ ” How exquisitely is the love of Nydia told in her joy at the return of Glaucus! Only a master-hand could have described it in that blush, and start, and the glad exclamation, “ Glaucus is returned !" The revellers meanwhile pass on their way, and it is not till the following morning that the flower-girl appears again upon the scene. But though she comes even while the Athenian is musing on his mistress Ione, there is a beauty around Nydia’s every movement which makes us hail her with delight. It is her appearance at this visit which the artist has transferred to the canvass. Lo 1 are not the limner and the author equally ini- mitable T “ Longer, perhaps, had been the enamored soli- loquy of Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles; under her arm shc bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she held a bronze water vase; her features were more formed than exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in their out- line, and without being beautiful in themselves they were almost made so by their beauty of expression; there was something inefl'ably gentle, and you would say patient, in her aspect—a look of resigned sor- row, of tranquil endurance, had banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips; something timid and cautious in her step—something wander- ing in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suffered from her birth—she was blind; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible defect, their melancholy and subdued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. "They tell me that Glaucus is here,‘ said she; ‘ may I come in 7’ “ ‘Ah. my Nydia,’ said the Greek, ‘ is that you? I knew you would not neglect my invitation.’ “‘Glaucus did but justice to himself,’ answered THE BLIND GIRL 0F POMPEII. Nydia, with a blush, ‘ for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.’ "‘Who could be otherwise?’ said Glaucus, ten- derly, and in the voice of a compassionate brother. “Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without replying to his remark. * You have but lately returned? This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii. And you are well? Ah, I need not ask—for who that sees the earth which they tell me is so beautiful can be ill T" H t I am well—and you, Nydia ?—how you have grown! next year you will be thinking of what answer we shall make your lovers.’ “ A second blush passed over the cheek of N ydia, but this time she frowned as she blushed. * I have brought you some flowers,’ said she, without reply- ing to a remark she seemed to resent, and feeling about the room till she found the table that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it: * they are poor, but they are fresh gathered.’ “"I‘hey might come from Flora herself,’ said he, kindly ; ‘ and I renew again my vow to the Graces that I will wear no other garlands while thy bands can weave me such as these.’ “ ‘ And how find you the flowers in your virida- rium ? are they thriving?’ “ ‘ Wonderfully so—the Lares themselves must have tended them.’ “ ‘Ah, now you give me pleasure; forI came, as often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.‘ - " ‘ How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia 1’ said the Greek. ‘Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful over his favorites at Pompeii.’ “ The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved beneath her tunic. She turned around in embarrassment. ‘ The sun is hot for the poor flowers,’ said she, ‘to-day, and they will miss me, for I have been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them.’ H * Ill, Nydia! yet your check has more color than it had last year.’ " t I am often ailing,’ said the blind girl, touchingly, ‘ and as I grow up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers!’ So saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, and passing into the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers. “ *Poor Nydia,’ thought Glaucus, gazing on her, * thine is a hard doom. Thou seest not the earth-- nor the sun—nor the ocean—nor the stars—above all, thou canst not behold Ione.’ Nydia, too, is a slave, and to a coarse inn-keeper, who would make a profit by her beauty and her singing. How her heart breaks daily at the brutal treatment of her master, and the still more cruel language of his patrons! But at length Glaucus purchases her, and she is comparatively happy. And through all her melancholy history how does her hopeless love shine out, beautifying and making more sweet than ever, her guileless character! It is a long and mournful tale. Glaucus at length succeeds in winning lone; they escape fortunately from the destruction of Pompeii; but Nydia, un- complaining, yet broken-hearted, disappears myste- riously from the deck of their vessel at night. Need we tell her probable fate ? THE REEFER OF BY THE AUTHOR. OF “CRUIZING ’76. IN ran LAST WAR." FORT MOULTRIE. How often has the story of the heart been told ! The history of the love of one bosom is that of the millions who have alternated between hope and fear since first the human heart began to throb. The gradual awakening of our afl'ection; the first con- seiousness we have of our own feelings; the tumul- tuous emotions of doubt and certainty we experience, and the wild rapture of the moment, when, for the first time, we learn that our love is requited, have all been told by pens more graphic than mine, and inlanguage as nervous as that of Fielding, or as moving as that of Richardson. The daily companionship into which I was now thrown with Beatrice was, of all things, the most dangerous to my peace. From the first moment when I beheld her she had occupied a place in my thoughts; and the footing of acquaintanceship, not to say intimacy, on which we now lived, was little calculated to banish her from my mind. Oh ! how I loved to linger by her side during the moonlight evenings of that balmy latitude, talking of a thou- sand things which, at other times, would have been void of interest, or gazing silently upon the peaceful scene around,with a hush upon our hearts it seemed almost sacrilege to break. And at such times how the merest trifle would afford as food for conversa- tion, or how eloquent would be the quiet of that holy silence ! Yes! the ripple of a wave, or the glimtner of the spray, or the twinkling of a star, or the voice of the night-wind sighing low, or the deep, mysterious language of the unquiet ocean, had,at such moments, a beauty in them, stirring every chord in our hearts, and filling us, as it were, with sympathy not only for each other, but tor every thing in Nature. And when we would part for the night, I would pace for hours, my solitary watch, thinking of Beatrice, with all the rapt devotion of a first, pure love. But this could not last. The dream was plea- sant, yet it might not lead me to dishonor. Beatrice was under my protection, and was it right to avail myself of that advantage to win her heart, when I knew from the difference of our stations in life, that it was madness to think that she could ever be mine. What ? the heiress of one of the richest Jamaica residents, the grand-daughter of a baron, and the near connexion of some of the wealthiest tory families of the south, to be wooed as an equal I port. , gradually avoiding the danger, to lessen the agony by one who not only had no fortune but his sword, but was the advocate, in the eyes of her advisers, of a rebellious cause! Nor did the service I had ren- dered her lessen the difficulty of my position. These feelings, however, had rendered me more guarded, perhaps more cold, in the presence of Beatrice, for a day or two preceding our arrival in I felt my case hopeless: and I wished, by of the final separation. Besides, I knew nothing as yet of the sentiments of Beatrice toward myself. I was a novice in love; and the silent abstraction of her manner, together with the gradually increasing avoidance of my presence, filled me with uneasiness. despite the conviction of the hoplessness of my suit. But what was it to me, I would say, even if Beatrice loved me not? Was it not better that it should be so? Alas! reason and love are two very different things, and though I was better satisfied with myself when we made the lights of Charleston harbor, yet the almost total separation which had thus for nearly two days existed between Beatrice and myself, left my heart tormented with all a lover’s fears. It was the last evening we would spend together, perhaps for years. The wind had died away, and we slowly floated upward with the tide, the shores of James Island hanging like a dark cloud on the larboard beam, and the lights of the distant city, glimmering {along the horizon inboard; while no sound broker the stillness of the hour, except the occasional wash of a ripple, or the song of some negro fishermen floating across the water. As I stood by the starboard railing, gazing on this scenery, I could not help contrasting my present situation with what it had been but a few short weeks before, when I left the harbor of New York. So intensely was I wrapt in these thoughts, that I did not notice the appearance of Beatrice on deck, until the question of the helmsman, dissolving my reverie, caused me to look around me. For a mo- ment I hesitated whether I should join her or not. My feelings at length, however, prevailed; and crossing the deck, I soon stood at her side. She did not appear to notice my presence, but with her elbow resting on the railing, and her head buried in her hand, was pensively looking down upon the tide. 52 “Miss Dcrwent !" said I, with a voice that I was conscious trembled, though I scarce knew why it did. ' “ Mr. Parker l” she ejaculated in a tone of sur- prise, her eyes sparkling, as starting suddenly around she blushed over neck and brow, and then as sud- denly dropped her eyes to the deck, and began playing with her fan. For a moment we were both mutually embarrassed. A woman is, at such times, the first to speak. “Shall we be able to land to-night?” said Bea- trice. “ Not unless a breeze springs up—" “ Oh! then I hope we shall not have one,"ejacu- lated the guileless girl; but instantly becoming aware of the interpretation whichmight be put upon her remark, she blushed again, and cast her eyes anew upon the deck. A strange, joyous hope shot through my bosom; but I made a strong effort and checked my feelings. Another silence ensued, which every moment became more oppressive. “ You join, I presume, your cousin’s family on landing," said I at length, “ I will, as soon as we come to anchor, send a messenger ashore, apprising him of your presence on boar ." “How shall I ever thank you sufficiently," said Beatrice, raising her dark eyes frankly to mine, “for your kindness? Never—never," she continued more warmly, " shall I forget it.” ' My soul thrilled to its deepest fibre at the words, and more than all, at the tone of the speaker; and it was with some difficulty that I could answer calmly,- “ The consciousness of having ever merited Miss Derwent’s thanks, is a sufficient reward for all I have none. That she will not wholly forget me is more than I could ask ; but believe me, Beatrice,” said I, unable to restrain my feelings, and ven- turing, for the first time, to call her by that name, “though we shall soon part forever, never, never can I forget these few happy days.” “ Why—do you leave Charleston instantly ?” said she, with emotion, “shall I not see you again after my landing ?” I know not how it is, but there are moments when our best resolutions vanish as though they had never been made; and now, as I looked upon the earnest countenance of Beatrice, and felt the fall meaning of the words so innocently said, a wild hope once more shot across my bosom, and I said softly,- “ Why, Beatrice, would it be aught to you whe- ther we ever met again '1" ' She lifted her eyes up to mine, and gazed for an nstant almost reproachfully upon me, but she did not answer. There was something, however, in the look encouraging me to go on. I took her hand : she did not withdraw it: and, in a few hurried, but burning words, I poured forth my love. “ Say, Beatrice ?" I said, “ can you, do you love me ?" She raised her dark eyes in answer up to mine, with an expression I shall never forget, and mur- mured, half inaudibly,- H You know—you know I do,” and then over- THE REEFER OF ’76. came by the consciousness of all she had done, she burst into tears. Can words describe my feelings? Oh! if I had the eloquence of a Rosseau I could not portray the emotions of that moment. They were wild; they were almost uncontrollable. The tone, the words, everything convinced me that I was beloved; and all my well-formed resolutions were dissipated in a moment. Had we been alone I would have caught Beatrice to my bosom; but as it was, I could only press her hand in silence. I needed not to be as- sured, in more direct terms, of her affection. Hence- forth she was to me my all. She was the star of my destiny! The first dawn of morning beheld us abreast of the town, and at an early hour the equipage of Mr. Rochester, the relative of Beatrice, and whose guest she was now to be, was in waiting on the quay for my beautiful charge. “ You will come to-night,will you not '.'" said she, as I pressed her hand, on conducting her to the carriage. I bowed affirmatively, the door was closed, and the sumptuous equipage, with its servants in livery, moved rapidly away. It was now that I had parted with Beatrice, that the conviction of the almost utter hopelessness of my suit forced itself upon my mind. Mr. Rochester was the nearest male relative of Beatrice, being her maternal uncle. Her parents were both deceased,~ and the uncle, whose death I have related, together will] the Carolinian nabob, were, by her father’s will, her guardians. Mr. Rochester was, therefore, her natural protector. Her fortune, though large, was fettered with a condition that she should not marry without her guardian’s consent, and I soon learned that aunion had long been projected be- tween her and the eldest son of her surviving guardian. How little hope I had before, the reader knows, but that little was now fearfully diminished. It is true Beatrice had owned that she loved me, but how could I ask her to sacrifice the comforts as well as the elegancies of life, to share her lot with a poor unfriended midshipman ? I could not endure the thought. What! should I take advan- tage of the gratitude of a pure young being—a being, too, who had always been nourished in the lap of luxury—t0 subject her to privation, and per- haps to beggary? No rather would I have lived wholly absent from her presence. I could almost have consented to lose her love, sooner than be the instrument of inflicting on her miseries so crushing. My only hope was in winninga name that would yet entitle me to ask her hand as an equal: my only fear was, lest the length of time I should be absent from her side, would gradually lose me her affection. Such is the jealous fear of a lover’s heart. Meanwhile, however, the whole city resounded with the din of war. A despatch from the Secretary of State, to Gov. Eden, of Maryland, had been in- tercepted by Com. Barron, of the Virginia service, in the Chesapeake. From this missive, intelligence was gleaned that the capital of South Carolina was to be attacked; and on my arrival I found every exertion being made to place it in a posture of THE REEFER 0F defiance. thus assumed, engrossing a large part of my time, left me little leisure, even for my suit. Still, how- , ever, I occasionally saw Beatrice, though the cold hauteur with which my visits were received by her uncle’s family, much diminished their frequency. As the time rolled on, however, and the British fleet did not make its appearance, there were not wanting many who believed that the contemplated attack had been given up. But I was not of the number. So firm, indeed, was my conviction of the truth of the intelligence that I ran out to sea every day or two, in a smart-sailing pilot-boat, in order, if possible, to gain the first positive knowledge of the approach of our foes. " A sail," shouted our look-out one day, after we had been standing off and on for several hours, “a sail, broad on the weather-beam!” Every eye was instantly turned toward the quarter indicated; spy-glasses were brought into requisition; and in a few minutes we made out distinctly nearly a dozen sail, on the larboard tack, looming up on the northern sea-board. We counted no less than six men-of-war, besides several transports Every thing was instantly wet down to the trucks, and heading at once for Charleston harbor, we soon bore the alarming intelligence to the inhabitants of the town. That night all was terror and bustle in the tumul- tuous capital. The peaceful citizens, unused to bloodshed, gazed upon the approaching conflict with mingled resolution and terror, now determining to die rather than to be conquered, and now trembling for the safety of their wives and little ones. Crowds swarmed the wharves,and even put out into the bay to catch a sight of the approaching squadron. At length it appeared off the bar, and we soon saw by their buoying out the channel, that an immediate attack was to take place by sea,—while expresses brought us hasty intelligence of the progress made by the royal troops in landing on Long Island. But want of water among our foes, and the indecision of their General, protracted the attack for more than three weeks, a delay which we eagerly improved. At length, on the morning of the 28th of June, it became evident that our assailants were preparing to commence the attack. Eager to begin my career of fame, I sought a post under Col. Moultrie, satisfied that the fort on Sullivan’s Island would have to maintain the brunt of the conflict. Never shall I forget the sight which presented itself to me on reaching our position. The fort we were expected to maintain, was a low building of palmetto logs, situated on a tongue of the island, and protected in the rear from the royalist troops, on Long Island, by a narrow channel, usually ford- able, but now, owing to the late prevalence of easterly winds, providentially filled to a depth of some fathoms. In front of us lay the mouth of the harbor, commanded on the opposite shore, at the distance of about thirty-five hundred yards, by an- other fort in our possession, where CoL Gadsen, with a respectable body of troops was posted. To the right opened the bay,sweeping almost a quarter of the compass around the horizon, toward the I' instantly volunteered, and the dutiesi north,—and on its extreme verge, to the north west, ’76. 53 rose up Haddrell’s point, where General Lee, our ‘ commander-in-chief, had taken up a position. About half way around, and due west from us, lay the city, at the distance of nearly four miles, the view being partly intercepted by the low, marshy island, called Shute‘s Folly, between us and the town. “ We have but twenty-eight pounds of powder, Mr. Parker, a fact I should not like generally known,” said Col. Moultrie to me, “but as you have been in action before—more than I can say of a dozen of my men—I know you may be trusted with the information." “ Never doubt the brave continentals here, colo- nel," I replied, “ they are only four hundred, but we shall teach yon braggarts a lesson, before to-day is over, which they shall not soon forget.” “Bravo, my gallant young friend! With my twenty-six eighteen and twenty four pounders, plenty of powder, and a few hundred fire-eaters like your- self,I would blow the whole fleet out of water. But after all," said he with good-humored raillery, “though you ’11 not glory in rescuing Miss Der- went to-day, you ’11 fight not a whit the worse for knowing that she is in Charleston, eh ! But, come, do n’t blush—you must be my aid—I shall want you, depend upon it, before the day is over. If those red-coats here, behind us, attempt to take us in the rear, we shall have hot work,—for by my hopes of eternal salvation, 1 ’ll drive them back, man and ofiicer, in spite of Gen. Lee’s fears that I cannot. But ha! there comes the first bomb.” Looking upward as he spoke, I beheld a large, dark body flying through the air; and in the next instant, amidst a cheer from our men, it splashed into the morass behind us, simmered, and went out. “ Well sent, old Thunderer," ejaculated the im- perturbable colonel, “ but, faith, many another good bomb will you throw away on the swamps and palmetto logs you sneer at. Open upon them, my brave fellows, as they come around, and teach them what Carolinians can do. Remember you fight, to-day, for your wives, your children, and your liberties. The Continental Congress forever against the minions of a tyrannical court." The battle was now begun. One by one the British men-of-war, coming gallantly into their re- spective stations, and dropping their anchors with masterly coolness, opened their batteries upon us, firing with a rapidity and precision that displayed- their skill. The odds against which we had to contend were indeed formidable. Directly in front of us, with springs on their cables, and sup- ported by two frigates, were anchored a couple of two-deckers; wltile the three other men-of-war were working up to starboard, and endeavoring to get a position between us and the town, so as to cut off our communications with Haddrell’s Point. H Keep it up—run her out again," shouted the captain of a gun beside me, who was firing delL beraiely, but with murderous precision, every shot‘ of his piece telling on the hull of one of the British cruizers, “ huzza for Carolina ‘." “Here comes the broadside of Sir Peter‘s two- decker," shouted another one, " make way for the British iron among the palmetto logs. Ha! old yellow breeches how if ye like that l" he continued, 5* 54 as the shot from his piece, struck the quarter of the flag-ship, knocking the splinters high into the air, and cutting transversely through and through her crowded decks. Meanwhile the three men-ofwar attempting to cut 03 our communications, had got entangled among the shoals to our right, and now lay utterly helpless, engaged in attempting to get afloat, and unable to fire a gun. Directly two of them ran afoul, carrying away the bowsprit of the smaller one. “ Huzza l” shouted the old bruiser again, squint- ing a moment in that direction, “ they ’re smashing each other to pieces there without our help, and so here goes at smashing their messmates in front here—what the devil," he continued, turning smartly around to cuff a powder boy, “what are you gaping up stream for, when you should be waiting on rue—take that you varmint, and see if you can do as neat a thing as this when you ’re old enough to point a gun. By the Lord Harry I ’ve cut away that fore-topmast as clean as a whistle." Meantime the conflict waxed hotter and hotter, and through the long surmner afternoon, except during an interval when we slackened it for want of powder, our brave fellows, with the coolness of veterans, and the enthusiasm of youth, kept up their fire. A patriotic ardor burned along our lines, which only became more resistless, as the wounded were carried past in the arms of their comrades. The contest was at its height when General Lee arrived from the mainland to offer to remove as if we wished to abandon our perilous position. “Abandon our position, General!” said Colonel Moultrie, “ will your excellency but visit the guns, and ask the men whether they will give up the fort T No, we will die or conquer here." The eye of the Commander-in-Chief flashed proudly at this reply, and stepping out upon the plain, he approached a party who were firing with terrible precision upon the British fleet. This fearless exposure of his person called forth a cheer from the men; but without giving him time to remain long in so. dangerous a position, Colonel Moultrie exclaimed, “ My brave fellows, the general has come off to offer to remove you to the main if you are tired of your post. Shall it be?” There was a universal negative, every man de- claring he would sooner die at his gun. It was a noble sight. "Their eyes flashing; their chests dila- ted; their brawny arms bored and covered with smoke, they stood there, determined, to a man, to save their native soil at every cost, from invasion. At this moment a group appeared, carrying a poor fellow, whom it could be seen at a glance was mortally wounded. His lips were blue; his coun- tenance‘ghastly; and his dim eye rolled uneasily about. He breathed heavily. But as he approached us, the shouts of his fellow soldiers falling on his ear, aroused his dying faculties, and lifting himself heavily-up, his eye, after wandering inquiringly about, caught the sight of his general. ' " God bless you! my poor "fellow," said Lee, compassionately, “you are, I fear, seriously hurt." THE REEFER OF ’76. The dying man looked at him as if not com- prehending his remark, and then fixing his eye upon his general, said faintly, " Did not some one talk of abandoning the fort?" “ Yes,” answered Lee, “ I offered to remove you or let you fight it out—hut I see you brave fellows would rather die than retreat.” "Die!" said the wounded man, raising himself half upright, with sudden strength, while his eye gleamed with a brighter lustre than even in health. “I thank my God that I am dying, if we can only beat the British back. Die! I have no family, and my life is well given for the freedom of my country. N o, my men, never retreat," he continued, taming to his fellow soldiers, and waving his arm around his head, “ huzza for li—i—ber—ty—huzmza-a—a," and as the word died away, quivering in his throat, he fell back, a twitch passed over his face, and he was dead. Need I detail the rest of that bloody day? For nine hours, without intermission, the cannonade was continued with a rapidity on the part of our foes, and a murderous precision On that of ourselves, such as I have never since seen equalled. Night did not terminate the conflict. The long aflemoon were away; the sun went down; the twilight came and vanished; darkness reigned over the distant shores around us, yet the flash of the guns, and the roar of the explosions did not cease. As the evening grew more obscure the whole horizon became illu- minated by the fire of our batteries, and the long, meteor-like tracks of the shells through the sky. The crash of spars; the shouts of the men; and the thunder of the cannonade formed meanwhile a discord as terrible as it was exciting; while the lights flashing along the bay, and twinkling from our encampment at Haddrell’s Point, made the scene even picturesque. Long was the conflict,_and desperately did our ene- mies struggle to maintain their posts. Even when the cable of the flag-ship had been cut away, and swinging around with her stem toward us, every shot from our battery was enabled to traverse the- whole length of her decks, amid terrific slaughter, she did not display a sign of fear, but doggedly maintained her position, keeping up a struggling- fite upon us, for some time, from such of her guns as could be brought to bear. At length, however, a new cable was rigged upon her, and swinging around broadside on, she resumed her fire. But it was in vain. Had they fought till doomsday they could not have overcome the indomitable courage of men warring for their lives and liberties; and finding that our fire only grew more deadly at every discharge, Sir Peter Parker at length made the signal to retire. One of the frigates farther in the bay had grounded, however, so firmly on the shoals that she could not be got off: and when she was abandoned and fired next morning, our brave fellows, despite the flames wresthing already around her, boarded her, and fired at the retreating squad. ron until it was out change. They had not finally deserted her more than a quarter of an hour before she blew up with a stunning shock. The rejoicing among the inhabitants after this signal victory were long and joyous. We were THE REEFER OF thanked; feted; and became lions at once. The tory families, among which was that of Mr. Ro- chester, maintained, however, a sullen silence. The suspicion which such conduct created made it scarcely advisable that I should become a con- stant visitor at his mansion,even if the cold civility ot nis family had not, as I have stated before, fur- nished other obstacles to my seeing Beatrice. Mr. Rochester, it is true, had thanked me for the ser- vices I had rendered his ward, but he had done so in a manner frigid and reserved to the last degree, closing his expression of gratitude with an offer of pecuniary recompense, which not only made the blood tingle in my veins, but detracted from the value of what little he had said. A fortnight had now elapsed since I had seen Beatrice, and I was still delayed at Charleston, waiting for a passage to the north, and arranging the proceeds of our prize, when I received an in- vitation to a ball at the house of one of the leaders of ton, who afl'scting a neutrality in politics, issued cards indiscriminately to both parties. Feeling a presentiment that Beatrice would be there, and doubtless unaccompanied by her uncle or cousin, I determined to go, and seek an opportunity to bid her farewell, unobserved, before my departure. The rooms were crowded t0 cxcess. All that taste could suggest, or wealth afl'ord, had been called into requisition to increase the splendor of the fete. Rich chandeliers; sumptuous Ottomans; flowers of every hue; and an array of loveliness such as I have rarely seen equalled, made the lofty apartments almost a fairy palace. But amid that throng of beauty there was but one form which attracted my eye. It was that of Beatrice. She was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and I felt a pang of almost jealousy, when I saw her, as I thought, smiling as gain as the most thoughtless beauty present. But as I drew nearer I noticed that, amid all her affected gaiety, a sadness w0uld momentarily steal over her fine countenance, like a cloud flitting over a sunny summer landscape. As I edged toward her through the crowd, her eye caught mine, and in an instant lighted up with'a joyousness that was no longer assumed. I felt re- paid, amply repaid by that one glance, for all the doubts I had suffered during the past fortnight; but the formalities of etiquette prevented me from doing aught except to return an answering glance, and solicit the hand of Beatrice. “ Oh! why have you been absent so long ?" said the dear girl, after the dance had been concluded, and we had sauntered together, as if involuntarily, into a conservatory behind the ball room, “every one is talking of your conduct at the fort—do you know I too am a rebel—and do you then sail for the north '1" “ Yes, dearest," I replied, “ and I have sought you to-night to bid you adieu for months—it may be for years. God only knows, Beatrice,” and I pressed her hand against my heart, “ when we shall meet again. Perhaps you may not even hear from me; the war will doubtless cut off the communica- tions; and sweet one, say will you still love me, though others may be willing to say that I have forgotten you 7” . ’76. 55 “ Oh! how can you ask me? But you—will— write—won’t you ’I" and she lifted those deep, dark, liquid eyes to mine, gazing confidingly upon me, until my soul swam in ecstacy. My best an- swer was a renewed pressure of that small, fair hand. “ And Beatrice," said I, venturing upon a topic, to which I had never yet alluded, " if they seek to wed you to another will you—you still be mine only 2" "How can you ask so cruel a question 7" was the answer, in a tone so low and sweet, yet half reproachful, that no ear but that of a lover could have heard it. “ Oh ! you know better—you know,” she added, with energy, “ that they have already planned a marriage between me and my cousin; but never, never can I consent to wed where my heart goes not with my hand. And now you know all,” she said tearfully, " and though they may forbid me to think of you, yet I can never forget the past. No, believe me, Beatrice Derwent where once she has plighted her faith, will never afterward betray it,” and overcome by her emo- tions, the fair girl leaned upon my shoulder and wept long and freely. But I will not protract the scene. Anew we exchanged our protestations of love, and after wait- ing until Beatrice had grown composed we returned to the ball room. Under the plea of illness I saw her soon depart, nor was I long in following. No one, however, had noticed our absence. Her haughty uncle, in his luxurious library, little sus- pected the scene that had that night occurred. But his conduct, I felt, had exonerated me from every obligation to him, and I determined to win his ward, if fortune favored me, in despite of his oppo- sition. My honor was no longer concerned against me : I felt free to act as I chose. The British fleet meanwhile, having been seen no more upon the coast, the communication with the north, by sea, became easy again. New York, however, was in the possession of the enemy, and a squadron was daily expected at the mouth of Dela. ware Bay. To neither of these ports, consequently, could I obtain a passage. Nor indeed did I wish it. There was no possibility that the FIRE-FLY would enter either to re-victual, and as I was anxious to join her, it was useless to waste time in a port where she could not enter. Newport held out the only chance to me for rejoining my vessel. It was but a day’s travel from thence to Boston, and at one or the other of these places I felt confident the Fran-FLY would appear before winter. The very day, however, after seeing Beatrice, I obtained a passage in a brig, which had been bound to another port, but whose destination the owners had changed to Newport, almost on the eve of sailing. I instantly made arrangements for embarking in her, having already disposed of our prize, and in. vested the money in a manner which I knew would allow it to be distributed among the crew of the FIRE-FLY at the earliest opportunity. My parting with Co]. Moultrie was like parting from a father. He gave me his blessing; I carried my kit on board; and before forty-eight hours I was once more at sea. THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE. " Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild renlity, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy." Ox Alligewi's’ mountain height An Indian hunter lay reclining, Gazing upon the sunset light In all its loveliest grace declining. Onward the chase he had since dawn‘v Pursued, with swift-winged step, o’er lawn. And pine-clad steep, and winding dell, And deep ravine, and covert nook Wherein the red-deer loves to dwell, And silent cove, and brawling brook; Yet not till twilight‘s mists descending} Had dimmed the wooded vales below, Did he, his homeward pathway wending, Droop ’neath his spoil, with footsteps slow. Then, as he breathless paused, and faint, The about of joy_that pealed on high As broke that landscape on his eye, Imaginings alone can paint. Down on the granite brow, his prey, In all its antlered glory lay. His plumage flowed above the spoil— llis quiver, and the slackened how, Gompanions of his ceaseless toil, Lay careless at its side below. Oh! who might gaze, and not grow brighter, ore pure, more holy, and serene; Who might not feel existence lighter Beneath the power of such a scene? Marking the blush of light ascending From where the sun had set afar, Tinting each fieecy cloud, and blending With the pale azure; while each star Came smiling forth ’mid roseate hue, And deepened into brighter lustre As Night, with shadowy fingers threw Her dusky mantle round each cluster. Purple. and floods of gold, were streaming Around the sunset's crimson way, And all the impassioned west wa gleaming With the rich flush of dying day. Fur, far below the wandering sight, Seen through the gath’ring gloom of night, * The Allegheny. A mighty river rushing on, Seemed dwindled to a fairy’s zone. N0 bark upon its wave was seen, Or if ’t was there, it glided by As viewless forms, that once have been, Will flit, half-seen, before the eye. Long gazed the hunter on that sight, ’Till twilight darkened into night, Dim and more dim the landscape grow, And duskier was the empyrean blue; Glittered a thousand stars on high, And wailed the night-wind sadly by; And slowly fading, one by one, Clifi', cloud, ravine, and mountain pass Grew darker still, and yet more dun, ’Till deep'ning to a shadowy mass, They seemed to mingle, earth and sky, In one wild, weird-like canopy. Yet 10! that hunter starts, and one Whom it were heaven to gaze upon. A beauteous girl,—as ’t were a fawn, So playful, wild, and gentle too,— Came bounding o’er the shadowy lawn, With step as light, and love as true. It was Echucha.’ she, his bride, Dearer than all of earth beside,— For she had left her sire’s far home, The woodland depths with him to roam Who was that sire's embittered foe! And there, in loveliness alone, With him her opening beauty shone. But even while he gazed, that form, As fades the lightning in the storm, Passed quickly from his sight. He looked again, no one was there, No voice was on the stilly air, No step upon the greenswnrd fair, But all around was night. She past. but thro’ that hunter’s mind, What wild’ring memories are rushing, As harps. beneath a summer wind, With wild, mysterious lays are gushing. THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE- 57 Fast came rememb’rance of that eve, Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss Was but to gaze, and to receive The boon of hope so vast as this— To clasp that being as his own, To win her from her native bowcrs; And form a spirit-land, alone With her amid perennial flowers. And as he thought, that dark, deep eye, Seemed hovering as ’t was wont to bless, When the soil hand would on him lie, And sooth his soul to happines. Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low, Like the first warm breath of spring, Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow, Or the ring-dove's fluttering wing, Came welling along the balmy air, As if a spirit itself was there, So sweet, so soft, so rich a strain, It might not bless the ear again, Now breathed afar, now swelling near, It gushed on the enraptured ear ;— And hark! was it her well-known tone? No—naught is heard but the voice alone. “ Warrior of the Lenape race, Thou of the oak that cannot bend, Of noble brow and stately grace, And agile step, of the Tamenend, Arise—come thou with me ! Echucha waits in silent glade, Her eyes the eagle‘s gaze assume, As daylight’s golden glories fade, To catch afar her hunter’s plume,— But naught, naught can she see. Her hair is decked with ocean shell, The vermiel bright is on her brow, The peag zone enclasps her well, Her heart is sad beneath it now, She weeps, and weeps for thee. With early dawn thou hiedst away, In reckless sports the hours to while, Oh! sweet as flowers, in moonlit ray, Shall be thy look, thy voice, thy smile, When again she looks on thee ! Oh! come, come then with me.” Scarce ceased the strain, when silence deep, As broods o‘er an unbroken sleep, Seemed hovering round; then slowly came A glow athwart the darkling night, Bursting at length to mid-day flame, And bathing hill and vale in light. While suddenly a form fiits by With step as fleet, as through the sky The morning songster skims along Preceded by his matchless song. So glided she; yet not unseen Her graceful gait, her brow serene, “‘l- m- Her finely modelled limbs so round, Her‘raven tresses all unbound, That flashing out, and hidden now, Waved darkly on each snowy shoulder,— As springing from the mountain’s brow, Eager and wild that one to know, The hunter hurried to behold her. On, on the beauteous phantom glides Beneath the sombre, giant pines That stud the steep and rugged sides Of pendant clifi‘s, and deep ravines; Down many a wild descent and dell O’ergrown with twisted lichens rude; Yet where she passed a halo fell To guide the footsteps that pursued,— Like that fell wonder of the sky That flashes o'er the starry space, And leaves its glitt’ring wake on high, For man portentous truths to trace. And onward, onward still that light Was all which beamed upon the sight. Of figure he could naught dcscry, Invisible it seemed to fly; Alluring on with magic art That half disclosing, hid in part. Bright, beautiful, resistless Fate! Oh! what is like thy magic will, Which men in blind obedience wait, Yet deem themselves unfettered still! By thee impelled that hunter sped Through shadowy wood, o'er flowery bed; When angels else, beneath his eye, Had passed unseen, unnoticed by. The Indian brave! that stoic wild, Philosophy‘s untutored child, A being, such as wisdom's torch Enkindled 'neath the attic porch, Where the Phoenician stern and eld, His wise man" to the world revealing, Divined not western wildness held Untutored ones less swayed by feeling; Whose firm endurance fire nor stake Nor torture’s fiercest pangs might shake. Yes! matter, mind, the eternal whole, In apprehension revelling free, Evolved that fearlessness of soul Which Greecel’ saw but in theory. Still on that beauteous phantom fled, And still behind the hunter sped. Nor turned she 'till where many a rock Lay rent as by an earthquake’s shock, And through the midst a stream its way Held on 'mid showers of falling spray. Marking by one long line of foam Its passage from its mountain home. *Zeno imagined his wise man, not only free from all sense of pleasure, but void of all passions, and emotions capable of being happy in the midst of torture. fThe stoics were philosophers, rather in words than in deeds. 58 THE DREAM OF THE DELAWARE. But now, amid the light mist glancing Like elf or water-nymph, the maid With ravishment of form entrancing The spell-bound gazer, stood displayed. So looked that Grecian maiden’s face, So every grace and movement shone, When 'neath the sculptor’s wild embrace, Life. love, and rapture flushed from stone. She paused, as if her path to trace Through the thick mist that boiled on high. Then taming full her unseen face, There, there, the same, that lustrous eye, So fawn-like in its glance and hue As when he first had met its ray, Echucha’s self, revealed to view— She smiled, and shadowy sank away. Again ’t was dawn: that hunter's gaze Was wand’ring o'er a wide expanse Of inland lake, half hid in haze That waved beneath the morning’s glance. The circling wood, so still and deep Its sombre hush, seemed yet asleep; Save when at intervals from tree A lone bird woke its mintrelsy, Or flitting 011' from spray to spray Mid glittering dew pursued its way. When 10! upon the list’ning ear The rustling of a distant tread, That pausing olt drew ever near A causeless apprehenion spread. And from a nook, a snow-white Hind Came bounding—beauteous of its kind !— Seeking the silver pebbled strand Within the tide her feet to lave, Er’e noonday’s sun should wave his wand Of fire across the burnished wave. Nsver hath mortal eye e’er seen Such fair proportion blent with grace; A creature with so sweet a mien Might only find its flitting place In that bright land far, far away Where Indian hunters, legends say, Pursue the all-enduring chase. The beautifully tapered head, The slender ear, the eye so bright, The curving neck, the agile tread, The strength, the eloquence, the flight Of limbs tenuitively small, Seemed imaged forth, a thing of light Springing at Nature's magic call. The sparkling surge broke at her feet, Rippling upon the pebbly brink, As gracefully its waters sweet She curved her glossy neck to drink. Yet scarce she tasted, ere she gazed Wildly around like one amazed, With head erect, and eye of fear, And trembling, quick-extended ear. Still as the serpent's hushed advance, The hunter, with unmoving glance, Wound on to where a beech-tree lay Half buried in the snowy sand: He crouches ’neath its sapless spray To nerve his never-failing hand. A whiz—a start—her rolling eye Hath caught the danger lurking nigh. She flies, but only for a. space; Then turns with sad rcproachful face; Then rallying forth her wonted strength, She backward threw her matchless head, F lung on the wind her tap’ring length, And onward swift and swifter sped,— O'er sward, and plain, and snowy strand, By mossy rocks, through forests grand, Which there for centuries had stood Rustling in their wild solitude. On, on, in that unwearied chase With tireless speed imbued, Went sweeping with an eldrich pace Pursuing and pursued ! 'Till, as the sinking orb of day, Glowed brighter with each dying ray, The fleetness of that form was lost, Dark drops of blood her pathway crost, And faint and fainter drooped that head,— She falters—sinks—one effort more— ’T is vain—her noontide strength has fled- She falls upon the shore. One eager bound—the Hunter’s knife Sank deep to end her struggling life; Yet, e’en as flashed the murd’rous blade, There came a shrill and plaintive cry: The Hind was not—a beauteous maid Lay gasping with upbraiding eye. The glossy head and neck were gone, The snowy furs that clasped her round; And in their place the peag zone, And raven hair that all unbound Upon her heaving bosom lies And mingles with the rushing gore, The sandled foot, the fawn-like eyes; All, all are thereb—he needs no more— “ Echucha—ba !" The dream hath passed; Cold clammy drops were thick and fast Upon the awakened warrior’s brow, And the wild eye that flashed around To penetrate the dark profound, Seemed fired with Frenzy’s glow. Yet all was still, while far above, Nestling in calm and holy love, The watchful stars intensely bright Gleamed meekly through the moonless night. The Hunter gazed,-—and from his brow Passed slowly off that fevered glow, For what the troubled soul can bless Like such-a scene of loveliness? He raised his quiver from his side, And downward with his antlered prey, To meet his lone Ojibway bride, He gain took his joyous way. A. F. H. MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD. BY JESSE E. DOW. Mr grandmother was one of the old school. ard that had come down from the early settllers She was a fine, portly built old lady, with a smart ' of Quinapiack, and she prized it far above many laced cap. She hated snuff and spectacles, and weightier and more useful vessels. This relic al- never lost her scissors, because she always kept ways attracted my notice—a coat of arms was them fastened to her side by a silver chain. As \ pictured upon one side of it, and underneath it the for scandal she never indulged in its use, believing, family name in old English letters, stood out like as she said, that truth was stranger than fiction and 1, letters upon an iron sign. It was of London twice as cutting. My grandmother had a penchant for old times and old things, she delighted to dwell upon the history of the past, and once a year on the day of thanksgiving and prayer, she appeared in all the glories of a departed age. Her head bore an enor- mous cushion—her waist was doubly fortified with a stomacher of whale-bone and brocade. Her skirt spread out its ample folds of brocade and embroidery , Her ; below, flanked by two enormous pockets. well-tamed ankles were covered with blue worsted stockings, with scarlet clocks, and her underpinning was completed by a pair of high quartered russet shoes mounted upon a couple of extravagant red heels. When the hour for service drew near, she added a high bonnet of antique form, made of black satin, and a long red cloak of narrow dimensions. Thus clothed, as she ascended the long slope that led to the old Presbyterian meeting house, she ap- peared like a British grenadier with his arms shot off, going to the pay ofiice for his pension. Her memory improved by age, for she doubtless recollected some things which never happened, and her powers of description were equal to those of Sir Walter Scott's old crone, whOse wild legends awoke the master’s mind to a sense of its own high powers. My grandmother came through the revolution :1 buxom dame, and her legends of cow boys and tories, of white washed chimnies and tar and feath- erings, of battles by sea, and of “ skrimmages,” as she termed them, by land, would have filled a volume as large as Fox’s book of the Martyrs, and made in the language of the day a far more readable work. I was her pet—her auditor: I knew when to smile, and when to look grave—when to approach her, and when to retire from her presence; her‘ pocket was my paradise, and her old cup-board my seventh heaven. Many a red streaked appfe and twisted doughnut ‘, manufacture, and must have been in use long be- ‘fore the Pilgrims sailed for Plymouth. It had, doubtless, been drained by cavaliers and round- , heads in the sea girt isle, l ,l "Ere the May flower lay E In the stormy bay, 1 And rocked by a barren shore." The history of this venerable relic was my grand. mother’s hobby, and as she is no longer with us to relate the story herself, I will hand it down in print, that posterity, if so disposed, may know something also of MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD. IN the year 1636, a company of fighting men from the Massachusetts colony, pursued a party of Pequots to the borders of a swamp in the pre. sent county of Fairfield, in Connecticut, and de- stroyed them by fire. The soldiers on their return to the colony spoke in rapture of a goodly land through which they passed in the south country, bordering upon a river and bay, called by the Indians Quinapiack, and by the Dutch the Vale of the Red Rocks. In the year 1637, the New Haven company, beaten out by the toils and privations of a long and boisterous voyage across the Atlantic, landed at the mouth of the Charles River, and continued for a season inactive in the pleasant tabernacles of the early pilgrims. Hearing of the fair and goodly l land beyond the Connectiquet, or Long River, and disliking the sterile shores of Massachusetts bay, I the newly arrived company sent spies into the land to view the second Canaan, and bring them a true i report. In 1638, having received a favorable account ,from the pioneers, the company embarked, and have I munched from the former,~—and many a [ sailed for that fair land, and at the close of the Pisgah glimpse have I had of the bright pewter and , tenth day the Red Rocks appeared frowning grimly brighter silver that garnished the latter. Among 1 against the western horizon, and the Quinapiack the old lady’s silver was a venerable massive tank- 1 spread out its silver bosom to receive them. The 60 vessel that brought the colony, landed them on the eastern shore of a little creek now filled up and called the meadows, about twenty rods from the corner of College and George streets, in New Haven, and directly opposite to the famous old oak, under whose broad branches Mr. Davenport preached his first sermon to the settlers, " Upon the Temptations of the Wilderness.” Time, that rude old gentleman, has wrought many changes in the harbor of Quinapiack since the days of the pilgrims; and a regiment of purple cabbages are now growing where the adventurers‘ bark rested her wave-worn keel. 1 In 1638, having laid out a city of nine‘ squares, the company met in Newman’s barn, and formed their constitution. At this meeting it was ordered that the laws of Moses should govern the colony vuntil the elders had time to make better ones. ' Theophilus Eaton, Esq. was chosen the first governor: and the whole power of the people was vested in the governor, Mr. Davenport, the minis- ter, his deacon, and the seven pillars of the church of Quinapiack. Here was church and state with a vengeance, and the pilgrims who sought freedom to worship God found freedom to worship him as they pleased, provided they worshipped him as Mr. Davenport directed. The seven pillars of the church were wealthy laymen, and were its principal support; among the number I' find'the names of those taunch old colo- nists, Matthew Gilbert and John Panderson. Governor Eaton was an eminent merchant in London, and when he arrived at Quinapiack, his ledger was transformed into a book of records for the colony. It is now to be seen with his accounts in one end of it, and the records in the other. The principal settlers of New Haven were rich London merchants. They brought with them great wealth, and calculated in the new world to engage in com- merce, free fmm the trammels that clogged them in England. They could not be contented with the old colony location. They now found a bean- tiful harbor—a fine country—and a broad river: but no trade. Where all were sellers there could be no buyers. They had stores but no customers: chips but no Wapping : and they soon began to sigh for merry England, and the wharves of crowded marts. In three years after landing at New Haven, :1 large number of these settlers determined to return to their native land. Accordingly a vessel was purchased in Rhode Island, a crazy old tub of a thing that bade fair to sail as fast broadside on as-any way, whose sails were rotten with age, and whose timbers were pierced by the worms of years. Having brought the vessel round to New Haven, the colonists, under the direction of the old ship master Lam- berton, repaired and fitted her for sea. I The day before Captain Lamberton intended to sail, Eugene Foster, the son of a wealthy merchant in London, and Grace Gilman, the daughter of one of the wealthy worthies of Quinapiack, wandered out of the settlement and ascended the East Rock. Grace Gilman was the niece of my great, great grandmother. Possessing a brilliant mind, a lovely countenance, and a form of perfect symmetry, she MY GRANDMOTHER’S TANKARD. occupied no small share of every single gentleman’s mind asleep or awake, in the colony. Her dark hair hung in ringlets about a neck of alabaster, and sheltered with smaller curls a cheek where the lily and the rose held sweet communion together. Foster had followed the object of his love to her western home, and having gained Elder Gilman's consent to his union with the flower of Quinapiack, he was now ready to return in the vessel to his native land, for the purpose of preparing for a speedy settlement in the colony. Eugene Foster was a noble, spirited youth, of high literary attainments. Besides his frequent excur- sions with the scouts, had made him an experienced woodman and hunter. His countenance was plea- sant; his eye possessed the fire of genius; and his form was tall and commanding. It was a glorious morning in autumn. The whole space around the settlement was one vast forest, and the frost had tipped the leaves of the trees with russet crimson and gold. The bare sumac lifted its red core on high, and the crab apple hung its bright fruit over every crag. The. maple shook its blood-colored leaves around, and the chesnut and walnut came pattering down from their lofty heights, like hail from a summer cloud. The heath hens sate drumming the morning away upon the mouldering trunks, whose tops had waved above the giants of the forest in former ages. The grey squirrel sprang from limb to limb. The squirrel sailed from tree to tree in his downward flight; and the growling wild cat glided swiftly down the vistas of the wood with her shrieking prey. The blue jay piped all hands from the deep woods—and the hawk, as he sailed over the par- tridge’s brood, shrieked the wild death cry of the air. A haze rested upon the distant heights, and a cloud of mellow light rolled over the little settle- ment, and faded into silver upon the broad sound that stretched out before it. It was nearly noon when the lovers—whose conversation on such an occasion I must leave the reader to imagine—turned from the enchanting prospect, which at this day exceeds any thing in America—to return to the settlement. Two Indians, of the Narragansett tribe, now bounded from the thicket, and before Foster could bring his musketoon to its rest—for he always went armed— they levelled him to the earth. A green withe was speedily twined around his arms, and he was appa- rently as powerless as a child. Grace sprang to a little path that led to the parapet of the bluff and screamed for help; that scream was her salvation, for the Indian who was binding Foster's hands, left the withe loose, and sprang toward her. In a m ment the rude hand of the red-man rested heavily upon her shoulder, and his grim look sent the blood tingling from her cheeks. Another withe was speedily passed around her arms, and then the two Narragansetts seated themselves to make a hurdle to bear the pale faced maiden away. As they were busily engaged Grace heard a whisper behind her. She turned her head half round—Foster, by great exertions, had got loose from his withe, and was crawling slowly toward his musketoon. MY GRANDMOTHER’S The Narragansetts, suspecting nothing, were sit- ting behind a little clump of sassafras, and nothing but their brawny chests could be seen through a small bend in the trunks of the trees that composed the thicket. Stealthin crept the experienced Foster to the tree where his musketoon rested. Not a crackling twig, nor rustling leaf, gave the slightest evidence of his movements. The Indians spoke in their own wild gutterals of the beauty of the pale-faced squaw, and chuckled with delight at the speedy prospect 0f roasting the young long knife by Philip’s council fire. The musketoon was just as he had left it: not a grain of powder had left the pan,—the match burned brightly at the butt, and every thing seemed to be - as effective as possible. Foster seized it and mo- tioned to Grace to stoop her head, so as to give him a chance to bring the red men in a range through the opening in the thicket. Grace bent her head to the ground, while her heart beat with fearful anticipation. The young pilgrim aimed his deadly weapon, as a fine opportp- nity presented itself. The two savages were sitting cross-legged, side by side, and their brawny breasts were seen, one bending slightly before the other. Foster aimed so as to give each a fair proportion of slugs—for he had a charge for a panther in his barrel—and fired. A loud report rang down the aisles of the forest, and rattled in echoes over the settlement, while the two Indians bounded up with a fearful yell, and fell dead upon the half-made hurdle. Foster sprang to the side of Grace, and casting loose the withe that confined her swollen arms, bore her over the bodies of the Narragansetts, whose horrid scowls never were forgotten by the affrighted maid. A war-whoop now rung in the usual pathway to the settlement, and Foster saw that he must take a shorter cut or die. Grace had fainted, and every thing depended upon his manliness and strength. He therefore approached the brink of the precipice. A wild grape vine, that had grown there since the morning of time, for aught he knew, extended far up the perpendicular rock, from a crag below. He bound the fair girl to his breast with his neckcloth and shot-belt, and grasping the stem of the vine, descended. As he slipped down, the vine began to yield, and just as his foot touched the narrow crag, the whole vine, with a mass of loose earth and stones, gave way with a tremendous crash, and hung, from the crevice where he stood, like a fea- ther quivering beneath his feet. Foster was for a moment diuy, but he cast his eyes upward, and beheld the eyes of an Indian glaring upon him from the top of the rock. He was nerved in a moment: and seeing a ledge a foot and a half broad, beyond a fissure, about eight feet over, and very deep, he determined to spring for it. Grace Gilman, how- ever, was a dead weight to the young man, and he feared the result. The ledge seemed to run at an angle of forty-five degrees along the front of the rock, to a side hill, formed by fallen rocks and earth. A wild vine hung down over the fissure, covered with tempting fruit. He reached out his band and grasped the main stem as it waved in the breeze,_—-_it was strong, and its roots seemed firmly TANKARD. 61 imbedded in a crevice above him. Commending himself to that Creator whose tireless eye takes in at a glance his creatures, he made his leap! The damp wind from the fissure rushed by his ears; the vine cracked and rustled above him; rich clusters of luscious fruit came tumbling upon his head; and the birds of night came shrieking out from their dark shelters in the fissure as he swung past. Fos- ter, however, did not waver, his foot struck the ledge and he leaned forward; the vine flew back like a pendulem as he let it go, and he slid down the smooth ridge of theledge in safety. In a short time he brought up against a heap of earth that had fallen from the mountain top, and springing up, bounded like the chamois hunter from crag to crag, until he stood upon the broad bottom, without a bruise or a scratch upon himself or his fair charge. In twenty minutes the young pilgrim entered the settlement by the forest way, with the almost life- less form of his beloved buckled to his breast, While savage yells of disappointment came down from the summit of the East Rock, and caused the young mothers of Quinapiack to press their startled babes I closer to their trembling hearts. None had dared to follow the adventurous pil- grim’s course down the mountain’s perpendicular side: and the ledges that jut out like faint shadows from the bluff, are called Foster's Stepping Stone by those who know the incident to this day. The report of the'musketoon was heard in the settlement. The soldiers of the colony stood to their arms, and when Foster had made his report, several strong parties went out upon a scout; but it was of no use; drops of blood only were dis- covered sprinkled upon the sassafras-leaves, and a heavy trail leading toward the Long River._ The fighting men of Quinapiack, after a weary march, gave up the pursuit of the Narragansetts, and re- turned leisurely to the settlement. Night now set- tled like a raven upon the land—the drums beat to prayers—one by one the lights went out in the cottages of the pilgrims; and as the watch-fire sent forth its ruddy blaze from the common—now the col- lege green—the colony slumbered in sweet forgetful- ness, or wandered in visions amid the scenes of their childhood by the broad Shaman or the silver Ayr. Who can tell the strange thoughts that agitated the sleepers’ souls? The old men, had they no pleasures of memory? The young men and the maidens, had they no dreams of joy—no bright pictures of trysting trees and lovely glens where the white lady moved in her noiseless path, or the fairies danced on the moonlight sward'! Had the politician no dream of departed power? No sigh for his rapid fall? Had the soldier no dream of glory—no sound of stirring bugles melting upon his ear? Had the minister of God no dream of greatness—when before the kings and princes of the world he stood? and like Nathan of old said in Christ-like majesty to the offending monarch— “Thou art the man." IT was sunrise at Quinapiack, and the seven pil- lars were no longer seven sleepers. Eugene Foster I 62 MY GRANDMOTH stood beside Grace Gilman, while the old elderl wrestled valiantly in prayer. When the momingI service was ended, and a substantial breakfast had been stowed away with no infant’s hand, Foster' imprinted a kiss upon the cheek of the bashful puritan. “ Farewell, Grace,” said be, u we are ready to sail. In a few months more the smoke shall curl from my cottage chimney, and the good people of the colony shall wait at the council board for good man Foster." “Eugene,” said Grace, with eyes sufliised with tears, “ your time will pass pleasantly in England; but, oh! how long will the period of your absence seem in this lone outpost of civilization. Do not, then, tarry in the land of your fathers beyond the time necessary for accomplishing your business. There are many Graces in England, but there are but few Fosters here." “Grace,” said Foster blushing, “there is no Grace in England like the Grace of Quinapiack, and he who would leave the blooming rose of the wilderness, for the sick lily of the hot-house. deserves not to enjoy the fresh blessings of Provi- dence. The wind that blows back to the western continent shall fill my sails, and I will claim my bride.” The old puritan now gave the young man his blessing. Foster drew from his cloak fold this silver tankard,—marked, as you now see it,—[so said my grandmother, as she held the antique vessel up to the light,] and presented it to Grace as an earnest of his love. The elder, after seeing that it was pure silver, exclaimed against the gew-gaws, and the drinking measures of a camel world, and left the room. Two hearty kisses were now heard, even by the domestics in the Gilman family. The elder entered the breakfast room in haste; Eugene bounded out of the door-Grace glided like a fairy up stairs, and the old tankard rested npon the table. After placing on board of the return ship the massive plate, and other valuables of the discontented merchants, those whose hearts failed them, embarked amid the tears and prayers of Davenport and his faithful associates. The sails were spread to the breeze—the old ship bowedher head to the foam, and dashed out of the harbor in gallant style. Grace watched the vessel as she departed, and when the evening came, she wept in her silent chamber, for her heart was sad. It was a sad day for the remaining colonists when the ship dipped her topsails in the southern waves. A feeling of loneliness, such as the traveller feels when lost in a boundless wood, seized upon them, and the staunchest wept for their native land, and the air was damp with tears. The next mom- lng the settlement became more cheerful, for what can raise the drooping soul like the still glories of a New England autumn morning? The ship would, in all probability, return in a few months with neces- sary stores for the colonists, and then, should the company grow weary of the new country, they could return to their native land with their wives, and re- count to kind friends the perils of an ocean voyage, and of a solitary home in a savage land. Q i 1‘ It * * * art’s TANKARD. er long and melancholy months rolled away, and no tidings of the pilgrims' ship had reached the ears of the anxious settlers of Quinapiack. A vessel had arrived at Plymouth after a short passage, but nothing had been heard of Lamberton’s bark when she sailed. A terrible mystery hung over the ill- filled and crazy ship. Autumn now came in its beauty, and still no tidings came to cheer the sink- ing soul, and gladden the heavy heart. Grace Gilman now began to pine, like the fair flower, whose root the worm of destruction has struck, and whose brightness slowly fades away. At length the good people of Quinipiack could stand this state of suspense no longer, and the Rev. Mr. Davenport, and his little flock, besought the Lord with sighs and tears, and heartfelt prayers to shew them the fate of their friends by a visible sign from heaven. Four successive Sabbaths the worthy minister strove for a revelation of the mystery, and on the afternoon of the last day, when silence brooded over the settlement; when even the barn-fowl grew _ silent upon his roost, and the well-trained dog lay watching by the old family clock, for sunset, and the hour of play, the cry came up from the water side,—-“ A sail! a sail l"—and the drums beat with a double note, and the gravest leaped for joy. The cry operated like an electric shock upon the whole mass of the people. The old and the young, the sick and the well, went out upon the shore to view the approaching stranger, and the seaman stood by the landing place ready to make her fast. Grace Gilman was in the centre of the throng, and the worthy minister, Davenport, waited silently by her side. There is no moment so full of interest to us as that when a vessel from our nativeland approaches us upon a distant shore. How many anxious hearts are waiting to rise or fall, as good or bad tidings salute their ears. How many watch the faces that throng the deck, and turn fi'om countenance to countenance with eager look, until their eyes rest upon some familiar face, and their anxiety issatisfied. There are cold hearts also in such a crowd,— worldly men, who come to gather news. What care they for afl'ection's warm greeting, or the throb of sympathy? What know they of a sister’s love; aye! or of that deeper love which only exists in the breast of woman! which carried her to Pilate’s hall, to Calvary’s scene of blood, and to Joseph’s tomb? The price of cotton, of tobacco, bread- stufi's, rise of fancy stocks, election of a favorite candidate, or the death of a rich relative, are sweeter than angel whispers to their ears, and a rise of two pence on com is enough to fill a whole exchange with ruptures. There were but few such worldlings on the load ing place of Quinapiack on the Sabbath eve when the gallant vessel of the pilgrims approached the shore. Silence reigned upon the landing, and a dreadful stillness hung over' the approaching ship. Gallantly she entered the harbor, and the boldest on shore trembled for her temerity in carrying-such a press of canvas. Not a sail had she handed—not a man was aloft. Her course varied not-neither did the water ripple before her bows. All was now anxiety. A hail went forth from the land,—u MY GRANDMOTHER’S moment of breathless curiosity passed, butno answer Another hail was treated with the same came. . neglect. At length Mr. Davenport hailed the stranger. As the words slowly burst from the brazen trumpet, a bright ray of sunlight gleamed full upon the vessel. Her top-masts now faded into air—then the sails and rigging down to her courses— her ensign next rolled away upon the breeze, and when the East Rock sent back the last echo of the trumpet, the pilgrims’ ship had vanished away. A similar ship, though of much smaller dimensions, now appeared upon a heavy cloud that hung over Long Island, and faded away with the brightness of the day. “ It is the promised sign,“ said Mr. Davenport. “ Our friends are lost at sea," cried the multitude. " Eugene is drowned !" screamed Grace Gilman, and the crowd dispersed to weep alone. vAs the throng moved away from the water side, a maniac girl who had been gathering wild flowers upon the East Rock, came running in from the forest way, chaunting the following words to a plaintive air :— 1 She leaves the port with swelling sails, And gaudy streamer flaunting free, She woos the gentle western gales, And takes her pathway o’er the sea. The vales go down where roses bloom- The hill tops follow green and fair; The lofty beacon sinks in gloom, And purpled mountains hang in air. Along she speeds with snowy wings, Around her breaks the foaming deep; The tempest thro’ her rigging sings, And weary eyes their vigils keep. _ Loud thunders rattle on the ear; Saint Elmo's fire her yard-arms grace, The boldest bosom sinks in fear, While death stands watching face to face. Months roll, and anxious friends await Some tidings of the home-bound bark, But ah! above her hapless fate Mysterious shadows slumber dark. No tidings come from Albion’s shore To wild New England’s rocky lee ; Hope sickens, dies, and all is o’er, The pilgrim’s bark is lost at sea. But see around you woody isle A gallant vessel sweeps in pride, Her presence bids the mourners smile, And hope reviving marks the tide. But ah! her topsails fade away, Her gaudy streamer floats no more, A shadow fiits across the bay, The pilgrim’s dying hope is o'er. * * * * * * Washington, January, 1841. 63 TANKARD- Uros a couch, in a little parlor in Quinapiack, surrounded by a number of the worthy settlers of both sexes, rested, at the close of that Sabbath day, Grace Gilman. Her cup of sorrow was full, and she prayed for the approach of the angel of death. Beside her stood the silver tankard, and her dim eye endeavored in vain to read the inscription. “ Aunt Tabitha," said the sufferer to my great great grandmother, “read the inscription for me." The good aunt bent over 'the vessel, and read aloud :— “Sm JOHN FOSTER, 0s LONDON, MASTER OF THE ROLL ." And underneath, in small capitals, she read :— “EUGENE Fos'rrcn, T0 Gnacr: Gruusn, AI an ssnnss'r or ms nova. “ An empty cup to hold our tears, A flowing bowl to drown our fears, In life 01- death, this cup shall be A poor remembrancer of me.” “Brother,” said Mr. Davenport, as he .slowly entered the room, “why weepest thou ? Daughter of the church, why sittest thou in sadness? Children of God, why shed these useless tears? Arise, and let us bless the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth forever." The broken-hearted girl folded her hands. The aged father bent over her pillow. The friends leaned upon their staves,>and the minister poured forth his soul in unstudied prayer. A sweet strain of thrilling music now broke upon the ear,-—a sound of gentle voices echoed in the hall,-—a rustling of wings was heard overhead,—a faint whisper of “Eugene! Eugene! I— come—” died away on the sufi‘erer’s pillow: and when the prayer was ended, the little company found them- selves alone, watchers with the dead. Grace Gilman had breathed her last, and the betrothed of the pilgrim joined her lover in heaven. __ an: poor girl was buried agreeably to her wishes, upon the mountain side. The tankard became the property of her aunt Tabitha, and finally came to a rest in my grandmother’s cupboard. And now when the Sabbath evening commences, the rustic swain, as he passes the foot of the mountain, fancies - that he sees a. white figure beckoning“ to him from the cliff, and hears, amid the sighing of the woods, 8. low, but fearfully distinct whisper, saying—u Eu- gene! Eugene! 1 come l” And oft since, through the dim twilight of a summer's Sabbath evening, has been seen the spirit-ship of the long-lost Pil- grims, ploughing her unmfiled course through the calm waters of Quinipiack, and, when hailed, in- stantly disappearing. THE RESCU ED KNIGHT. A TALK OF THE CRUSADES- IT was starlight on Galilee. The placid lake lay at the feet, slumbering as calmly as an infant, with the wooded shores, and the tall cliffs around, reflected darkly in its surface. Scarcer a breath disturbed the quiet air. Occasionally a ripple would break on the shore with a low, measured harmony, and anon a tiny wave would glisten in the starlight, as a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the lake. The song of the fisherman was hushed; the voice of the vine-dresser had ceased on the shore; the cry of the eagle had died away amongst his far-off hills, and the silence of midnight, deep, hushed, and awe-inspiring, hung over Galilee. A thousand years before, and what stpnes had that seabeheld! There, had lived Peter and his brethren; there, had our Saviour taught; upon those shores had his miracles been wrought; and on the broad bosom of Gennesserat he had walked a God. What holy memories were linked in with that little sea! How calm and changeless seemed its quiet depths! A thousand years had passed since then, and the apostles and their children had mouldered into dust, yet the stars still looked down on that placid lake unchanged, shining the same as they had done for fifty centuries before. On the shore of the lake, embowered in the thick woods, stood a large old, rambling fortified building, bearing traces of the Roman architecture, upon which had been engrafted a Saracenic style. It enclosed a garden, upon one side of which was a range of low buildings, dark, massy, frowning, and partly in ruins, but which bore every evidence of being still almost impregnable. Within this range of buildings, in a dark and noisome cell, reclined, upon a scanty bed of straw, a Christian knight. His face was pale and attenu- ated, but it had lost, amid all his sufferings, none of his high resolve. It was now the seventh day since he had lain in that loathsome dungeon, and the morrow’s sun was to see him die a martyr, for not abjuring his religion. “ Yes 1” he muttered to himself, “the agony will soon be over: it is but an hour at the most, and shall a Christian knight fear fire or torture? No : come when it may, death should ever be welcome to a de Guiscan; and how much more welcome when it brings the glories of martyrdom. But yet it is a fearful trial. I could fall in battle, for there a thousand eyes behold us, but to die alone, unheard of, with only foes around, and where none shall ever hear of my fate.—Oh! that indeed is bitter. Yet I fear not even it. Thank God !” he said, fervently kissing a. cross he drew from his bosom, “ there is a strength given to us in the hour of need, 1 which bears us up against every danger.” The speaker suddenly started, ceased, and looked around. The bolt of his door was being withdrawn from the outside. Could it be that his jailor was about to visit him at this hour? Slowly the messy door swung on its hinges, and a burst of light, streaming into the cell, for a moment dazzled the eyes of the captive; but when he grew accustomed gradually to the glare, he started, with even greater surprise, to behold, not his jailor, but a maiden, richly attired in the Oriental dress. For an instant the young knight looked amazed, as if he beheld a being of another world. ' “ Christian !” said the apparition, using the mon- grel tongue, then adopted by both Saracens and Franks in their communications, but speaking in a low, sweet voice, which, melting from the 'maiden's tongue, made every word seem musical, "do you die to-morrow T" " If God wills it,” said the young knight firmly, “ but what mean you ?—why are you here 2" ‘~ I am here to save you," said the maiden, fixing her eye upon his, “ that is,” and she paused and blushed in embarrassment, “ if you will comply with my conditions." The young knight, who had eagerly started for- ward at the first part of her sentence, now recoilzed, and with a firm voice, though one gentler than he would have used to aught less fair, exclaimed,— “ And have you too been sent to tempt me? But go to those from whom you came, and tell them that Brian de Guiscan, will meet the stake rejoicing, sooner than purchase life by abjuring his God—3’ “ You wrong—you wrong me," hastily inter- posed the maiden, “ I come not to ask you to desert your God, but to tell you that I also would be a Christian. Listen,—for my story must be short—my nurse was a Christian captive, and from her I learned to love your Saviour. I have long sought to learn more of your religion, and I’ am come now," and again she blushed in embarrass- ment, “ to free you, sir knight, if you will conduct me to your own land. I am the daughter of the Emir; I have stolen his signet, and thus obtained the keys to your cell—" “It is enough, fair princess, my more than de- liverer," said the knight eagerly, “ gladly will I sell l my life in your defence.” THE R'ESCUED KNIGHT. "Hist!" said the maiden in a whisper, placing her finger on her lips, “ if we speak above a mur- mur we shall, perhaps be overhead—follow me,” and turning around, she passed swiftly through the door, and extinguishing her light, looked around to see if she was followed, and flitted into a dark alley 0f overhanging trees. Who can describe the emotions of de Guiscan’s bosom, as he traversed the garden after his guide? His release had been so sudden that it seemed like a dream, and he placed his hand upon his brow as if to assure himself of the reality of the passing scene. Nor were the sensations, which he expe- rienced, less mixed than tumultuous. But over every other feeling, one was predominant—the de- termination to perish rather than to be re-taken, or, least of all, to suffer a hair of his fair rescuer’s head to be injured. Their noiseless, but rapid flight toward the lower end of the garden, and' thence through a postern gate into the fields beyond, was soon completed,— and it was only when, arriving at a. clump of palms, beneath which three steeds, and a mule attendant, could be seen, as if awaiting them, that the maid broke silence. “ Mount, Christian,” she said in her sweet voice, now trembling with excitement; and then turning toward her father’s towers, she looked rnournfully at them a moment, and de Guiscan saw, by the star- light, that she wept. In a. few_ minutes, however, they were mounted; and so complete had been the maiden’s preparations, that de Guiscan’s own horse, lance,'and buckler, had been provided for him, But on whom would suspicion be less likely to rest than on the Emir’s daughter ? They galloped long and swiftly through that night, and just as morning began to break across the hills of Syria, they turned aside into a thick grove, and, dismounting, sought rest. The attendant tied the foaming steeds a short distance apart, and, for the first time, the princess and de Guiscan were alone since his escape. “ Fair princess," said the young knight, “ how shell I ever show my gratitude to you? By what name may I call my deliverer i!“ " Zelma !“ said the maiden modestly, dropping her eyes before those of the knight, and speaking with a certain tremulousness of tone that was more eloquent than words. _~‘ “ Zelma i” said de Guiscan astonished, “ and do I indeed behold the far-famed daughter of the Emir, Abel~dek, she for whom the Saracenic chivalry have broken so many lancesZ Thou art indeed beautiful, for more beautiful than I had dreamed, The blessed saints may be praised, that thou wishest to be a Christian.” “ Such is my wish,” said the maiden meekly, as if desiring to change the conversation from her late act, “ and I pray that, as soon as may be, we may reach some Christian outpost, where you will place me in charge of one of those holy women, of whom I have heard my nurse so often speak; and after that, the only favor I ask of you, sir knight, is, that, should you ever meet my father, Abel-dek, in battle, ‘ you will avoid him, for his daughter’s sake." 65 “ It is granted, sweet Zelma," said de Guiscan enthusiastically. But the attendant now retuming,_ their conversation was closed for the present. Why was it that de Guiscan, instead of retiring to rest, when, having formed a rude couch for Zelma, he persuaded her to take a short repose, kept guard for hours, busy with his own thoughts, but without uttering a word? Was it solely grati- tude to the fair Saracen which forbid him to trust her safety even for a moment to her attendant, or had another and deeper feeling, arising partly from gratitude, and partly from a tenderer source, taken possession of his soul? Certain it is, that though the young knight had gazed on the bright eyes of his own Gascony, and seen even the fair-haired maidens of England, yet never had he experienced toward any of them, such feelings as that which he now experienced toward Zelma. Hour after hour passed away, and still he stood watching over her slum- bers. ' It was late in the afternoon when the little party again set forth on their flight. De Guiscan, when the road permitted it, was ever at the bridle reins of Zelma, and'though his keen eye often swept anx- iously around the landscape, their conversation soon grew deeply interesting, if we may judge by the stolen glances and, heightened color of Zelma, and the eager attention with which the young knight. listened to the few words which dropped from her lips. How had their demeanor changed since the night before! Then the princess was all energy, now she was the startled girl again. Then do Guiscan followed powerless as she led, now he it was upon whom the little party leaned for guidance. “ Pursuit, the saints be praised, must long since have ceased," said do Guiscan, “ for yonder is the last hill hiding us from the Christian camp. When we gain that we shall be able to see, though still distant, the tents of my race.” The eyes of the maiden sparkled, and giving the reins to their steeds, they soon gained the ascent The scene that burst upon them was so grand and imposing that, involuntarily, for a moment, they, drew in and paused. Before them stretched out an extensive plain, bounded on three sides by chains of hills, while on the fourth, and western border, glistened far away the waters of the Mediterranean: Rich fields of waving green; sparkling rivers, now lost and now' emerging to sight; rolling uplands, crowned with cedar forests; and, dimly seen in the distance, a long line of glittering light, reflected from the armor of the Crusaders, and telling where lay the Christian camp, opened out before the eyes of the fugitives. “The camp—the camp," said de Guiscan joy, ously, pointing to the far-off line of tents. The maiden turned her eyes to behold the glitter- ing sight, gazed at it a moment in silence, and ther. casting a look backward, in the direction of her father’s house, she heaved a deep sigh, and said calmly: ’ ' ' " Had we not better proceed l" “ By my halidome, yes l” said de Guiscan with sudden energy, “ see yon troop of Saracens pricking up the mountain side in our rear—here—in a line with that cedar-” 6* 66 “ I see them," said Zelma, breathlessly, “ they are part of the Emir’s guard—they are in pursuit." “On—on,” was the only answer of the young knight, as he struck the Arabian on which the maiden rode, and plunged his spurs deep into his horse’s flanks. They had not been in motion long before they beheld their pursuers, approaching, better mounted than themselves, sweeping over the brow of the hill above, in a close, dense column. " Swifter—swifter, dear lady," said the knight, looking back. “ Oh! we are beset,” suddenly said Zelma, in a voice trembling with agitation, “ see—a troop of our pursuers are winding up the path below." The knight’s eyes following the guidance of the maiden’s trembling finger, beheld, a mile beneath him, a large company of infidel horse, closing up the egress of the thgitives. He paused an instant, almost bewildered. But not a second was to be lost. “Where does this horse path lead ?” he said, turning to the attendant, and pointing to a narrow way, winding amongst precipitous rocks, toward the left. “ It joins the greater road, some distance below.” “ Then, in God’s name let us enter it, trusting to heaven for escape. If it comes to the worst I can defend it against all comers, provided there is any part of it too narrow for two to attack me abreast.” "- There are many such spots l" " Then the saints be praised. In, in, clear lady—- in all.” Their pace was now equally rapid until they reached a narrow gorge, overhung by high and in- accessible rocks, and opening behind into a wide highway, bordering upon a plain below. “ Here will I take my position, and await their attack," said de Guiscan. “ How far is the nearest Christian outpost 'l” H A league beneath.” “ Hie, then, away to it, and tell them do Guiscan escaped from a Saracen prison, awaits succor in this pass. We cannot all go, else we may be overtaken. Besides, you may be intercepted below. If you live to reach the crusaders, I will make you rich for life. By sundown I may expect succor if you suc- ceed. Till then I can hold this post.” The man made an Oriental obeisance, and va- nished, like lightning, down the acclivity. " Here they come,” said de Guiscan, “they have found us out, and are swooping like falcons from the heights.” The, maiden looked, and beheld the troop of Saracens defiling down the mountain, one by one; the narrowness of the path forbidding even two to ride abreast. “ Allah il Allah l" shouted the foremost infidel, perceiving the knight, and galloping furiously upon him as he spoke. Not a word was returned from the crusader. He stood like a statue of steel, awaiting the onset of the fiery Saracen. As the infidel swept on his career, he gradually increased his distance from his friends, until a considerable space intervened between him and the troop of Moslems. This was THE anchED KNIGHT. the moment for which the young knight had so anx' iously waited. " Allah il Allah l" shouted the infidel, waving his scimeter around his head, as he came sweeping down upon the motionless crusader. “ A de Guiscan! a de Guiscan !” thundered the knight, raising the war-'cry of his fathers, as he couched his lance, and shot like an arrow from the pass. There was a tramp—a wild shout—a fleet- ing as of a meteor—and then the two combatants met in mid-career. Too late the infidel beheld his error, and sought to evade that earthquake charge. It was in vain. Horse and rider went down before the lance of the crusader, and the last life-blood of the Saracen had ebbed forth before de Guiscan had even regained his position. The savage cry of revenge which the companions of the fallen man set up, would have apalled any heart but that of de Guiscan. But he knew no fear. The presence of Zelma, too, gave new strength to his arm, and new energy to his soul. For more than an hour, aided by his strong position, he kept the whole Saracen force at bay. Every man who attacked him went down before his lance, or fell beneath his sword. At length,as sunset approached, the Saracens hemming him in closer and closer, succeeded in driving him back behind a projecting rock, which, though it protected his person, pre- vented him from doing any injury to his assailants, who, meanwhile, were endeavoring, by climbing up the face of the rock, to attack him from overhead. He found that it was impossible to hold out many moments longer. He turned to look at the maiden: she was firm and resolved, though pale. “ We will die together," said she, drawing closer to his side, as if there was greater protection there than where she had been standing. “ Yes! dear Zelma, for that is, I fear me, all that is left for us to do.” “Hark!” suddenly said the maiden, “hear you not the clattering of horses' feet—here—in the rear '2” “Can it be your attendant returned '2” “Yes—yes! it is—praised be the Christian’s God.” “ I vow a gold candlestick to the Holy shrine at Jerusalem !" On, like a whirlwind, came the host of the Chris- tians, over the plain beneath, and through the broad highway, until, perceiving their rescued countryman still alive with his charge, they raised such a cry of rejoicing that it struck terror into every Moslem’s heart. In a few moments all danger to the fugi- tives was over. ‘ The infidels, now in turn retreating, were pursued and cut off almost to a man, by a detachment of the Christian force; while another party of the sac; corers bore the rescued fugitives in triumph to the Christian outpost. In the parlor of the convent, at Jerasas lem, a few months later De Guiscan awaited the appearance of Zelma. Since the day when they had together reached the Christian outpost, he had not beheld that beautiful Saracen, for she had seized the first opportunity to place herself under the instruc- tion of the holy abbess of the —-—- convent at LITTLE CHILDREN. Jerusalem. During that separation, however, do Guiscan had thought long and ardently of his res- cuer. In the bivouac; amid the noise of a camp; in the whirl of battle; surrounded by the beautiful and gay; wherever, in short, he went, the young knight had carried with him the memory of the fair being who, at the peril of her life, had saved him from the stake. Their hurried conversation in the palm grove was constantly recurring to his memory. Oh ! how he wished that he might once more be- hold Zelma, if only to thank her anew for his life. But constantly occupied in the field, he had not been at‘leisure to visit Jerusalem, until a summons come from France, informing him of his father’s death, and the necessity that he should immediately proceed homeward, to preserve the succession to his barony. He determined to see Zelma once ‘ more, if only to bid her farewell forever. As he was swayed thus by his emotions, he heard a light step, and looking up, he beheld the Saracen princess. “ Zelma !” he ejaculated. “ De Guiscan l" said the maiden, eagerly advanc- ing, but checking herself as instantly, she stood, in beautiful embarrassment, before the knight. 67 Both felt the difiiculty of their relative positions, and both would have poken, but could not. At length de Guiscan said,— “Lady ! I have come to thank you again for my life, before I leave this land forever.” “ Leave J ernsalem—Palestine forever !" ejacu- lated Zelma. ' A bright, but long-forbidden hope lighted up the countenance of the young knight, and perceiving the renewed embarrassment with which the speaker paused, he said: “ Dear lady! I am going to my own sunny land far away; but I cannot depart without telling you how deeply I love you, and that I have thought of you, only of your sex, ever since we parted Oh! if not presumption, might I hope ?” The still more embarrassed maiden blushed, but she did not withdraw the hand which the young knight had grasped. He raised and kissed it. The next moment the trembling, but glad girl, fell weep- ing on his bosom. She, too, had thought only of him. The proudest family in the south of France, to this day, trace their origin to the union of Zelma and de Guiscan. * * * ‘34!— LITTLE CHILDREN. BY'HBB- C. H. W. IBLING. .11 I LOVE those little happy things, they seem to me but given, To mirror on this lower earth, the far-off smiling heaven, rl‘heir blue eyes shining ever bright like violets steep’d in dew. Their looks of angel innocence—who 'd not believe them true? The echo of the merry laugh, so full of heartfelt glee, The very revelry of joy, untameable, and free ; The little feet that almost seem to scorn our mother earth, But ever, ever lisping on in frolic, and in mirth. Oh! how we look on them, and think of all our childhood’s hours, When we were sunny-hearted too, and wander'd among flowers, When like to theirs, our floating locks, were left to woo the breeze, Oh ! Time, in all thy calender, thou 'st no such times as these. Philadelphia, January, 1841. I do forget how many years have sadly past me by, Since my young sun of rising morn, shone gayly in the sky ; p , When I behold these happy things in all their joyous Play, . Pouring the sunshine of their hearts, upon my cloud y way. Would I could watch their gentle growth, and guard them from the blight, - That ever tracks the steps of Time, like darken‘d clouds of night, Would I could see their laughing eyes still innocently wear ‘ The looks of guileless purity, unmixed with woe, or care. Dear little children, ye have been to me, a source of joy, The sweet drop in the bitter cup of life’s too sad alloy. In ye, mine early days return, the rainbow days of youth, “ Ot' single-hearted blessedness, of tenderness, and truth. THE SILVER DIGGER. BY J- “HA ! ha! ha 1” shouted Piet Albrecht, “and so old Chriss Mienckel is going to be married at last, and to pretty Barbara Mullerhorn, the violet of the forest! Your gold and silver are the best suitors after all! Give me a purse of yellow pieces before all the rifles of the mountain. What sayest thou, comrade,” continued he, clapping upon the back a young man, who sat next to him, “ dost thou not think that old Mullerhorn, the golddover, would have fancied thee much better, if thou hadst carried more metal in thy pouch than upon thy shoulder ?” “ I pray thee, Piet,” responded the young man, “ keep thy scurvy jests to thyself. My soul is far too heavy for mirth.” “ Holy Saint Nicholas !" said Piet, “ he thinks of little Barbara! Well, courage, comrade, and drink somewhat of this flask. Right Schiedarn, arid full old,I warrant thee. What, not a drop? Well, here ’s to thee, then.” “Aye,” said a tall, dark visaged man, attired in a hunter’s garb, “ aye! these love sick spirits are hardly worth the trouble of enlivening. Once was Adolf the gayest hunter in the hills; but of late, his courage is as dull as a hare’s, and all for a green girl, whose old schelm of a father loves his own broad pieces too well, to bestow her upon a ranger of the free woods.” “ Peace, Franz Rudenfranck,” said the youth; “ I will hear such words, not even from thee. If old Mullerhom continues to refuse me, I will leave these, my native mountains, and wander in some far distant land, hopeless and broken hearted.” “Pshaw,” rejoined Rudenfranck, “thou art far too young for despair as yet. Throw thine ill-humor to the fiend, whence it came. There are other lasses as fair as Barbara Mullerhorn, and, by my faith, not so difficult to obtain. Therefore, fill comrades, let us pass a health to the recovery of AdolPe heart, and a more favorable issue to his pauion." And the cup went gaily round, amid the shouts of the revellers. Adolf Westerbok had been the gayest huntsman of the F g district, and the truest and merriest led in the mountain, until an accidental meeting with Barbara Mullerhom at a dance, had entirely changed the current of his feelings. It is an old story, and a much hackneyed one, that of love. Let us spare the description. Suffice it to say that Adolf and Barbara met often, and that a mutual affection subsisted between them. TOPRAM EVANS. Adolf proposed himself to old Mullerhorn, and demanded Barbara in marriage. But old Philip Mullerhorn, a rude, churlish, and avaricious farmer, scornfully rejected the proffer of Adolf, and forbade him any farther interview with Barbara, alleging, as the grounds of his disinclination, the poverty of the hunter. Barbara was no less afflicted than Adolf. Still, meetings between them were con- trived. At last, on the very evening, upon which the conversation, narrated above, took place, Bar- bara informed her distracted lover, that her father had announced to her his intention of bestowing her in marriage upon Chriss Mienckel, an elderly widower, whose share of this world’s goods was ample enough to attract the covetous regards of old Philip Mullerhom. Burning with rage, and filled with tumultuous thoughts, Adolf quitted Barbara, after bestowing upon her a long embrace, and repaired to the ion of the hamlet, in hopes of finding Franz Ruden- franclr, a huntsman, who had professed a singular attachment for him, and who had signalised this attachment by many personal proofs of friendship. The news of old Mienckel’s success had reached the hamlet before him, and he had not been seated many minutes, before Piet Albrecht, the profeed joker of the village, began to rally him upon the subject. Piet had already irritated Adolf in no small measure; but the lover had thus far concealed his feelings. “Ha! ha !" exclaimed Piet, gaily, “ to think that the old, shrivelled widower of threescore should outcharm the youth of twenty! If I had been Adolf Westerbok, I don’t think that Chris would have carried matters so, and Ishould have worn the wedding ribbon in spite of his ducats. But there ’s no accounting for tastes, eh? What say you, comrades?” The hunters laughed; and Adolf, annoyed at length beyond endu'rance, rejoined in somewhat of a surly tone; to which Piet answered more jestingly than before. “Silence, fool!" said Rudenfranck, now inter- fering, “ thou hast neither wit nor manners, and I should but serve thee rightly, did I lay my rainer soundly over thy shoulders.” Piet shrank back abashed, for there was that expression upon the brow of Rudenfranck that few cared to see, and fewer to. withstand. The hunters were silent for a moment, but one of them, at last, answered Rudenfranck. THE " That would I fain see, Franz Rudenfranck. Keep thy ramrod for thy hound; for, by the holy apostles, if thou layest the weight of thy finger upon Piet, I will try whether my bullet or thy skin proves the harder, albeit some say no lead can harm thee.” “Peace, Hans Veltenmayer," rejoined Ruden- franck. “ If thou wert wise, which any fool may plainly perceive thou art not, thou wouldest chain that unruly tongue within thine ugly mouth, or keep those threats for thy wife, who, if some say aright, would receive them so kindly, as to repay thee, not in words, but in heavier coin. Tush man, never lift thy rifle at me." He turned sharply upon the hunter, who had seized his rifle and was levelling it toward him; wrested it from his hand, and by a slight motion, cast hint rudely upon the ground. Veltenmayer rose, and slunk among his laughing companions, muttering. ‘ “Come, Adolf," said Rudenfranck, “I know what thou wouldst have. Leave we this merry company, and go thou with me to my hut.” They left the inn, and plunged deep into the forest. ~ CHAPTER II. THE F g district, as it is called, where the scene of this legend is laid, is one of the highest points in the great range of the Alleghany moun- tains. High, broken peaks, capped with towering pines, rise upon every side in billowy confusion; while the lofticr and more regular chains of moun- tains stretch far away in every direction, fading and sinking upon the eye, until from a rich, dark green, they seem to meet and unite with the azure of the sky. Rough, rocky precipices; a red and stony soil, where the green mosses crawl and intertwist, in confused, yet beautiful arrangement, over the sward; thick low underwood, and forests almost impenetrable from their density; deep ravines, and craggy watercourses, some entirely destitute of water, and others, gushing precipitately along, flushed by unfailing springs, are' the characteristics of this mountain district. The rude log cabins of the few inhabitants of this country, lie distant and scantily scattered through the almost pathless woods, and the entire appearance of the scenery has a sublime, though a savage and uncultivated air. The original settlers of this tract were Ger- mans and Swiss, whose descendants, even at the present day, are almost the sole tenantry of these bills. Their nature seems congenial to the sur- rounding mountains; and the national exercise of the rifle, the merry dance and song, and those yet more venerable Dionysia, the apple-butter boilings, quilting parties, and log liftings, still constitute the favorite amusements of this primitive people. Even their religion, it strange compound of German mys- ticism, engrafted upon a plentiful stock of supersti- tion, seems peculiarly appropriate to their mode of living, and their wild country. Nay, the very dress of a century back, still holds its fashion among these hills; and the peasant or hunter, loosely attired in his homespun suit of brown or blue SILVER DIGGER. 69 adorned with fringe, or decked out with large, antique, silver or pewter buttons, occasionally garnished with the efligies of some popular saint; his large, broad brimmed wool hat, fiapped over his face; his leather leggings; and dark, curly beard, presents a lively image of his fathers, the original settlers of the district. Add to this, he bright, keen wood-knife, sheathed in its leather case, and stuck in a broad girdle, with the powder horn and pouch; and the unfailing rifle strapped across the shoulder, and you have a perfect description of the general appearance of that people, who inhabit the F-—g settlement, and the back-woods of Penn- sylvania, at the present day. Rudenfranck and his companion strode onward through the woods for some time without speaking. The elder hunter eyeing his friend keenly, at last broke the unsocial silence. “I need not ask of thee, Adolf, why thy brow is clouded, and thine eye so heavy. I, myself, although thou mayest smile at such confession from me, have suffered long, and deeply, from a like cause. But my tale shall not now interrupt thy grief, and I have often thought that the very leaves of the forest would find tongues to repeat a story, which might move nature herself. I would afl'ord thee aid; not gall thy wounds by the recital of my own. Speak; is it not thus? Thou hast met Barbara Mullerhorn, even after her churlish father had forbidden thy suit. I know too well, Adolf, that the more we are opposed the brighter burns our love. But in pursuing thus thy suit, thou hast not done wisely. Yet I may still aid thee, and I will do so." “Alas, good Franz,” replied the youth, “this complaint is far beyond thy remedy. Gold alone can sway the determination of Philip Mullerhorn, and well dost thou know that Chriss Mienckel is the richest man in the settlement. How then canst thou, a poor hunter like myself, afford that aid, which wealth alone can give? No! no! I see nought save disappointment—save despair l” “ Thou knowest but little of me, Adolf," said Rudeufranck, solemnly, “ but thou art destined to learn more. See, the moon is already rising through the pines, and on this evening, the annual recurrence of which, is fraught with dread and woe to me ; and each succeeding anniversary of which, brings me nearer to my stern destiny, shalt thou learn of me a secret, which, if thou hast the fear- lessness of soul to fathom, all may be well, at least with thee. But thou canst only learn it of me." “Rudenfranckfl’ said Adolf, “the hunters speak much evil of thee, and strange tales are current concerning thee in the settlement. Unholy things, it is said, flit round thy hut in the hushed hour of midnight. Unholy sounds are heard resounding through the deep glen where thou abidest. Old men speak warin of thee, and cross themselves as thou passest by, and the village maidens shrink from thy hand in the dance. These may be idle tales; but, Rudenfranck, thy words to-night are suspicious. Nevertheless, he thou wizard or enchanter; be thy knouledge that of the gobd saints, or of a darker world, to thee and to that knowledge I commit myself. Thou hast proved 70 THE thy friendship, and, for weal or woe, I will trust thee.” “ Men speak not all aright," rejoined the hunter, while a dark shadow obscured his visage, and his words fell as though he spake them unwillingly, " nor say they altogether wrong." The young huntsmsn looked at Rudenfranck for a moment; then, grasping his hand, he cried— “ Then thou canst aid me, Rudenfranck 'I” “ That will I, as I have the power,” said the hunter; “ but we are at the hut. Thy hand upon it, that what I shall tell thee will find a grave in thy breast. Else I will not, I cannot assist thee.” “ My hand upon it,” replied Adolf. “Enter then," said the hunter, “ let fear be a stranger to thy breast, and all shall yet be well." As they entered the cottage, a shadowy form flitted past the door, and the wind sighed mourn- fully through the forest. CHAPTER. III. THE but of Rudenfranck differed but little in ap- pearance from the ordinary dwellings of the settlers of the district. Large pine logs, piled rudely to- gether, and cemented with mud, in order to exclude the wind from the chinks, composed the cabin. Two or three common chairs, a pine table, and a camp bed, with a few culinary utensils, constituted the entire furniture of the hunter’s hut. A torch of resinous wood, which flared from an iron bracket, gave light to the room, and a large fire soon occu- pied the wide hearth. A few articles of sylvan warfare hung round the cabin; and on a shelf, some pewter mugs and earthen dishes, a pair of stag’s antlers, and two or three old folios, their ponderous covers clasped together with silver clenches, lay exposed. A large, rawboned dog, rough of cost, and muscular of form, whose fine muzzle and bright eye, spoke of rare blood, was extended before the hearth. Roused by the noise made by Rudenfranck and his companion in enter- ing, he sprang up, erected his bristles, and uttered a low growl. “ Down, Fritz, be quiet,” said Rudenfranck, as the dog, recognising his master, fawned upon him; “welcome to my poor hut, Adolf. I can give thee no better cheer than our coarse mountain fare will afford, although I may assist thee in some Other important matters. Come, draw thy chair to the fire, man. The wind is somewhat sharp to-night, and I will endeavor to make out some refreshment for thee.” He retired for a moment, and entered again, bearing a noble supply of fat venison, which he immediately set about preparing for their supper. The rich steam of the savory steaks soon attracted the attention of Fritz, who, stretched out before the fire with lion-like gravity, inhaled their genial flavor with manifest symptoms of approbation. Ruden- franck’s preparations were soon completed, and, producing a curious green flask, and two tall silver cups from a recess, he invited Adolf, by precept and example, to partake of the viands set before him. But the spirit of Adolf was too heavy for feast- ing, and the morsel lay untasted on the trencher SILVER DIGGER. before him. Rudenfranck himself, although be pressed Adolf to eat, neglected his meal, and the table was speedily cleared, Fritz being accommo- dated with the relics of the repeat. “ Taste this wine," said Rudenfranck, “ although myself no great lover of the grape, 1 am somewhat curious in my choice of wines, and may indulge my little vanity so far as to quafi' the juice I drink, out of a more costly metal than falls to the lot of most guy hunters." “ Truly, Rudenfranck," replied Adolf, “ thy pro- mised plans for the relief of my unfortunate condi- tion seem to have escaped thy memory. For rather would I hearken to them, than drink thy wine, even from a silver cup.” " Not so, Adolf," said the hunter, “I will now fulfil my promise to thee. But first, the secret of my power to aid thee, and the means by which this assistance may be rendered, must be explained to thee. Listen, then, and regard not my countenance but my words.” “ You have heard the elders of the hamlet speak of Count Theodore F alkenhelm, a renowned noble of Alsace, in Germany. This F alkenhelm was known to have sailed from Germany, with many other settlers for America. Few knew his reasons for quitting his native country, for he was a dark, unsocial man, and some have said that he had dealings ,with the Spirit of Evil. He had not been resident here for a long time, before it was observed that he became averse to society, cautious of re- mark, and jealous of scrutiny. The spot in which he had fixed his abode, was visited by few footsteps, for his mood was fierce, and his society, at times, was dangerous. It was concluded that he was in- sane. But it was not so. Mark me. “A youth, some five years after the count had taken his dwelling in these mountains, arrived here from Germany. He had not long ranged these woods, before the fame of the count inspired him with a boyish curiosity to see and to know him. An opportunity was soon afforded; for returning one evening, wearied with the chase, a thunder storm and night overtook him near near the cottage of the count. He demanded hospitality, and was admitted, though reluctantly. What he saw that night, when all'was hushed in the death of sleep, he never told to mortal; but he raved wildly of fiends and phantoms, and died, soon after, a maniac. “ Shortly after this event, the count disappeared, nor has since been heard of here. But many suc- ceeding years brought news of a dismal tragedy in Germany, and from the account of him who brought the report, it was supposed by those who remembered the count, that hev was the principal actor in the scene of blood. “The hut which the recluse had deserted, was the source of continual dread to the superstitious peasants, whose fears had magnified the ruinous cabin into a palace, where the revels of the great fiend were held. But one, whose heart was bolder, and who had lately arrived in the settlement, took possession of the hut, repaired it, and there fixed his abode. That man, Adolf Westerbok, stands before you. “I have not always been what I now appear. 72 THE forth, hoping to subdue the fever of his blood by exercise in the cold air. He wandered about for some time, listless in which direction he took his ' way, until he found himself near the farmhouse of old Mnllerhorn. It was a jolly day at the house of that ancient. Turkeys, geese, pigs, and the promiscuous tenantry of the barn yard, bled beneath the knives of the rosy Dutch damsels. The. smoke curled in copious volumes from the ample chimneys, and the hissing of culinary utensils, employed at the genial occupa- tion of preparing divers dainties, together with the savory odors from the purliens of the kitchen, gave indisputable tokens that something highly important was taking place in the house; Adolf viewed this busy scene with melancholy feelings enough, for be well presaged what it meaned. He paused, and leaned sadly on his rifle; but his heart felt still heavier, when, from a window of the farm house a fair white hand was extended, waving a handkerchief toward him. A tear stole down his cheek, as he acknowledged the signal, and, raising his rifle, was about to depart, when a slight tap on the shoulder arrested him, and a plump little maiden, whosevrosy ' cheeks, and smiling face, were the very emblems of good humor, in fact, a perfect Dutch Hebe, accosted him. “ Why, how new, master Adolf? Have you not a word for an old acquaintance 7” “Ah, Agatha, is it thou? How dost thou, my good lass ?” “Better, Adolf, than either yourself or Barbara, if there is any judgment in your looks. Why, you look as if you had seen a spectre, and if you will keep company with that black-looking wretch, that Franz Rudenfranck, I would n’t insure that you will not see one, some of these dark nights. Bless me, how you change color. Are you sick? “No, no, Agatha. Not so sick in body as in ' heart. How fares Barbara 7” “ Why, indeed, Dolf, for I will call you Dolf again, and it 7s a shame for father Philip to make us all call you master Adolf; master indeed! she has done nothing but cry all night. But she is to be married to old Chriss this morning—the odious fool! I ’m sure she hates him—and I ’ve a thou- sand things to do; so good bye to you Dolf." The lively little girl ran 05', and Adolf again was about to pursue his path, when old Mullerhom, accompanied by the intended bridegroom, and some of his neighbors, arrived at the farm. “ What, Adolf,” said the old man, while a cynical smile played over his thin features, “ Adolf here. Thou hast been a stranger of late, lad. But, come, wilt thou not in with us and witness this merry marriage ? In faith, it will gladden my little Bar- bara to see thee there. Come, thou must aid in this gay ceremony.” Adolf was, for a moment, undecided what answer to make old Mullerhorn; but curbing his indignw ' tion, and repressing an angry reply—he thought it most prudent to accept the invitation. “ I thank'you, neighbor Philip,” said he, “and willingly will go with you." H Why, that is well spoken, boy," replied the old man, unusually elated by the occasion. “ I SILVER BIGGER. aways liked thee, Adolf; but no ducats, lad, no ducats.” “They are not so very difficult to procure," whispered a voice in Adolf‘s car; he turned, and beheld Rndenfranck. “ Well, in, Adolf; and eh? Franz Rndenfranck too ? But, in—in with ye both,” said old Muller- hom, and the party entered the farm-house. The room into which they were ushered, was an ample, commodious apartment, constructed in the true Dutch fashion, with a polished oak floor, and noble rafters of the same wood. It was hung around with some few gay colored prints, illustra- ting Scripture subjects, and some bright tin sconces; and the furniture was substantial, although homely. A large mahogany press, whose bright surface and polished brass knobs, might have compared in bril- liancy with the mirror, stood in one corner; an old fashioned Indian chest, ponderous and highly japan- ned, ornamented the opposite niche. Some heavy chairs with long, high backs, and formal arms and legs; the never failing spinning wheel and Dutch clock; and a pair of tall, ill-shaped, brass fire-dogs, completed the garniture of the apartment. The walls were decorated with festoons of evergreen, tastefully arranged by the fair hands of Barbara herself. Two ill-looking, dingy paintings, also 0c- cupied a couple of recesses; and a neatly polished cherry table, near a window, displayed an inviting array of apple brandy, cherry wine, cider, and such refreshments as were indigenous to the country. The good dame, after welcoming kindly her guests, bustled off to resume the superintendence of the kitchen; and the unfortunate Barbara herself, at- rayed in bridal- trim, and looking through her tears, as lovely as the violet, freshly bathed in dew, re- mained, seated in one of the large chairs, and vainly endeavoring to conceal her emotion. As Adolf entered, her heart palpitated violently, and she could with difticulty so far command herself, as to bid him welcome. Nor did the sight of Bar- bara in such distress, fail equally to afflict her lover; a grief which Rudenfranck artfully increased, by hinting strongly to Adolf, the possibility of changing the entire face of the scene. The magistrate having arrived, and matters being so arranged as to bring the alliance to a conclusion, Rndenfi anck ‘took the opportunity to lead Adolf apart from the rest. “ Thou thrice sodden ass,” said he, “ can’st thou call thyself a lover, and yet allow so much inno- cence and beauty to be sacrificed to age and ava- rice? Say thou the word; promise to obey me, and thou shalt yet possess her. See, they are about to sign. Hesitate a moment longer—and look, Barbara implores thee—she is lost. F arewell,” “ Stay,” rejoined Adolf, hurriedly, “this must not—shall not be. Rudenfranck, I promise." “ Then, demand of old Mullerhorn that the cere- mony be delayed, and leave the rest to me." " Father Philip," said Adolf, addressing Muller- hom, who was just about to aflix his name to the deed, “you are aware how long and how truly I have loved Barbara. To see her thus sacrificed, is more than I can bear, and I entreat you to consider farther upon this matter, and to defer this marriage.” THE The guests looked utterly confounded. Chriss Mienckel opened wide his large, gray eyes, and stared upon the bold hunter in profound amazement. Barbara turned red and pale by turns; and old Mul- lerhom crimsoned with rage. “ Have I not told ye, Adolf Westerbok, that I would never bestow Barbara upon a beggarly hun- ter? What devil then, prompts thee to interrupt a match which thou hast no power to prevent 7” “ Dearest father,” said Barbara, clasping the hard hand of the old man, “hearken to Adolf." “ Away, idle girl! Adolf, tempt me not to do thee an injury.“ “ Nay,” said the hunter, “ is it even so '1 Well, then; gold for gold—ducat for ducat—nay, double each ducat that old Mienckel can bestow, will I lay before you, Philip Mullerhom." “ Thy morning draught has been somewhat of the strongest, Adolf. Where should’st thou have met with these sums '!" Chriss Mienckel chuckled portentously, and thrusting each hand into his ca- pacious pockets, a melodious harmony of jingling coins soon resounded from their precincts. “ Look in thy pouch,” whispered Rudenfranck. Adolf did so, and drew forth two purses, richly fur- nished with gold. Astonishment fairly stupified the guests; and the covetous eyes of old Mullerhom glistened at the sight of money. But the recollec- tion of Mienckel’s broad lands and fair cattle cros- sed his mind. “ Gold for gold," said he, musingly. “ Well, well, it may be so; and Adolf, when thou canst certify me concerning these riches, thou shalt, perhaps, find me not altogether opposed to thee. This ceremony, for the present, with the consent of ‘Mienckel, shall be postponed.” Mienckel nodded his assent; for he was a man of but few words. But Adolf, holding the hand of Barbara, demanded an immediate trial. H“ Be it so, then” replied Mullerhorn. “ My neighbor’s property is well known. Let it be thy task to prove thy fortune equal to his.” “ Yes,” said Mienckel, “ house and farm—cattle and gear—broad lands—rich farming ground— bright ducats ” “ To balance which, I throw, us earnest, these purses,” said Adolf. “ Rudenfranck, can’st thou not aid me now 1” whispered he, turning to the hunter. “Not now," rejoined Rudenfranck, " you have the last of my gold. To-night——" “ To-night!” said Adolf, impatiently, “ an age! Father Philip, I pledge myself that on the marrow I will prove myself worthy your regard in purse as well as in love.” “ Agreed,” said Mullerhorn, “ until to-morrow let the espousal be deferred. If thou can’st then satisfy my doubts, Barbara shall be thine. If not, this marriage shall no longer be prevented." “ Thanks, father, and farewell. Come thou with me, Rudenfranck. Ere to-niorrow night, sweet Bar- bara, all shall be accomplished." Rudenfranck and Adolf left the house, and walked through the forest in the direction of the but of Rudenfranck. Few words were exchanged between them, until, being arrived at the hut, SILVER DIGGER. 73 they closed the door carefully, and Adolf broke silence. “ Now, Rudenfranck," said he, "I must know the means by which this treasure may be discovered. Speak then, and quickly. I promise obedience in all matters, faithfully and truly." “ Then,” replied Rudenfranck, “ it is thus. Meet me to-night, as the moon casts a straight shadow over the range of the Wolf Hills. You know the dark cavern by the run, where, it is said, that old Schwearenheim was carried off bodily, by the Evil One——” “ It‘ is a fearful place, and a fearful hour," said Adolf. “ Fool, thou hast gone too far to recede. Only hint at doing so, and, by all the fiends of hell, I withdraw every hope of my assistance from thee. Wilt thou excite the expectations of Barbara, only to dash thetn again to the earth '! Wilt thou thus vacillate, until it becomes too late to save her from Mienckel? If thou dost so, thou art the vericst driveller that wears man’s attire. Mark inc, and answer not. Meet me there, at the cave, when the midnight hour arrives; and bark thee, thou mun procure a wafer of the consecrated host. Bring thy rifle with thee, and leave the rest to my curc." “ Be it so," said Adolf, " it is too late to recede." " See that thou fail not,” said Rudenfranck, “ and now promise to Mullerhom what thou wilt. Keep thou but faith with me, and thou shalt enjoy all that thou hast ever hoped for. Be not seen with me to-day. Go to the village. Look cheerily ; procure that which I have directed thee, and fail not at midnight." CHAPTER V. THE shades of evening were gradually enveloping the country in darkness, as Adolf and Barbara sat together, in the mansion of the Mullerhoms. They spoke of love and happier times, and the bright eyes of the maiden beamed joyously upon the counte- nance of the youth. Adolf had learned the art of dissimulation in a brief space of time. Alas! it is but the first step in evil that alarms, and he, that has abandoned the paths of virtue, but for a mo- ment, finds it far more difficult to retrace his steps, than to continue in the ways of error. To the enquiries of Barbara, concerning the wealth which he had so lately acquired, he replied, that the death of a relation, whose property was ample, had ena- bled him to compete, in point of riches, eyen with Christopher Mienckel. Barbara fully believed him; for true love is ever ready of faith; and fondly pictured to herself many a scene of happiness and of domestic felicity. Thus the evening wore on; and the hunter was startled to hear the'hour of ten strike from the clock, as he arose to quit the society of Barbara, and to join the companion of his un- hallowed undertaking. “ Whither away to-night, and so early, Adolf?" asked Barbara, as the hunter made ready to depart. “ I have shot a buck in the forest, and must seek aid to bring him in," replied Adolf. “ It is full late to seek your game in the broad forest to-night, Adolf,” said Piet Albrecht, who had ‘ 7 74 THE been solacing himself with a dish of discourse with Agatha, in the kitchen, and now come to bid Bar- bara good night. “ Yet, 'if you would wish my help, to show you that I have forgotten our differ- ence, I do n't care if I go with you." “I thank thee, Piet,” replied the young man, “ but the game lies far off, and Franz Rudenfranck ' has promised to go with me." “ Where have you left it 7" asked Barbara. “ Deep iii the forest; near the Wolf Hills. the cave of Schwearenheim.” “ I know not,” said Piet, shuddering, “ what could tempt me to go there, so near midnight. It will be nearly that, Adolf, when you reach there, and the cave is, the saints be good to us, an un- holy spot." “ Pshaw, Piet, this is mere superstition,” said the hunter; but his cheek glowed, and his flesh trem- bled. “ Why should the cave be a more unholy spot than any other part of the forest 7" “ You know as well as I do, Adolf, that few of the hunters have the courage to pass there after dark. My father has told me awful things of the place, and one of them happened to himself.” At “ What was that, pray, Piet 7" said Agatha, “did ‘ he tumble into the run, and fancy that the water was Schiedsm 7" “Nothing of the sort, Mistress Agatha,” re- sponded Piet. “You must know that my father was a woodsman, as bold as any man among the hills. He happened to be late out one evening, after game; and had chased a large mountain cat to the run, where the cat climbed up an old hollow " this enterprise. How still the night is! tree. ing down the hollow, and he slipped clear through the hole, good forty feet down the inside of the tree. Well, he thought that his hour was come, l and that he should starve to death there; for the i inside of the tree was so smooth that he could get 1 no hold for either hand or foot; and so he had lost all hope of ever escaping, when he saw something black come sliding down the tree. He recom. ' mended himself to God, and when the thing, what- ‘ ever it was, came within reach, he seized hold of it, and it climbed up again, dragging my father after it. It had no sooner reached the top of the tree; but a loud clap of thunder was heard, and the thing sailed away in a flame of fire, far away over the tree tops. My father clung fast to the trunk of the tree, and slid down the outside, after he had i clambered out of the hollow; then thanking Provi- dence for his deliverance, he went home as fast as his legs could carry him.” "A wonderful tale, indeed, Pier," said Agatha, laughing. “ Wonderful enough," said Piet. " Well, Piet," said Adolf, “ was this truth 1" " Truth !” replied Piet, “I should like to have heard any man tell my father that it was other- wise.” “ Do not go to-night, dearest Adolf," said Bar- bara, turning pale. “ This is mere folly, sweet Barbara. If I failed to bring home my buck, all the hunters would cry shame upon me." 1 complete the anxious toil of years ! , anticipated majesty of high dominion! SILVER DIGGER. The clock struck the half hour, and Adolf, snatching up his rifle, bade Barbara good night, and leaving the house, struck into the path which led to the Wolf Hills. “ Aye, aye,” said Piet, looking after him, “he does n’t believe in any such matters; but 1 fear it is no good that he is bent upon. So much gold, too, and so lately. But it ’s no affair of mine. Did you mark the wildness of his eye, though, Agatha ?” CHAPTER VI. Tmt moon shone brightly and calmly over the still woods, and the gentle breath of the night wind sighed mournfully over the ear, as it kissed the forest branches, and swept through the tops of the pines. The murmur of the stream, as it flowed smoothly onward between the high mountain passes, added to the soft influence of the scene. All nature was lulled into repose. A small charcoal fire,buru- ing on a rocky ledge, beneath a tall cliff, disclosed the mouth of a dark cavern, at the entrance of which sat Rudenfranck, the hunter, wrapped in a. cloak, to protect his person from the heavy damps of the night. He rose from his seat, and moved restlesst about, making some arrangements in the mouth of the cavern, and occasionally casting an anxious glance over the surrounding bills, as if im- patiently expecting his victim. “ I think that he will hardly fail me," muttered be. “No, he has too much at stake to abandon Strange, My father followed him closely, and mounted i that he comes not, and yet the hour approaches after him; but his hold gave way, as he was look- i rapidly. All is prosperous thus far. 0, star of my destiny, triumph in this hour, which is doomed to Rejoice in the But why do I feel so sad? What small voice is that, which whispers me to desist from my undertaking? Res pentance—repentance ! My spirit is too dark, and I could not, if I would, repent. How quickly my heart beats as the time speeds on ! Yet one more victim! Why, I shall be a king? that word is too weak, to express the glorious extent of wisdom and power which I shall enjoy. But happiness—n0, no l—that feeling I shall never more eitperience! These thoughts—the recollection of past crime. Why should I think of crime, who am beyond the hope of salvation? Ha! he comes! "1‘ was but the plush of an otter. No! he is here !" “Rudenfranck, is it thou '2” said Adolf, “lend me thy hand. So. I have met with strange warn- ings in my path toward thee. I fear to go on. Can nothing be devised save this dread trial?" “I have already told thee, nothing. Come up. The air is damp, and my fire burns brightly. Have you procured that which I desired of thee 'I" “ I have it; but, Rudenfranck, sacrilege was the price of it.” “ Never regard the price, so as thou hast it. This is right," said the hunter, as he received the consecrated wafer. “Help me to build this pile, which must be raised before we commence our solemn work." Adolf assisted Rudenfranck to build a small pile THE I of stones, upon which were deposited the box con- taining the pentagon, the consecrated wafer, and a small cross, in which was a dark red liquid. Rudenfranck also placed a brazier on the pile, into which be deposited some slips of parchment, in- scribed with talismanic characters. As they finished their task, the moon cast a straight and gigantic shadow across the Wolf Hills, and the pines seemed to dilate, in the white glare, to an unearthly size. “ It is the hour," said Rudenfranck. “ Be firm. Shrink not; and expect the full reward of thy bravery. Help me to don these vestments." He threw across his shoulders 21 furred robe, which he bound tightly round his body with a broad, red girdle. He then placed on his head a conical cap, and taking in his hand a sword, inscribed with cha- , racters, and without a guard, he described on the earth, the form of a pentagon, the centre of the figure being occupied by the altar stones, at the side of which Rudenfranck placed his companion. “ Lay thine hand on the altar," said Rudenfranck, “and pour from this cruse into the brazier, the liquid which it contains. Stay not to look around thee, but feed the fire steadily, while I perform our magic ceremonies." Rudenfranck lit a fire in the brazier as he spoke, and drawing a dagger from his girdle, plunged it violently into his arm. The blood flowed freely. He allowed it to run upon the five angles, reciting in a strange language, mysterious charms. He then placed the linen pentagon in front of his breast,_and commanded Adolf to feed the flame as he had instructed him. Adolf poured the liquid from the erase into the burning brazier; and Ruden- franck, gradually raising his voice, until from a measured chaunt, he broke into furious vehenience, suddenly pronounced the charm of the opal. The moon, which had till now shone brightly, changed its color to a deep red; thunder rolled, and the forked lightning flashed frequently and learfully. The stars shot wildly across the face of heaven. The wind whistled and groaned through the trees. The earth quaked; and the whole frame of nature 3 seemed to shudder at the incantation. A furious crash resounded through the cavern ; brilliant lights ‘ danced through the gloom; the magic words on- graved on the opal gave out a dense and aromatic smoke, and the entire body of rock, seeming to split asunder, with a tremendous crash, disclosed a mag- nificent brazen gate, omamented with characters similar to those on the opal, at the sides of which two gigantic skeletons, crowned with diadems, and bearing strange weapons in their bony grasp, stood, the grisly warders of the charmed treasure. Rudenfranck paused from his incantations, and, turning to Adolf, said in a hoarse whisper, “ This“ is the portal which encloses the treasures of Bructorix; but the phantom of the sage must now be invoked. Take thou this holy wafer, and affix it to yon brazen gate. Do this speedily, and fear not.” ' Adolf, highly excited and bewildered by the scene, obeyed without hesitation. Once, as he was about to affix the consecrated element to the gate, he fancied that some invisible arm endea- vored to restrain his hand; but he performed the SILVER BIGGER. 75 commands of Rudenfranck, and returned to the altar. “ Now,” said Rudenfranck, " but one more thing remains for thee to perform. Raise thy rifle; take good aim, and shoot at the wafer ofthe, host. Shoot bravely !" The wretched and abandoned Adolf followed the instructions of Rndenfranck. He raised his rifle, took deliberate aim at the holy emblem, and fired. A demoniac shout rang through the cave. The angles of the pentagon shot forth vivid lightnings. The skeleton guardians of the gate threw down their weapons, while red lightflamed from their eyeless skulls. The massive leaves of the gate flew wide open, and displayed an immense vault, filled with huge vases of gold and jewels, which shone with inefiahle brilliance. The arched and fretted roof was sustained by bronze pillars, representing strange and hideous animals, contorted into the most grotesque attitudes. Thousands of gnomes, swarmed through the vault, of misshapen forms, whose fierce and raging eyes dwelt upon the hun- ters, with anger and contempt. Thrice did Ruden- franck, bowing himself to the earth, call upon the name of Bructorix. Thrice hollow thunder pealed throughout the cavern, and, at the third appeal, a gigantic figure rose slowly through the earth, and stood before them. The figure was enveloped in an imperial robe of purple, embroidered with jewels, precious beyond description. A girdle of living fire encircled his waist, and a crown of various and brilliant gems bound his white and flowing locks. In his hand he carried an ivory sceptre. His coun- tenance, scathed by flames, looked like that of some ghastly denizen of the tomb, newly raised to-day; and its expression was lofty, haughty and com- manding. “ Who calls upon the name of Bructorix ’I” asked the spectre, in a sepulchral voice. “ The seeker of his power, mighty spirit,” an- swered Rudenfranck. “ I bring to thee the pro- mised victim, and expect the reward of my services. Once more prolong the date of my life, and execute those promises made me; when by mighty spells, I had raised thee from the abode of the dead, in Germany. That term expired, I bring unto thee another soul, or else resign my own." “ Would this youth enjoy my treasures," asked the phantom, “ and knows he the nature of the obligation I demand of him 2" “ He asks wealth of thee, and, in return, will ac- cede to thy demands.” “ Let him sign the deed, which gives over to my master his soul and body, and his wishes shall be gratified." Rudenfrauck drew from his breast a parchment scroll, and the infatuated Adolf, with his own blood, subscribed to his eternal ruin. “ Take of my treasures,” said the sceptre, “ what thou would’st have, and use it as thou wilt. In exchange for the gift of thy soul, contained in this writing, thou shalt have full access to my treasure. But, mark me. Seven years are granted unto thee, at the close of which time, thou must return, and pay thy homage to the lord of these realms." “ And myself 7" asked Rudenfranck, “ shall I 76 THE not reap the harvest for which I have labored? Recollect thy promises made me in Germany." “ They are thine," said the spirit. “ This sceptre controls the fiercest demons. Take it. Return to thy native land, and revel in the possession of all earthly wisdom, riches, and power. But when thy date of life has again expired, seek not to renew it. It is enough. Dismiss me.” “ Depart to thy place, accursed spirit,” said the hunter. The spirit of Bructorix descended, and the phantoms hastened to pile the vases of gold and jewels outside of the brazen gate, until the first grey light of the dawn began to glimmer through the clouds. Instantly, the gorgeous scene disappeared, and the cavern resumed its original appearance. Adolf and Rudenfranck, loading themselves with gold, carefully filled up the mouth of the cavern with rocks and brushwood, and returned arily, homcward. CHAPTER VII. Tun guests of the preceding day were assembled in the farm house of Philip 'Mullerhorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Adolf. Old Mullerhorn went frequently to the door, and looked out, with anxiety, down the road which Adolf usually took when he visited the farm. “ I fear all is not right with him," said he. " Adolf is late in coming this morning. He should have been here a full hour before this.” “ Peradventure,” snuflled Chriss, “the young man has fled, doubting whether he could make good his boasts of yesterday.” “Not so fast, my good friend,” said the voice of Adolf himself, who then entered, bearing in his hand a valise, evidently containing articles of weight. “ ‘Ve shall soon prove whose boasts shall be first accomplished." Ashe spoke, he threw the va- lise upon the table, before Mullet-horn, “ ] am come," said he, “Father Philip, to receive my bride.” “ Heavens i" said Barbara, earnestly regarding the countenance of Adolf, “ what has thus blanched thy brow, and changed thy visage 7 Thy cheek is ghastly, and thy look unearthly ! VV'hy glares thine eye so wildly ? What hast thou done? The light of thine eye is not from heaven! Holy Virgin! the cave ! the cave l" cried she, fainting. “ Adolf, what ails thee 'l” asked Mullerhorn. “ Thy brow is indeed pale, and thine eye fierce and blood-shot. Thou contest from no holy work this morning. Hadst thou the whole treasure of earth, no daughter of mine, Adolf \Vesterbok, should‘st thou wed, until the secret. of wtlty conduct is explained.” “ It is nothing," said Adolf, stammering as he spoke, “ a weariness—a sickness—it will soon be over.” “I fear the mark on thy brow is of no earthly malady. Remain here no longer. Depart from us, for thy society is notifor that of Christian men.” “ I come to claim my bride!" cried Adolf, hoarsely, “ and to pay the dower. No man shall prevent me from this. \Vhy gaze yevthus on me ? Stand back; the man who interferes in this shall rue his intrusion. Barbara, dear Barbara, you cannot, do not thus repulse me 7” SILVER. BIGGER. “ Adolf," said Barbara, gaining courage, and her voice before falteringI becoming firm and steady, " depart from me. All is now explained. Thy anxiety of last evening; thy expedition to the cave of Schwearenheirn; all is explained. Barbara Mul- lerhorn may have loved thee, and she did so; but she will never consent to be the bride of a forsaken wretch like thee." A sudden exclamation from Piet Albrecht at- tracted the attention of all present, and aroused Adolf from the stupor. into which the words of Barbara had thrown him. The room was filled with a rich, purple light, in which the figure of Rudenfi-anck, arrayed in his magical vestures, and holding the ivory sceptre of Bructorix, appeared to the terrified spectators. Well might they be ter- rified; for upon the brow of the hunter a brilliant star gleamed brightly with a sulphurous light, and his tall figure seemed to dilate to superhuman size. it Why dost thou stare at me ?" sneer-ed Roden- franck to Adolf, who gazed upon him with a bewildered look; “why dost thou stare at me? Produce thy treasure and claim thy bride.” “No! no bride of hell!” shouted Mullerhorn. “I doubted this yesterday. Away from us, Adolf Westerbok; and thou, mysterious being, whether thou be phantom or devil, in the name of God I defy thee." “And see,” cried Mienckel, tearing open the valise, “ what is here '1” “ Old chips of iron and leather, as I live," said Albrecht. 1‘ It is the Evil One. Let us fly from here, else we die 1" Adolf gazed wildly at the valise, and with a loud cry of despair, seized his rifle, and vainly endeavored to destroy himself. “Ha! ha i” laughed Rudenfranck, “thou hast yet seven years to enjoy thy gold. These are the treasures for which thou hast forfeited thy soul. Miserable fool! Did’st thou think it mattered to me whether thy fate was prosperous or not! Into the snare thou did’st enter of thine own accord, and thou must pay the penalty. Farewell! My ends are accomplished! For the prescribed Space of my life, wealth, wisdom, and power in the fullest are mine! That space expired, I will mock at thee in the halls of the fiend. This sacrifice of thy soul hath ensured my success, and I thank thee for it. Farewell, Adolf Westerbok. Fool! idiot! driveller! Thou hast thy hire, and I triumph over the world of spirits." As he spoke, he waved his magic sceptre. The cloud enveloped him in its folds, and he disappeared, with a laugh of malicious scorn. * * * * * * * Barbara Mullerhorn survived the misfortunes which had attended her early love, and lived to marry a wealthy farmer of the neighborhood, who proved himself every way worthy of her choice. Piet and Agatha also entered upon the matrimo- nial engagement, and their descendants may still be found among the hills. For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been seen toiling and digging * SKATING. ncessantly along the range of the “’olf Hills. The ' fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never uttered language, save in his insane self- communings. The neighbors universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a continual search after hidden treasure. \ Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills. Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841. —05 77 NOTE. This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious tradition, still current among the back- woodsmcn of Pennsylvania. The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the legend would ermit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the idden treasures are su posed to have been concealed; and the hardy hunter of, the mountains still re arda it with fear, and prefers taking a long circuit t rough the woods, to passing the cavern after nightfall. '1" re whole country, indeed, is full of such traditions, which only require the pen of at Scott to be perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity. Let no man say that America is without lcgendery lore, let no one deny that she afl'ords materials for poetry! Every hill; every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall our minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song Z—Ens. {- .J‘-‘ SKATING. “ The winter has come, and the skaters are here.” BY GEORGE LUN'I‘. Tut: earth is white with gleaming snow, The lake one sheet of silver lies, Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow, The steaming vapors gently rise. Keen is the cool and frosty air, That waves the pine trees on the hill, And voiceless as a whispered prayer, Breathes down the valley clear and still. Come, ’t is an hour to stir the blood To glowing life in every vein! Up,—-for the sport is keen and good Across the bright and icy plain. On each impatient foot to-day, The ringing steel again we '11 bind, And o'er the crystal plain away, We ’11 leave the world and care behind. And, oh! what joy is ours to play, In rapid, round, and swift career, And snatch beneath the wintry day, One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer. Newburyport, Massachusetts, January, 1841. Then, when the brief, sweet day is done, And stars above begin to blink, As home the swift lake bears us on, Our sweethearts meet us on the brink. Then gather’d round the cheerful blaze, While gusts without are blowing shrill, With laugh, and jest, and merry lays, We pass the jocund evening still. Around the board our feats all told, Comes nature’s welcome hour of rest, And slumbers never bought with gold, Sit light on each untroubled breast. No lagging pulse impedes our sleep, No startling dreams our couch annoy, But health and peace, in quiet deep, Smile hovering round the country boy. - I Then, when the morning bright and clear, Springs gayly o’er the glistening hill, With hardy sports we hail it near, Or hardy labors bless it still. 7* THE SYRIAN LETTERS. WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS 0F CONSTANTINOI'LE, TO HIS KISSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED- I Damascus. Ssavruus 'ro CORNELIUS—GREETING : Youa reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing, because so unexpected. The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation to the sagacity and enter- prise of Constantine. For who, until our emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of such rapidity of communication ‘! In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I was so fortunate as to wit- ness some of the hidden mysteries. ' You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius, as to have induced him to conduct the to one of the most secret recesses of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness. 1 have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but con- jecture. Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to introduce me. If such was his anti- cipation, how signally in error! how vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can be mistaken for the solid pathway. The sun had long gone down beneath thedizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the tem- ple of the sun. Hurried along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were be permitted us to pass, without farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I could not clearly distinguish what he spoke,I heard him mutter angrily in the Syrian tongue. We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther, entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily, however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the temple,through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the ornaments of the entablature. All was still. " Earlier than I expected," whispered Mobilius, “ the ceremonies have not yet begun.” This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the edifice. The temple was the loftiest of all those that sur- rounded it, and which had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its mouldings, pannels,and compan- ments. In the centre was a sun, carved in the full glory of his rays: marshalled'at equal distances, sur- rounded by its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the “ Syrian Goddess," and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not err, I could disceni, constellated like the rest, the heads of Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors. The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof, and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order as those which sustain the archi- trave. Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a gorgeous altar, composed j in part of precious metals, and of rare and various stopped by the porter, but recognising Mobilius,‘ marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a reddened glow upon the THE walls and pillars, and a representation of the sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burn- ing light, whether real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling the undu- lating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast upon. the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the brief acquaint- ance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship, since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there was, unquestionably, a con- nection between Mobilius and some of the priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray those who had reposed such con- fidence, and would not his fears prevent, if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest out- pourings. . " What means this 'l" I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought me to instant si- lence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed with the sounds. ~ ' The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the cost- liest dyes, and walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull-- some ears of corn, others silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its fires, which threw into still brighter efl'ulgence, the daz- zling ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great sac- rifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate ob- servance of the usual ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to recount them, if 1 even could. After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the some entrancing harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling 'round the altar, sent up a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of lightning, three bright fires sprang from the diflerent portions of the altar-top, so brilliant,” that for many seconds, I was not SYRIAN LETTERS. 79 able to discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us by the hand, said, u we must depart," and led us by a different route from that through which we entered. At one plaee, in suddenly opening the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of light, illumina- ting a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a sub- terraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly unob- served, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. N 0 sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battle- ment, or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on the ear, then was lost forever. ' The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery flood -of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady' contemplation, appeared to stir from the place 'of their foundation, such is the power of fancy. I turned ; my companions were gone. They had passed on nnheeded, and I wandered as I be'st could toward the mansion of Septimus. The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the guy, the‘ beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy way: farer, were now as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone still un- dimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving, reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage, the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered, cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams. This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished shield shone like another moon. Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some guy Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet. “ Can you tell me," I enquired, “ in what direc- tion lies the house of Septimus 7" “Oh! readily,” be answered, “I will go with you, for 'it stands nearly in my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking 80 THE him for his kindness, we proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining com- panion. H Pray," said I, “ what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now silvered by the moon 7" “ That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last design," and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued, “ behold the propor- tions." I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect, enthusiastic in his profes- sion, and not being able to understand his learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation. “In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our countrymen can award? Man, toils much ere he reaps, so that if the harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief space." “ You do not draw your conclusion," said he, “ after the manner of the model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the inconsistency." Although not convinced, I was compelled, for- saking my former conjecture, to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of Helio- polis, so_ ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not be of so severe a school as some stemly avow. Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness. Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of my conjecture—for, philosophers, especially those of the present day, are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising them- selves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the ~15 \J A :1; Java 0 a w]. SYRIAN LETTERS. sick man by the hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon this abstract- ing a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes, he administered a portion, and its good effect: were wonderful. All conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that iny new friend was a disciple of Hippocrates. How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward in- formed me he was a member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “ Ah !” said the latter, “ we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would prove of no avail in such a city as this." “ Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “ I was anxious on your account. How came you to leave us '1" “ I did not leave you—it was you who left me— doubtless in the heat of controversy upon the Chal- dean mysteries." “ I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “ but how came you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec, espe- cially by moonlight ?” *- Through the kindness," I replied, “ of Apicius.” “ You are fortunate," ejaculated Mobilius, “ and should deposite your offering to-morrow in the tem- ple of fortune, as is the custom here. He is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his palace, you are still more fortunate.” " And so he did,” I rejoined. It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan. " As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “ we will seek our couches, and tomorrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “ we may examine the Egyptian mys- teries.” But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a tedious length. I bid you an affectionate Farewell. * >:< * 4.4. THE SOUL’S DESTINY. DY MRS. M- AND oh! the soul! she saw in visions bright, The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light, With eye of“ faith she gazed in tearful joy, And they were there! her husband and her boy! Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm- If storms arise thy deep rich holy calm B. DANA. Comes with a spirit influence to the breast, And to the weary monrner whispers “ rest !” Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead 3 Rest-er the longing spirit Heavenward fled! , Rest—from a tiresome path in weakness trod! i Rest—in the bosom of the Saviour, God! THE SACCHARINEOUS PHILOSOPHY. “ Her ’prentice han’ she try’d on man, and then she made the Losses 0." Gravru: reader—art thou fond of molasses? Not only molasses in its simple state, but in its various compounds? If thou art not I pity thee. Thy taste relishes not that which would otherwise be a source of inexpressible pleasure. Eatables may be divided into the two great classes of the sweet and the sour. From the full enjoyment of at least one- half then of the good things of life (and that the better half) art thou deprived. Again I pity thee. But some may say, that although not lovers of molasses or sugar, (as I shall consider them the same in this essay,) yet they are really very fond of many sweet things. They like a portion of the saccharine, though not fond of the gross and clogged sweetness of molasses. Let such, however, think not of escaping in this manner. \Vhat! like a thing in part and not in fuhiess—like the rose-bud and not the open rose—like an amiable and not a perfectly angelic being—like five dollars and not five hundred—like middling and not good health—like imperfect and not perfect happiness—like straw- berries and cream, and not sugar or molasses—I tell thee, man, woman, or child—Caucasian, Afriv can, or Malay, thou art crazy, bewitched, or taste- less. . How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine matter imparts to the outward man ,? Alike in fruit, and flower, and honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so often diffused throughout the body of this “ me,” a most delicious coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or fragrance. Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread and mo- lasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a huge slice of the wheat loaf in re- serve, the preparatory pause was made “ according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the “ switchel," that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with a little vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers, and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles, turned not the edge of my keen desire. But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most important work upon “ The Philosophy of Clothes," by Thomas Carlyle. It suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us. Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the germ of our new and spiritual philosophy. / Charles Lamb in his “ Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of his friends: “ that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of apple-dump- lings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine matter; and this accounts partly for the dislike felt toward them by a reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although he did not perceive the great principle coiled up in this succulent eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting fact, as a witness to the truth of my theory. When do we find that the love of allsweet things most commonly prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly guile, innocent, and lamb-like. When the fresh and un- tainted spirit drinks eagerly and deeply at the foam 'of truth, and its type or representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then, sugar-plumes are a delight—gingerbread a bles- sing—molasses candy, especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, bright or dull yellow, accord- ing to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “ the staff of life." The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man changes accordingly. The sac- charine matter no longer suits him in its natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem is this change of saccha- rine subsfance to the poisonous liquor, of the tran- sition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from their bubblings, and combinations, and effer- 82 vescence, it comes forth a new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this, but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out, they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third gate, but dash reck- lessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and hope- decaying state-and when dragged through it, are cast out with the blessed feelings of childhood putri- fied—the flesh rotted off, and exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be destroyed framework of an eternal nature. How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin, whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love. Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the inward. “ Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a struggle between duty and dis- gust! What measures are then taken by the wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. WINTER. How shall we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that which I have thus partly illustrated? ' Reader, thou wilt believe or not,as thou choosest. But before this is dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy acquaint- ances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves molasses. Understand me—lovel molasses— not who sometimes eats it, but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,— as I do. If thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I ‘ll recant? Not I. Such a man is an anomoly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont. die Icare not,—he ’s only an exception, and " proves the truth of the general rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee. If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes, butter- milk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—tho West Indian slave with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the juicy cane. But why multiply proof? Why refer to the bee with his industrious habits, caused by living entirely upon honey—the bear with his good nature, hug- ging you, even when in anger, to his bosom, how he also likes sweet things—the humming-bird, with its love for the sweets of flowers—the—but why instance more ? Oh ! ye wise, give ear while I call your attention to this new philosophy, which I name saccharine, and not transcendental. Parents, guardians, phy- sicians, nurses,—“ they that have ears to hear let them hear." ELLA. WINTER. BY J. W. Tm; leaf hath fallen! E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green; While, thro' their naked boughs the wintry breeze, Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene— The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers, That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air, When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours, The graceful monarchs of the season were. The song is hushed ! And gone those warblers for a softer clime, Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn Made the gay summer but a trysting time, And prayerful music poured aloft to Him! Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841. FORNEY. No more they usher, with their mellow song, The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud— Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng. Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud. The brook is frozen! The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more In the full glory of the sun's warm bcarn ; The ice-king’s sceptre has been waited o'er, And sleep is brooding on the modest stream. There are no flowers on its frozen side— The sun shines only with a cheerless glance: Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride, Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance. THE CONFESSION§ OF A MISER. BY J. ROSS BROWNE~ PART I. ONE who dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye, must often be contentc to doe that whych in annye other character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle thoughts, tolle tales, s ake of factors done pryrilye and not for worldlye showe. Wntm life ceases to afford us gratification, we f not unfrequently take a strange delight in reviewing 3 and pondering over the misdeeds of the past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This l revelling in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and recklessness; this ten- dency to a defiance of all moral and religious con- solation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition, rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences. Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin! I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice. During the political distur- bances under the dogs, Paolo Reniers, I obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Ve- rona ; and had already made some attempts on Ve- nice; but these eruptions were if any thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of the day. Had heaven so ordained it, 1 might then have retired to my villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry ; but the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest. The intrigues of political life were not sulficiently dis- gusting to deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so indis- peusible to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked by Lugi Mauini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in the education A Legends of the Monasterye of Ly ' . of individuals, to whom the official authority is entrusted; and where art and cunning are so uni- versal as to render every man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with peculiar veneration. The satellite who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me; but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence. Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their attempts, and acquiesce in my measures. Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured populace. Daily—- hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling object of my ambition. That cold and stem temperament, which, in my political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements, save the desire of personal emolument. Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others‘ had made me too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most disinterested 84 THE friendship toward him who was already the tool of my machinations. The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion. Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no longer was I fortune‘s votary. Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of my gold, to violate in fny enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I gam- bled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was necessary to sustain my vital prin- ciple. Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned him for more lucrative game. I sought oht the haunts of the young and inexpe- rienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally gambled for the riches of my victims, I sov managed as to secure the spoils in de- fiance of ill-fortune. We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with me. I did not actually rob ;' I did not murder; I committed no more henious crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I became a worse and worse black-hearted man. ' Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted with the daughter ofa Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was not accom- plished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time,-I too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence. I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied; but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to satify my desires. That fortunate tissue of events which had hith- erto marked my career, was destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an in- dividual, who, if he had not my boldness of pur- pose and capacity for scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name. Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere out- ward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and per- suasive manners. His characteristic trait was ex- treme cunning; nor did his grey, twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and language bespoke CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I immediately chat. lenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We doubled, and I still won. We con- tinued to increase the stakes till they amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet con- tended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual reverse, I dared him to contend— fortune against fortune! Each new staked his en- tire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God ! I had lost—I was a beggar! With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a frenzied wretch. A mock- ing laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more. For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by, with disgust and hatred pictm'ed in her countenance; Her first words were those of contumely and re- proach. She did not make any allowance for my situation; she reflected not that‘it was the province of the female to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her money ; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my choice. The only solace to my afi'lictions, was a little daughter about eight years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she ang for me her plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me -—she wept for me—she was every way the bean- ideal of innocence and affection. “ Father," she would say, “ why do you clench your hands—why do you rave of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we shall earn more money and be very happy.” Alas poor Valeria ! she little knew the'loss I had sustained. It was not the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss ofdomestic peace —for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss of MONEY—0f that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life. One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was to be abandoned—n0 luxu- rious equipage to be sold—no servants to be dismiss- ed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them THE oonnnssrous' to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer desire to accu- mulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods. Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of luck with Carlo Dolci: ' To toil up the rugged path -—to exert my humble acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my power to make amends for want of prudence. Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting this course of life I sacrificed no fine feel. ings; I never was proud of any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bo- naparte and Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest exertions for the re- trieval of my fortune. The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the vicissitudes of my wan- dering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and dis- heartening manner in which I acquired money— r and to portray the eagerness—the infantile delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom -would be alike futile and uninteresting. In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts; but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harrassed by the perse- cutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true happiness. She died in a fit of mad- ness—a malady to which her passionate and ungo- vernable temper had frequently subjected her. It would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted this instance of divine dispensa- tion. I still had a companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her support and protection. This was my daughter; who had at- tained her eighteenth year. Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the Florentine and Venetian'Vati- can ; I had studied,if not with the eye of an artist, at least with 'the eye of an ardent admirer, the most exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Corre- gio, and Veronese; 1 had dwelt in ccstacy on the master-works of every school from the Appellean and Protogencan, to the Lombard, the Polognese, the Carraci, and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chisellcd in every fea- ture—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the lan- guishing eye—the finely rounded arm--the faultless figure bespoke Italian blood; and that too of a 85 OF A MISER. gentle quality; for though I claim no distinction, I am myself of noble descent. In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not whether I gained her an honorable al- liance or not; money, not titular distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be sacrificed. There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina, upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This proved sufli. cient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the bean ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love ; and in a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for'information concerning the fairy vision he had seen. “ Nothing," said he, “shall be spared in remune- ration for your services. I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever more depend on her. If you respect the paions common to humanity; if you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview !" ' Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—- that Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour. In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor humanity. ' “Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to such unnatural cu- pidity—“ you would sell your daughter’s honor !— you would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then continued, “ but your villainy is nothing to me. ‘I shall not upbraid you for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however, we perfectly understand each other as to the tenns. I answered merely by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the ensuing evening. That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he‘ 8 86 THE hadwas inherent. Much good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. was young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of human kind- ness. His opinions respecting my course I re- garded with contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that the bait was too well administered to be rejected. Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor. A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around. The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy and ricketty table , and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were battered tin- cups--a few platters—a spoutless cofiee-pot—and sundry tattered hahiliments. I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve it. It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet. “Valeria—” and as I addressed her,I endea- vored to modulate my voice into tones as affec- tionate and as soothing as possible—“ Valeria, we are very poor—God knows we are." “ Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people, and I am sure we need no luxuries." “My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a. decrepid and palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I must depend.” “ I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.” “ I know it my child—I know it; but your ut- most exertions cannot save us from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask you as a father will you obey my commands 'l” “ As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe." “ Valeria, can you love 7" “ I can. I do love.” “ Ha ! whom do you love ?" " I love you, my father—and—” “ Speak 1” “ I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it." In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole frame convulsed with passion. H God‘s curse be on you 1” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the face of the terrified girl— uGod's curse be on you, for the declaration. You CONFESSIONS He_ OF A MISER. love Marco da Vinci? Maya father’s ban fall like the flames of perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony 1” “Father! Father! 0, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad 2"_ “No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “ I shall not drive you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness would be a blessing. You are sold. Here is the money"-and I drew forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “ Yes, to_morrow you will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Ranina." “ Never !—-so help me God 1" cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a thousand deaths before dishonor!" “ We shall see," I replied, with a grim smile. “ We shall 1" said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous that I shuddered. She repeated, “ we shall !” Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclu- sively to the narrative of my own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name. Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraor- dinary talents, and great mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might have enjoyed the height of affluence had not mis- fortune set her seal upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a fond father could bestow; and one. attaining his eighteenth year few could boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a. more chaste and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful. Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and afiluence, and dedicated himself alto. gether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not that he had yielded the substantial enjoy. ments of life for a misnomer—a chimera ! It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vincil abjured him in the zenith of his passion—-disowned him, and leftv him an outcast and a beggar. The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and chasten- ing, which can only be attained by painful and, almost hopeless perseverance in most cases, were; soon mastered by the ardent disciple. In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accu- THE FAIRY’s HOME. mulated, by his industry. sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of sinking into obli- vion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely injured, be determined to submit to his fate with manliness and fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve his past misfortunes. A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait of a female that could be Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841. 87 placed in the gallery in time for the annual exhibi- tion. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of Valeria‘s beauty was proverb. ial throughout the city; and the candidate for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tene- ment, and implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to extend her reputa- tion, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that I was! Why could I not see the danger 0f placing this young and ardent soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome-— enthusiastic and intellectual: Valeria was innocent— amiable—and beautiful—could they but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was! THE FAIRY’S HOME. 001 home is far ’mid the greenwood trees, ,Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden'd breeze, Where the moon‘s beams glance on the sleeping tide, And the lily grows in its stainless pride. There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell, In the cavern‘d shades of the fairy’s cell, Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song, Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng. There calm as the blue of the “ bending skies," Whose beauty may bless e'en fairy’s eyes; We will pass those hours of careless glee, Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody. Philadelphia, January, 1841. Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly's light That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night, And led by its star-like rays we ’11 roam ’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home. The, notes of the song bird echo there, And are warbled again by our sisters fair; And the tones of each pure and gentle thing, . Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing. l Away from the cares and toils of life, No part have we in its scenes of strife, But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea, Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be. S. H. NOT LOST, BUT \ GONE BEFORE. BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. Tan dead but sleep—they do not die, They live in mem’ry’s holy cell— The woodland green, the summer sky Of them in gentle language tell. Each scene that knew them daily speaks Of all their love so fond and true, And tears that tremble on our cheeks, But nerve our sadness to renew. January, 1841. The grief that rent our hearts when first Death broke our early bond in twain. Within our souls, by memory nurst, Will oft times freshly burst again. Yet why indulge uhfading grief, For those we loved and now deplore? Their's is a slumber calm and brief- They are “not lost, but gone before." NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME! A popular Air in the Opera of CATHERINE GRAY7 AS SUNG BY_MRS. W'OOD. THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE. Geo. W. Hewitt &. Co. No. 184 Chesnut Strum, Philadelphia. ! Not for me, not me, Regal halls and court - 1y life, _ Oh! more f NOT FOR ME, NOT FOR ME. Far from ev‘ry scene of ' strife, re- From the world from all buy-VJ, Bi‘flflfll Elf-"3'6 17.8" “it'rt'i’éf'f‘ “Mam, ' "'w'M n MW‘rloirl-w now J) halls» ad '9041 E Tn: Emit—15 _'E____q§:'!__!!fia__ __ v ‘ q_—‘GN fill at! '— __‘ ‘1 _ “1'!!! ,7 ~11? ‘ '§___' r ‘- ‘r it“; will , 12:13:55 _Q.___Q_-____ 7.) “4i 91;?" a.“ ri'offn '\'"r;--'13.' V "t l.- » ti - ring, Gladly would this heart ——_*- ,?fi*L1Jw Imnm Ill-Imus: _._;:_-f_ __ _~_—__.,__-V_g——- .‘1 remove, my, lltll'Z; II a _ ‘ a _ 1f? ‘3 r "PH"- *I‘Y?~‘--:1\!t. .- -' ~. * ., . ~' ' V * 7 "no -, n. s. a ' —‘- ,1,- M O;- 3 7‘, One dear 5v boon 38v.- [lures- nlrky'r' '8‘" "n " lisp:- ' e ‘1 _- . I 2‘ - 3n_‘- > JWV ‘v :n‘. r 3 _ . , 1:. '7’: r ‘5‘ ‘;~-0-:'.:> s"'"?< 5.- ' 1 Z‘be wrth 2== the I love: a 1' Still to g; be with thee I '~- love. ,- 3, ‘Qj ', ' ~1 4» ~~---,~': "2}_ Mtg» ;% ,- " l; 'r.‘ ‘~_ —, mm“ H; g . - I - A ‘.' 5 ,-)~ ‘ r . , ._'—_ ‘ ‘ I: - 9" s. I. a ‘ ~ - ;_ ____- “a w 7 l~ 73“ ._ ~ ¢ 7 V w“ Y, a >> ' I .77, ' ‘ V ' l i‘, '»' _ I . w ‘ 4 " ,1." l ‘ , > " I "'l \ r l" . A t . . _ “'f“ I'» ‘ 4> ‘,_.~‘ _‘, ,1 ‘ , ‘7 ,_ 1‘1“ ' . ._ _\. l‘ ‘ as“ _ U ‘z i - > ;\. ,L ‘5.» Y; A ,I :_ _ _ I , .. éwx ‘ , , ,r- 'v *- '_ “i? Q 7 '_<‘7,._-,1_‘~:\ , ' ' ~ " -- ‘ - > a ‘ e m. V ' i - t _‘ *- v: ‘ >-. - t"? .;‘7€"“,; ,~ “' ~31 »~r--.'r 5*“ .1 Far ' 9 ~ '5?'-tha*‘ he 4.3? ‘5’ ' W 4- ~ + - . 15""? ' 131*? "4'." l “‘ 'r-‘rffg a. '*"_'$i§'?" - . ' * mw'w a ~ we “Paw-newt" " ‘L WW! ’5'"! ' l '. ‘ _~.~ .rWoM ’G‘m- ,“'_Y_l~¢ _~ '— '\}> -\ ' y S". ' ’ “1 >“t' ‘ :l' .’ ' "‘1\"'l“'~' '1. ‘f \ ' " 8'4"“:4‘: 3' ‘ "3'4 ‘ "W 1 f I _ .,_ 5'1“ 7 - 1 r5_ , 1"“, 1;_ ~ 4 r , "'- <, :y-v-l ‘. ~. ' i~ r " o ' g a -. F to “i a ‘ ': 2 ' "a; ~ , 1% _ “F1; q_ ?_ Let me seek that tranquil home, Once I knew in happier hours, Free to wander, free to roam, Thro’ my own lov'd peaceful bow’rs. -Not for me the world‘s false pleasures, Not for me where splendour moves, More than these my bosom treasures, More than these my heart now loves, More than these my heart now loves. SPORTS AND PASTIMES. SHOOTING. WE open this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in our last_ It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art of Taking Aim. The pursuit and destruction of wildanimals for security, food, clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all ages, since the primeval bruere overspread the earth, And wild in woods the noble savage ran! Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country. the chase is a necessity, and the chief busi- ness of life. The stronger and more noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated themselves, that the chase be- comes a pastime. Nor does it appear when the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no I ' g“ y nth], W .1 ~ ‘\ W‘libwvyv-QifiY} ’\ corresponding word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport which was a neces- sity, It is probable that in the earliest ages of so- ciety, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart, the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of beasts and birds fem naturw, compre- hended in the term toils. As dogs were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawk were trained to bring down birds f 1r the service of their master. The arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which,in the order of succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive at "the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter. TAKING AIM. WHEN the dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced sports- men disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel, until the SPORTS game be upon the wing, then that the let! barrel should be cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary ; if not discharged, it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it, for if he does not see ii distinctly at the moment of firing, there is something defective in his system of taking aim. The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habi- tuating himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards. When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an oblique direc- tion. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be lost in firing. It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a bird from the gun. The nature of the situation. and the state of the weather often de- ceive the eye. Thus, 0113 bright day birds appear to be near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the unpractised.~ eye ;, the object is supposed to be much farther ofi‘, while on open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and sometimes the mist increases the difliculty, for then the bird is either scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun‘s rays gleaming through the mist, to an unna- tural size. In general, grouse are farther ofi‘ than they are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has AND PASTIMES. 91 a peculiar sight: every bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is amusing some- times to hear persons talk, after they have been matched,“ the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his distances. and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed at fitleen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end of the story ! When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird, and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—s desideratum, for two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without difliculty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a better show in the game-bag. \Ve think that all shooters, except the veriest bung- lers, use a gun properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and drawing the trig- ger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken. The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting. If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite, when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too com- plex an operation, for before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it follows, then, that the shooter‘s attention should be directed only to the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up mechanically to the proper level. When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he unconsciously throws his head back, and thch seeing the bird above the end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would above it. The main point, then. in taking aim, is to keep the head down to the stock, and the eye low behind the breach. The sportsman who, from habit or practice,ca.n inva- riably bring his eye down to the same place, and keep it teadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same starting point, will distance all competitors. REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. “The Antediluvia'ns, or the World destroyed." A narrative poem, in ten books. By James McHem-y, M D. Author of the “Pleasures of Friendship," (yo. 1 vol. J. B. Lippirtcou t} Co. .- Philada. There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the latter class, though he seems lamentany ignorant of this, from the long essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been tormented with an itching alter immortality, and that, being convinced not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it. but that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of sud: a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his subjectis infe- rior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of rea- soning. to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next inglory to the heavenly bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not de- ceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Long- bow, by a constant repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as “ A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back." Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “ exalted and extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest order," leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest except to insinuate, that his own genius is un- equalled. He then calls our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “ plan and scope" of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that die- tion, style, and imagination. in short every requisite of a true post, are but “flimsy stuff." The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the “ galled jade winces;" but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a de- scription of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and cum pults, were used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives the divisions and manceuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no farther than the invention of gunpow- der. Besides this, there are two marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heros, and as many heroines, with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem. We are told in the outset that the “ versification is not particularly modelled after that of any preceding author," and that our classic poets afford no style “ exactly suitable for this work," and, consequently, we are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the following: “ Subservient to the foul, malignant fiends, The abandoned race of Cain their God forsook, And to the infernal agents gave their hearts. Oh! preference worse than foolish, choice insane! Which drove celestial spirits from their charge Of guardianship o'er human feebleness, An lefl the hapless Cainites in the power Of hellish tyrants, whom they blindl served, Lured by the sensual pleasures amply given In transient, poisonous recompense fin guilt." Page 14. Or this : “ Here reigned the fierce Shalmazar, giant king, S rung from a mixture of infernal strain. is sire, the power of lewdness, Belial named, Who, amorous of an earth-born beauty, won Astoreth, princess of Gal-Cainah’s realm, To his unhallowed love.” - Page 16. What the meaning of the author is in the line above italicised, we challenge all Christendom to discover. But even no sense at all, is better than mere verbiage, or coarse or improbable metaphor, as thus : “ Repose at last, where it is ever found By weary mortals, in the peaceful grave, In which his heir, that moralisi youth, The melancholy Lameth, had be are Laid down the o’erpowering burden of his woes." Page 12. And again: “ The harnessed-spirits spreading forth their wings." Page 11. REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. And thus: “ Then was the hour of vengeance; then the stern Hell-generated tyrant felt dismay, And in his chariot fled—" Page 262. But we must bring a still heavier charge against the Dr., that of a total want of originality. The whole plan and conception of the Antediluvians is copied, but “longo intervallo," after Paradise Lost. Had Milton never written poetry, Dr. McHenry would never have published bombast. Yet the one is only the shadow of the other’s shade. This imitation is perceptible, not only in various attempts to copy the versification, but oftentimes in more glaring and less defensible plagiarisms. Would it, for instance, be believed that the second book of the Antediluvians begins with a passage so nearly resembling the opening of the second book in Paradise Lost, as to make, as Dog- berry has it, “ flat burglary l" Thus: “ High on a throne of ro al state, which far Outshone the wealth of us and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous east, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric, pearls and gold, Satan exalted sat.” Paradise Lost, Book 11'. “ In royal robes, magnificently bright, On his imperial throne of burnished gold, And polished ivory, which sparkling shone, With gems innumerable, of various hues, That shed a blaze of streaming radiance round The gorgeous hall, the haughty monarch sat.” Antediluvians, page 29. And so on diluting the idea of Milton into'a dozen more lines, and showing, at once, the grandeur of the model, and the feebleness of the imitation. Yet Dr. McHenry calls himself a poet, and pretends to the divine afilatus. But again: “Such scenes of cruelty and blood, Exhibited before appalled Heaven, To make the angels weep, to look on earth l" Antediluvians, page 202. “But man, frail man, Drest in a little brief authority, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep. Shakspeare. We might multiply such instances ;—but enough. Has the Dr. forgotten the celebrated verse of Virgil? “ Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores." The Dr. appears fond of the use of epithets, espe- cially such ones as “ infernal, fiendish, hellish,” and other coarse adjectives. We' do not object to the use of the two former, provided they appear sparingly and in place, but really the work before us is seasoned rather highly with such epithets for our taste. The Dr. however, appears to be of the Tompsonian school in literature, and not only spices strongly, but lwashes away right and left at the accredited school. We advise him, once for all, to give up poetry, which he disgraces, for physio, which he may adorn. God never intended him for an immortal fame. We are 93 satisfied that, if he should be' arraigned for writing poetry, no sane jury would ever convict him; and if, as most likely, he should plead guilty at once, it would be as quickly disallowed, on that rule of law, which forbids the judges to decide against the plain evidence of their senses. “ The Dream, and other Poems.” By the Han. Mrs. Norton. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia -' 1841. Hemans, Baillie, Landon, and loveliest of all, Nor- ton l—what a glorious constellation for one language. France with her gaiety: Italy with her splendid genius: even Greece with her passionate enthusiasm, cannot rival such a galaxy. And this glory too, belongs wholly to the present century, for though the harp of England has often been struck by female hands, it has hertofore only given forth a rare and fitful cadence, instead of the rich, deep, prolonged harmony which now rolls from its chords, Mrs. Norton is unquestionably,-since the death of Mrs. Hemans, the queen of English song. In many respects she resembles that gifted poetess: in some she is strikingly dissimilar. The same pathos, the same sweetness, the same fancy characterize both; but in all that distinguishes the practised author, rather than the poetess, Mrs. Hemans has the advan- tage of her successor. Thus, the one is sometimes faulty in the rythm: the other never. Mrs. Norton will now and then be betrayed into a carelessness of diction; Mrs. Hemans was rarely, if ever, guilty of such solecisms. Such expressions, for instance, as the “ harboring” land, the “ guiding"hand, the “ paus- ing" heart, the “haunting” shade, and others of like character, taken at random from the volume be- fore us, though not strictly improper, yet, as they are plainly expletive, and weaken, instead of strengthening a sentence, are never to be found in the poems of Mrs. Hemans, or of any one “learned in the craft." But, if Mrs. Norton is less correct than Mrs. He- mans, she is, on the other hand, more nervous, more passionate, and at times more lofty. No one can read “ The Dream" without being struck by the truth of the remark, that Mrs. Norton is the Byron of our female poets. There are passages in some of her poems of greater power than any passages of like length in Mrs. Hemans’ writings, though at the same time, there are a far greater number of inferior lines in the poetry of Mrs. Norton, than in that of her gifted sister. In short, the one is the more equal, the other is the more daring. One is the more skilful writer: the other shows glimpses of a holder genius. There is less prettiness, and not so much sameness in Mrs. Norton as in Mrs. Hemans. The former is not yet, perhaps, the equal of the latter, but she possesses the power to be so, if her rich fancy and deep feeling, now scarcely known to herself, should ever be brought so completely under her control as were the talents of Mrs. Hemans. .94 If Mnl. Norton had written nothing before, this REV’IEIW 01‘ volume would have established her claim to be the _ .flrlt ofliving poetesses; but who that is familiar with ,the world of song can forget the many gems—rich, and beautiful, and rare—with which she has spangled beforetime her starry crown? The world has taken more care of her glory than she has herself, and the random pieces she has poured forth so divinely at intervals, and which hitherto she has made no effort to preserve, have found their way into the hearts of all who can be touched by the moumful or the beair tiful, until her name is cherished alike in the humble cottage and the princely ball. And now she has come forth in more stately guise, not as a new author among strangers, but as one long tried and known, one endeared to us by old association, one whose melancholy music is, as it were, a part of our very being. “The Dream" is the longest poem in the volume before us, but, as it makes no pretension to be con- sidered a story, and has really no plot, we shall not .judge it by the ordinary rule of criticism. We shall consider it only as a string of pearls, loosely joined together by the simplest contrivance, the idea of a dream, narrated by a daughter to her mother,—-and, judging it in this way, we give it unqualified praise' That its merit is unequal, is, in our eyes, no objection to its beauty,—for have not all poets skimmed the ground as well as soared to heaven’.l Yes! “The Dream" is unequal, but so is Lallah Rookh, so is Marmion, so are all_the tales of Byron, and so—to ascend a step higher—is Comus, or Hamlet, or even the Iliad. But Mrs. Norton, like her gifted sister, possesses one quality which distinguishes her above all other writers, in this or in any tongue—we mean in giving utterance to, what is emphatically, the poetry of wt) man. In this they resemble no cotemporary, unless it is Miss Landon. Women have written poetry before, but if it had been shown to a stranger, he could not have told from which sex it sprung. It is not so with the poetry of these two gifted females. Every line betrays the woman—each verse breathes the tender, the melting, the peculiar eloquence of the sex. - Scarcelya page, moreover, occurs in the writings of either, which does not bear testimony to woman’s sufi‘ering and worth. Yes! while it is the fashion to sneer at the purity of woman’s heart, and while a pack of literary debauchees are libelling our mothers and our sisters unopposed, from the ranks of that in- sulted sex have risen up defenders of its innocence, to shame the heartless slanderers to silence. Hear‘ in what eloquent numbers Mrs. Norton vindicates her sex: ' “ Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, And what they do or suffer men record; But the long sacrifice of woman's days Passes without a thought—without a word ; And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill’d— Fzfiizh the anfiggls mindf must watch and wake, t e eh i s o the heart be stilli— Goes by unhegd as tln‘ie summer wind, And leaves no memory and no trace behind! Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells ' In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate, NEW iBOOKS. Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells, Warmed by the fight, or cheer‘d through high debate; The soldier dies surrounded ;—could he live Alone to safer, and alone to strive? Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom Shows deeper honor than a common tomb! th0 sleep within ? Aye! who? Not woman, we can answer for it. God bless her who has written thus. The wretches who would rob the sex of their purity of heart, and their uncomplaining endurance of sufi'ering, deserve to die, uncheered by woman's nurture, lmwept by woman's tenderness. Such beings are not men : they are scarcely even brutes: they are aliquid momlri. monsters in part. But again: “ In many a village churchyard’s simple grave, Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave; In many a vault, where Death could only claim The brief inscription of a woman’s name; Of different ranks, and different degrees, From daily labor to a life ofease, (From the rich wife, who through the weary day Wept in herjewels, griei's unceasing prey, To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor, And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—) Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release, Had lost all memory of the blessing, “ Peace ;" Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years, None saw but Him who marks the mourner’ s tears; The obscurely noble .’ who evaded not The woe which he had will'd should be their lot, But nerved themselves to hear!” “The Dream,” as a whole, is the finest piece in the volume before us. It abounds with glorious passages. of which we can only give two more examples—the one, impassioned, nervous, and stirring as a trum~ pot——the other sweet, and low, and musical as the rustle of an angele wing. ch authors can boast such a varied power. “ Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death, Each varied ill that waits on human breath, Rather than bid thee linger out thy life, In the long toil of such unnatural strife. To wander through the world unreconciled, Heart-weary as a spirit-broken child, And think tt were an hour of bliss like heaven, glhott couldst Din—forgiving andforgiven,—- with a feverish hope of anguish born, (Nerving thy mind to feel indignant scorn Of all the cruel foes that twixt ye Stand, Holding thy heart-strings with a reckless hand,) Steal to his presence, now unseen so long, And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong! Into the aching depths of thy poor heart, Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain, And'wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart, And bum like fire through thy bewildered brain. Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal, To teach thy fellow creatures how to feel,— Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,— Recall the hopes, the influences of years,— Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,— Invoke the Heaven, that knows thy sorrow's truth, By all the soilenirig'memories of youth— By every hope that cheered thine early day—- By every tear that washes wrath away— By every old remembrance longr gone by-f By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; And learn at length how deep and stern a blow Man’s hand can strike, and yet no pity show 2” REVIEW OF' What force! what passion! Never has Mrs. Hes mans written thus,—few indeed have done so except Byron. We must pass “ The Dream" with a single other quotation. It is on the evening hour, and is sweet as a moonlit landscape, or a child’s dream of heaven. “ That hour, once sacred to God’s presence, still Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill, The holiest hour of earth. Then toil doth cease, Then from the yoke, the oxen find release— Then man rests, pausing from his many cares, And the world teems with children’s sunset rayers .' Then innocent things seek out their natura rest. The babe sinks slumbering on its mother’s breast, The birds beneath their leafy covering creep, Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep; And angels, floating by- on radiant wings, Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings, Catch the sweet incense as it floats along. The infant’s prayer, the mother’s cradle-ong, And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar, As things too sacred for this fallen star.” There is, in reading these poems, an abiding sense of the desolation that has fallen on the heart of the writer, a desolation which only adds to the mournful music‘ of her lyre, like the approach of death, is fabled, to give music to the swan. We have studiously avoided, heretofore, touching upon this subject, as we would not, by awakening pity, blind the judgment of the public, but we cannot avoid the remark, that every page of this volume bears evidence that the heart of the authoress, like that of Rachel, will not be comforted. The arrow has entered deep into her soul. Like Mrs. Hemans, unfortunate in her domestic life—for the micreant who would still believe her guilty is an insult to humanity—she “ seeks, as the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness." Hers is a hard lot; deserted by the one who has sworn to love her, and maligned by the unfeeling world, she has not even the consolation of weeping with her children, and finding some relief in their caresses for her broken heart. Hear her once more— we have almost wept as we read—hear her, when gazing in the twilight at the pictures of her absent children. “ Where are yet Are ye playing By the stranger's blazing hearth; Forgetting. in your gladness, AYouerld home’s former mirth? re ye ant-ing? Are 1e sin in”? Are ye‘full of childiik gleg? ° 01' do [your light hearts sudden Wit the memory of me ? Round whom, ohi gentle darlings, Do your young arms fondly twine, Does she press you to her bosom Wh'o hath taken you from mine? Oh .' boys, the twilight hour Such a heavy time hath grown,— It recalls with such deep anguish All 1 used to call my own,— That the harshest word that ever Was spoken to me there, Would be trivial—would be welcome— In this depth of my des air! Yet no! Despair shall sin not. While life and love remain,— Tho' the weary struggle haunt me, And my prayer be made in vain: ' Tho’ at times my spirit fail me And the bitter tear-drops fall, 95; N’EJW B 0 O'K'Sv Tho’ nt lot be hard and lonely, Yet hope—Iholn thro’ all.” And then, with what a burst of eloquence, she carries out the idea! “ By the living smile which greeted The lonely one of Nain, When her long last watch was over, And her ho e seemed wild and vain; By all the ten er mercy God hath shown to human grief, When fate or man’s perverseness Denied and barr'd relief,— By the hopeless woe which taught me To look to him alone, From the vain appeals for justice, And wild efforts of my own,— By thy light—thou unseen future, And thy tears—thou bitter past, I will hope—tho’ all forsake me, In His mercy to the last !" Twruen'r. But we must close this article. There are many exquisite shorter pieces in the volume, besides the The Dream and Twilight. The Creole Girl; The Child of Earth; I cannot Love Thee; The Vision- ary Portrait; The Banner of the Covenanters; Weep not for him that Dieth; and several of the Sonnets may be instanced as among the finet. Let us, in conclusion, commend the poems of Mrs. Norton to our fair countrywomen as those of a mind of a high order. Less egotism, a more extended scope of feel- ing, and greater attention to the rules of her art, will place her foremost among the female poets of Eng- land. “ Bancrqft's History of theUnited States." Vol. 3. The first two volumes of this history have now been some years before the public, and criticism has long since given them its flat. The characteristics of Mr. Bancroft are a rigid scrutiny of facts, a gene- ral impartiality, and a style, usually nervous, but sometimes savoring of transcendental obscurity. The style of the second volume, however, is an improve- ment on that of the first, and the volume before us surpasses, in our opinion, either of the former two. There is a philosophy in Bancroft which other his- torians might well emulate. No man has traced so clearly the causes of the American Revolution. It was the stern, hard, indepedence of the Pilgrims, handed down to their posterity, and united with the gallant and chivalric freedom of the South, which brought about the greatest revolution of modern times. The pictures which Mr. Bancroft draws in pursuing the thread of his narrative, are often highly graphic. The early adventures of Soto and others; the colony of Raleigh at Roanoke; the landing of the Pilgrims; the Indian wars of New England, are all described with force if not with beauty. The gradual dissemination 96 FASHIONS of the Democratic principle is also faithfully depicted; and it is clearly shown that the Puritans, the Swedes, and the Quakers, alike formed pure democracies in their settlements. In short, the history is something more than a mere chronicle: it is a continuous essay on the philosophy of the American Revolution. . The third volume brings the subject down to the period of the old French war, an epoch which may be considered at the threshold of the struggle for inde- pendence. Here, for the present, he drops the cur- tain. A fitter point, for such a pause could not have been chosen. Behind, is the long successionof trials, and dangers, through which the infant colonies had just passed : before is the wild, shadowy future, soon to become vivid with its startling panorama. Such a reflection might well fill the mind of the historian with a kind of solemn awe; and it is while such feel- ings overpower his readers, that he introduces Wash- ington, the future hero of the scene. The work is beautifully printed, in a style highly creditable to the American press. We leave Mr. Bancroft with the hope that his historic labors will be pursued with redoubled zeal, satisfied that in him America possesses a philosophic annalist of the highest order. FASHIONS FOR FEBRUARY, CARRIAGE DRESS. FIG. l.-—Robe of one of the new figured silks; the skirt trimmed with two bias flounccs; half-high cor- sagc, and bishop’s sleeve. Cambric collerettefickil, trimmed with Valenciennes lace. Violet satin man- telet, lined with gros de Naples, and bordered with a broad band of violet velvet; it is of the scarf form, but made long and ample, and with a small pointed hood. Green satin chapeau, a round brim, something deeper than they are in general; the interior is trimmed on each side with a half wreath of blush- roses; the exterior with bands and knots of green ribbon, and a. white and green shaded mambout plume. EVENING DRESS. Fla..2.—Lemon-colored satin robe, trimmed with a deep flounoe of antique point lace, surmounted by roses placed singly at regular distances above the flounce; low tight corsage and sleeve, both trimmed with point. Head-dress of hair, disposed in thick masses of ringlets at the sides, and a low open bow behind; it is decorated with flowers, and agold cross, Chdle bournouss of white cashmere, lined with white satin, and bordered with a band of black and plaid velvet. “was: ; r" FOR FEBRUARY- “ Byrant's American Poets." then. 1 vol. Harper :} Bro- This work does credit to the editor, although he has admitted some, and left out others, of our poetical writers, whom we think he ought not so to have treated. However, a compilation like this can never be made to suit all. The true question is, who can do better? ' “ Travels to the City ofthe Caliphs." By Lieutenant W'ellsted. 2 vols. Lea & Blanchard. This is a light, entertaining work. The adventures of the hero (Lieut. Ormsby) are highly pleasing ; and he evinces a laudable desire to fall in love, as well for his own as for the convenience of the reader. On the whole, the book is well writen, and quite amusing. 1841. EVENING DRESS. FIG. 3.—-India muslin robe; the skirt is trimmed with a closely plaited volan, which encircles the bot- tom of the border, mounts in the drapery style on one side, and is terminated by a metal of muslin, simi- larly finished at the ends; a chef for head the volan_ Corsage en gerbe and short full sleeve, both orna- mented with chefs tl’or. The head dress gives a front view of the one just described. Opera cloak of brown rep velvet, lined with blue satin; it is made shorter than the dress, of moderate width, and trimmed with three blue satin rouleztus, each placed at some distance from the other, and a light embroidery surmounting the upper one. A small hood, and a very deep lappel complete the ornaments. OPERA DRESS. F IG. L—Douilette of white cashmere, wadded, and lined with pink gros de Naples; the lining quilted in a lozenge pattern; the corsage is made tight to the shape, and half-high. Demi-large sleeve; the front of the skirt is finished on each side by fancy silk trimming. Mantdet of a large size, and of the same materials, bordered with a rich white and pink clie- nille fringe. Black velvet chapeau i la Louis XIII, trimmed with white and pink feathers. .0 S3<§\ ..<>x\ \: \$\.»..\.§..r.\\§\ \ .\~N\§§\ \Q \x\§\§\ “QRSNS “SQ \\.\ hwxgfifi _ . . \ \ _\ M\§\ \»\\ .. m.\ _ \ \ \.\ §§§Q§§ , v.43. ‘ .31 mm 1' "a N, \I |>i\‘ .3\k\§§ ,.\ §>§\\.\ '44— _ .1. ‘3 In! \- \q I! ‘ 'rz "1 “('71. r, - '81 1'; r 10' ” I.“ ly‘ f? a)? 'Lk'a/uwp“ l v ' \ ‘ \ far EYES-(9)1 U3 [Wifil [5 L03) sfll M‘NH HEW“ [‘Q) MLQMHL ' “'17 will, 15 [13)th“ ‘0 k) ' W ZéW'él )Vlfl I -______ “---q-—-" IRY. ; formed to be loved with an world rarely witnesses. As out upon the landscape, with ' brow, and the other thrown 1e balustrade, thus displaying lust, and her matchless figure e, she seemed a being too a poet’s imagination. is afternoon, cousin," at last g a silence which had lasted " what are you looking at, I0 reply, but still gazed down rparently lost in thought. u for you?” said the boy, in looking up more devotedly den’s face, “ you used to like mow, Isabel.” on ’2” said the beauty, looking g, as if detected in something ll, “ sing by all means, my Sing me that old lay of the Wyn,” and she called play- eyhound reposing at the feet nere and let me talk to you, 'atified joy—of joy such as is re countenances of those who 'hole face of the boy as the imd taking up his guitar, he 1 olden lay, which has now tir lip that once warbled it, 1 face of the maiden as he ared to have forgotten that earth besides the object of the caresses lavished upon ore than all the occasional estowed upon himself, filled 4“ a“ up. GRAHANPS MAGAZINE. Von. XVIII. M A R C H 1841. No.3. , THE LADY ISABEL. A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. CHAPTER. I. i 11' was a splendid landscape. Far away before i the eye stretched a wide, undulating country, check- cred with lordly mansions, extensive woodlands, and 1 here and there a quiet little village peeping out from [ amidst the verdant hills; while away on the verge ; of the horizon glittered a majestic river, which,“ winding hither and thither among the uplands, burst at length into view in a flood of glorious light, that ; lay like a shield of, burnished silver in the distance. ; Nor was the foreground of the scene less beau- tiful. Art had there been taxed to rival nature in loveliness. Terraces sinking one beneath another; a verdant lawn that seemed like velvet; rich, old lordly balustrades skirting the garden at your feet; and beyond, open glades, and clumps of forest trees thrown together in apparent confusion, but to produce which the utmost skill had been tasked, evinced at once the taste and opulence, of Lord Dentine, the owner of that rich domain. Such was the scene upon which two beings gazed on a lovely summer afternoon, in the year 16—. One of these was a youth, just verging into manhood, dressed in a dark, plain suit, with a deep lace collar, and cuffs of the same material. He had apparently been singing, and accompanying himself on the guitar; for his instrument was still held idly in his hand, as he sat at the feet ofa lady, into whose face he was looking up with a rapt intensity of gaze, which told that the soul of the page—for such he seemed—was in every glance. And well might his emotion toward that lovely being he one of unmixed love; for never did a more beautiful creature gaze upon a summer land- scape. Tall, stately, with dark lustrous eyes, and Why don’t he come? a port that might have become a queen, Isabel Mowbray, was a being formed to be loved with an intensity such as this world rarely witnesses. As she now stood gazing out upon the landscape, with one hand shading her brow, and the other thrown back, and resting on the balnstrade, thus displaying her snowy neck and bust, and her matchless figure to the best advantage, she seemed a being too beautiful for aught but a poet’s imagination. “ You are silent, this afternoon, cousin," at last said the youth, breaking a silence which had lasted for several minutes, “ what are you looking at, Isabel 7" The maiden made no reply, but still gazed down the park. She was apparently lost in thought. “Shall I sing again for you i” said the boy, in his low, sweet voice, looking up more devotedly than ever into the maiden’s face, “ you used to like to hear me sing, you know, Isabel.” “Oh! Henry is it you ?” said the beauty, looking down, and half blushing, as if detected in something she wished to conceal, “sing by all means, my pretty page and 002. Sing me that old lay of the troubadour, and here Wyn," and she called play- fully to a beautiful greyhound reposing at the feet of the boy, “ come here and let me talk to you, while Henry sings.” An expression of gratified joy—of joy such as is rarely seen, except in the countenances of those who love—illumined the whole face of the boy as the maiden thus spoke—and taking up his guitar, he sang the words of an olden lay, which has now passed, with many a fair lip that once warbled it, into oblivion. Gazing up into the face of the maiden as he sang, the youth appeared to have forgotten that aught else existed on earth besides the object of his adoration,-while the caresses lavished upon his greyhound, but more than all the occasional smiles which Isabel bestowed upon himself, filled 9 98 his whole soul with a delicious emotion, such as is known only to us when we fancy our first love is returned. But had he not been misled by his own blind admiration, he might have seen much in her conduct to dissipate his delusion; for scarcely a minute would elapse, without Isabel casting an anxious glance, down the avenue of the park, and once her lips moved unconsciously, and even the page might have heard her murmur, had he listened, “ I wonder where he can be 'l” But appearing to awake to her indiscretion, the maiden suddenly ceased gazing, and turning to Henry, said, " A thousand, thousand thanks, sweet coz. You sing, to-night, sweeter than ever. But there if Wyn—the saucy fellow—has not run 011' with my shawl.” The eyes of the youth lighted up with pleasure, and the blood mounted even to his brow, at this encomium,—and exclaiming, “ Stay—I will win back the traunt,” he bounded gaily down the terrace after the playful hound. The maiden followed him with her eyes, and sighed “ Poor Henry." In those two words what a volume of hopeless love and years of anguish for the youth were spoken. t CHAPTER II. The Page: The Lovers. HENRY DE LORRAINE was the only son ofa once proud, but now decayed lineage, and, being left an orphan at an early age, had been reared in the house of his cousin, Lord Deraine. His life there had been that of most noble youths of his day, who, either through necessity, or for the purposes of advancement, were brought up as pages in the establishments of the wealthier nobility. Lorraine, however, possessed one advantage over the other i to her the state of her own heart. fcortld not return her cousin’s passion, though she pages of his cousin: he had from the first been the THE LADY ISABEL. loveliness, but he had never, in his brightest visions, pictured aught so fair. He had expected Isabel to be improved, although he had left her the loveliest being of the riding; but he had not imagined that she would bud forth into a flower of such surpas- sing, such transcendent beauty. He was awed ; he was filled as if with the presence of a divinity, to which he bowed irresistibly, but in strange delight. From that hour the bosom of the warm, high-souled boy, was ruled by a passion that devoured his very existence. But we said Isabel had changed. She too had learned to love, though not her cousin. As yet she scarcely knew it herself; the seczet lay hidden in the recesses of her own bosom ; and though her heart would beat more wildly, and the blood rush in deeper time to her cheek, whenever the steed of her lover, the young Lord De Courtenay, was seen approaching her father’s gate, yet the Lady Isabel, had never asked herself whence arose her emotion. Perhaps she feared to institute the inquiry. Certain it is, that like every other delicate female, she almost shrank from owning, even to herself, that her affec- tions had strayed from their pure resting-place in her own bosom. It was well for Lorraine’s present, though unfor- tunate for his future, happiness, that De Courtenay had left the country a few day’s prior to the page’s return. By this means he was prevented from learning, what, otherwise would have checked his growing affection even in its bud, and suffered to go on in his dreams of love, until the very exist- ence of the endeared object became almost a part of his being. It was some time before Isabel perceived the change which had been wrought in her cousin’s feelings toward herself, and when she did, the knowledge served more than aught else, to reveal She saw she companion of the Lady Isabel, the only child ofl still loved him with the same sisterly afl‘ection as his patron. Although a year or two older than himself, the want of either brother or sister, had induced Isabel to confide in him all her little difii. culties; and they had grown up thus, more on the footing of children of the same parent, than as a wealthy heiress, and a poor dependant. During the last year of their lives, however, a change had silently, and almost imperceptibly, come over their feelings toward each other. An absence of nearly a twelvemonth with his patron at a foreign court, had in part altered the sentiments of Lorraine from those of a devoted brother to the emotions of love. He left Isabel. when both thought as children; he returned and found her already a woman. During that interval new scenes, new thoughts, new emotions had successively occu- pied the heart of the page; and though when he came back he was still a boy in years, he had; already began to feel the intenser passions of the ; Never had be seen such beauty as bursti man. upon him when Isabel entered the room on his return. It was as if a goddess of olden Greece had been ushered into his presence, as if the inani- mate statue of Pygmalion had flushed, all at once, ever, and with this discovery came that of her own love for De Courtenay. Although her equal in rank, and even her superior in wealth, there was a ro- mantic gallantry in her lover which had forbade him to woo her as others of like elevated station would have done. Though, therefore, her parent would have sanctioned the alliance at once, he was yet ignorant of the love the only son of his neighbor, the earl of Wat-dour, bore to his daughter. And though the lady Isabel thought of her absent lover daily, there was something—it might be maid- en modesty, which made her shun breathing De Conrtenay’s name. Several weeks had now elapsed, and months were beginning to pass away, since the departure of De Courtenay for Flanders. The time for his re- turn had nearly arrived,and Isabel had even received a hasty note from him, breathing a thousand delicate fiatteries, such as lovers only know how to pay and to receive, telling her to expect him at Deraine lHall, on this very aftemoon—yet he came not. i Why did he tarry? It was this knowledge which 5 had made the lady Isabel watch so long from the l terrace, down the avenue of her father’s park. Little into a breathing being. Lorraine had dreamed of ' did Lorraine think,,as he gazed so devotedly into THE LADY her face, that her thoughts even then were wander— ing upon another. Let it not be fancied that the lady Isabel trificd with her cousin’s feelings. Deeply, daily was she pained at his too evident love. She longed to tell him the truth, and yet she shrank from it. She could not inflict such agony upon his heart. She would have given worlds to have had the power of returning his love, but that had long since passed from her, and like the pitying executioner, she loath- ed striking the blow, which she knew must eventu- ally be struck. And thus the story of those two beings went on, and while both were full of joy and hope, one, at least, had before him to drink, a cup, us yet unseen, of the bitterest agony. Alas! for the disappointments, the worse than utter wo, which a devoted heart experiences, when it discovers that its first deep love is in vain. CHAPTER. III. The Letter: The Discovery. “ Sun loves me—she loves me," exclaimed the page joyfully, as he stood in a sequestered alley in the garden, a few hours later than when she first saw him, “ yes !" he exclaimed, as if he could not too often repeat the glad tidings, “she loves me; and, poor, as I am, I may yet win her.” As he spoke his whole countenance lighted up; his slender figure dilated; his chest heaved; and all the lofty spirit of his sires shone in the boy’s eyes, and spoke in his tones. “ Yes! she loves me," he repeated, “ she called me ‘ sweet coz,’ and thanked me a * thousand times’—these were the very words—and she played so with Wyn, and said I sung better than ever. Yes! yes! I cannot be mistaken—site loves me, me only.” The page suddenly ceased, for he heard a rustling as of some one walking slowly up an adjacent path, separated from his own by a narrow belt of shrub- bery. His heart fluttered, and the blood rushed into his cheek. He wanted nothing to tell him that the intruder was the lady Isabel. She was evidently reading something, though in a low voice, as if to herself. For a minute the page hesitated whether he should join her, but then he reflected that she could be perusing nothing that she would not wish him to hear, when something in her glad tones, something in the words she read, induced him, the next instant, to pause. The lady Isabel was apparently repeating a letter, but from whom ? Did he dream? Could those terms of en- dearment be addremed to her? Was it her voice which lingered upon them in such apparent pleasure? She was now directly opposite to the page; not more than a few feet distant; and the sense which hitherto had only reached him in broken fragments, now came in continuous sentences to his ear. The letter ran thus: DEAREST Issnnnz—I write this in haste, and with a sad heart, for instead of being on my journey to see your sweet face once more, I am suddenly ordered back to Flanders with despatches for the commander in chief. You may judge of your Edward’s feelings, ISABEL. 99 to have the cup of bliss thus dashed from his lips at the very moment when he had thought a disa point- ment impossible. Oh! if] knew that you still thought of me, love, as you once said with your own sweet lips that you did, I would de art with a lighter heart. God only knows when I shallsee you. But the king's messenger has come for me, and I must go. Fare- well, dearest. I have kissed the paper over and over again. Farewell, again, and again. Here the words of the reader became once more undistinguishable; but had they continued audible, Lorraine could have heard no more. A fearful truth was breaking in upon him. His brain was like fire: his heart beat as if it would snap its bonds asunder. He staggered to a tree, for a faint- ness was coming over him. Big drops of agony rolled from his brow, and he placed his hand to his forehead, like one awaking from delirium. At length he found words for his woe. “ No no, it cannot be," he exclaimed “ it was all a dream. Yes! it is too, too true. But I will not, cannot believe it, unless I hear it from her own lips,” and starting forward, with sudden energy, the page, placed his hand upon the shrubbery, and push- ing it aside with superhuman strength, he stood the next instant panting before his cousin. Astonished at his unexpected appearance, Isabel started back with a suppressed shriek; but on re- cognising the intruder, her fear gave way to confu- sion. The blood mounted in torrents over brow, neck, and bosom ; and hastily crushing the letter in her hands, and concealing it in her dress, she paused hesitatingly before her cousin. His quick eye detected the movement, and rushing forward, he flung himself at the feet of Isabel. “ It is then true—true—trte,” he exclaimed passionately, “ my ears are not deceived, and you love another. Is it not so Isabel 'l" The maiden averted her head, for she saw at once that she had been overheard, and she could not endure the boy‘s agonised look. “0h ! Isabel, dear, dear Isabel, say it is untrue. Only say I was mistaken, that it was all a dream, that you still love me as you used to love me." “ I do love you still," murmured Isabel, in broken accents “ as I ever did, as my dearest, nearest cousin." “ Is that all !" said the boy, whose eyes for a moment had lighted up with wild unchecked joy, but which now shewed the depth of his returning agony in every look “ is that all 7" he continued in a tone of disappointment. “ Oh Isabel,” and the tears gushed into his eyes, “is there no hope? Speak—only one word, dear Isabel. I have dared to love you—I might have known better—and now you spurn rne. Well—the dream is over," and dropping the hands which he had seized, he gazed a minute wildly into her face, to see if there was one last gleam of hope. But no response came back to dispel his agony. The lady Isabel was violently agitated, and though her look was one of pity, it was not, alas! one of encouragement. She burst into tears, and turned her head partially away. Striking his brow wildly with his hands, the page rushed from her presence, and when she murmured his name and looked up, he was gone. (To be Continued.) CALLIRHoE. BY H. Wanner: art thou bright Callirhiie, Calm, Here-eyed Callirhiie ? Art thou a daughter of this earth, That, like myself, had life and birth, And who will die like me? Methinks a soul so pure and clear Must breathe another atmosphere, Of thought more heavenly and high, More full of deep serenity, Than circles round this world of ours; I dare not think that thou shouldst die, Unto my soul, like summer showers To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May To the slow-budding woodbine bowers. Oh no ! thou canst pass away. No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers! Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they, Untearful yet, were raised to pray, Fronting the mellow sunset glow Of summer eve in Paradise, Those bright founts whence forever flow N epenthe-streams of ecstacics. It cannot be that Death Shall chill them with his winter breath,— What hath Death to do with thee, My seraph-winged Callirho'e? “’hence art thou? From some other sphere,‘ On which, throughout the moonless night, Gazing, we dream of beings bright, Such as we long for here,— Or art thou but a joy Elysian, Ofmy own inward sight, A glorious and fleeting vision, Habited in robes of light, The image of a blessed thing, Whom I might love with wondering, Yet feeling not a shade of doubt, And who would give her love to me, To twine my inmost soul about? No, no, these would not be like thee, Bright one, with auburn hair disparted On thy meek forehead maidenly, N 0, not like thee, my woman-hearted, My warm, my true Callirhiie ! How may I tell the sunniness Of thy thought-beaming smile I PERCEVAL. Or how the soothing spell express, That bindeth me the while, Forth from thine eyes and features bright, Gusheth that flood of golden light! Like a sun-beam to my soul, Comes that trusting smile of thine, Lighting up the clouds of doubt, Till they shape themselves, and roll Like a glory all about The messenger divine.— For divine that needs must be That bringeth mesages from thee. Madonna, gleams of smiles like this, Like a stream of music fell, In the silence of the night, On the soul of Raphael. Musing with a still delight, How meekly thou did'st bend and kiss The baby on thy knee, Who sported with the golden hair That fell in showers o’er him there, Looking up contentedly. Only the greatest souls can speak As much by smiling as by tears. Thine strengthens me when I am weak, And gladdens into hopes my fears. The path of life seems plain and sure, Thy purity doth make me pure And holy, when thou let'st arise That mystery divine, That silent music in thine eyes. Seldom tear visits cheek of thine, Seldom a tear escapes from thee, My Hebé, my Callirhiie! Sometimes in waking dreams divine, Wandering, my spirit meets with thine, And while, made dumb with ecstacy, I pause in a delighted trance, Thine, like a squirrel caught at play, Just gives one startled look askzmce, And darteth suddenly away, Switter than a phosphor glance At night upon the lonely sea, Wayward-souled Callirhtie. Sometimes, in mockery of care, Thy playful thought will never rest, Darting about, now here, now there, ¢ CALLIRHOE. 101 Like sun-beams on a river’s breast, Shifting with each breath of air, By its very unrest fair. As a bright and summer stream, Seen in childhood's happy dream, Singing nightly, singing daily, Trifling with each blade of grass That breaks his ripples as they pass, And going on its errand gaily, Singing with the self-same leap Wherewith it merges in the deep. So shall thy spirit glide along, Breaking, when troubled, into song, And leave an echo floating by \Vhen thou art gone forth utterly. Seeming-cheerful souls there be, That flutter with a living sound As dry leaves rustle on the ground ; But they are sorrowful to me, Because they make me think of thee, My bird-like, wild Callirhiie! Thy mirth is like the flickering ray Forthshooting from the steadfast light Of a star, which through the night Moves glorious on its way, With a sense of moveless might. Thine inner soul flows calm forever; Dark and calm without a sound, Like that strange and trackless river That rolls its waters underground. Early and late at thy soul’s gate Sits Chastity in maiden wise, No thought unchallenged, small or great, Goes thence into thine eyes; Nought evil can that warder win, To pass without or enter in. Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink, Meanness doth blush and hide its head, Down through the soul their light will sink, And cannot be extinguished. Far up on poised wing Thou floatest, far from all debate, Thine inspirations are too great To tarry questioning; No murmurs of our earthly air, God’s voice alone can reach thee there; Downlooking on the stream of Fate, So high thou sweepest in thy flight, Thou knowest not of pride or hate, But gazing from thy lark-like height, Forth o’er the waters of To be, The first gleam ofTruth’s morning light Round thy broad forehead floweth bright, My Pallas-like Callirhiie. Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom, As from the Delphic cave, Great sayings constantly do come, Wave melting into wave ; Rich as the shower of Danae, Rains down thy golden speech; My soul sits waiting silently, Cambridge, Mass, 1841, When eye or tongue sends thought to me, To comfort or to teach. Calm is thy being as a lake Nestled within a quiet hill, When clouds are not, and winds are still, So peaceful calm, that it doth take All images upon its breast, Yet change not in its queenly rest, Reflecting back the bended skies Till you half doubt where Heaven lies. Deep thy nature is, and still, How dark and deep! and yet so clear lts inmost depths seem near; Not moulding all things to its will, Moulding its will to all, Ruling them with unfelt thrall. So gently flows thy life along It makes e"en discord musical, So that nought can pass thee by But turns to wond'rous melody, Like a full, clear, ringing song. Sweet the music of its flow, As of a river in a dream, A river in a sunny land, A deep and solemn stream Moving over silver and, Majestical and slow. I sometimes think that thou wert given To be a bright interpreter Of the pure mysteries of Heaven, And cannot hear To think Death’s icy hand should stir One ringlet of thy hair; But thou must die like us,— Yet not like us,--for can it be That one so bright and glorious Should sink into the dust as we, Who could but wonder at thy purity? Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine. My earnest-souled Callirhiie; And yet thy life is part of mine. What should I love in place of thee! Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams To me, or as a living sound To one who starts from fev'rous sleep, Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams, And on the darkness stareth round, Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep. Then if it must be so, That thou from us shalt go, Linger yet a little while; Oh! let me once more feel thy grace, Oh! let me once more drink thy mile! I am as nothing if thy face Is turned from me! But ifit needs must be, That I must part from thee, That the silver cord be riven That holds thee down from Heaven, Not yet, not yet, Callirhiic, Unfold thine angel wings to flee, Oh! no, not yet, Callirhtie! 9* THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. BY J. BOSS BROWNE. Con'rmuan raom PAGE 87. PART II. Tan irrevocable passion which sprung up be- tween Marco Da Vinci and Valeria, during the hours of mutual communion which they enjoyed while preparations were in progress for the annual exhibition at the Academy of Arts, was not destined to wither in its infancy. . Scarcely had the portrait been finished, when notice was conveyed to the candidates to send in their productions; and of course my anxiety was great to ascertain what impression my daughter's beauty should make in public. Completely blinded by those deep and damning schemes which have proved my ruin, I meantime suspected nothing of what was in progress between the young and ardent lovers. They were bound heart and soul to each other; but except by those involuntary signs, which none but the victims of passion can under. stand, their love was unuttered. Hourly was this misplaced flame acquiring an increasing degree of vigor, from the very means taken to suppress it. I saw not, in my blindness, that in spite of the re- spectful and irreproachable conduct of Da Vinci toward the idol of my mercenary dreams, his tender flame, his ill-disguised sentiments of admiration, his involuntary devotion, were all returned in the same manner by Valeria. In due time the exhibition took place. A week of thrilling excitement passed away. On the eve- ning the premiums were to be awarded, I sallied out to await the decisions, persuaded that Valeria’s beauty, and not the skill of Marco Da Vinci, must make serious impressions in favor of the portrait. How describe my delight, when the premium was bestowed on the limner of my daughter’s charms! Her fame, I well knew, would now rapidly spread, and my fortune was sure! In the excitement of the moment, I hurried from the Academy, and sought to drown my feeling in deep potations. While under the influence of an unusual quantity of the stimulant, the time flew ra- pidly past; and it was late in the night before I recovered myself sufficiently to stagger home. To account for the sight which there paralyzed my eyes, it is necessary to touch upon what happened during my inebriation. Marco Da Vinci, on learning the decision made in favor of his work, proceeded with haste to pour out his feelings of gratitude to Valeria, whom he regarded as the instrument of his success. In the passionate eloquence of his temperament, he dwelt upon all, save that which was consuming his Vitals, and which he dared not avow. They who pass any portion of their time in a state of beatitude, can alone say how swiftly it flies. Valeria and Da- Vinci, entranced with their own dreamy visions of future happiness and of present joy, noted not that the hour of midnight had approached. At length the “iron tongue" of the townvclock warned them to part; and with a deep sigh Valeria murmured a request that Da Vinci would visit the house again and frequently. H My determination," said Marco, “ can no long- er be oppressed.” In a voice of the deepest agita- tion he proceeded: “ I had hoped, Valeria,that we might part without a word of regret on either side; but your kindness and friendship toward me, render it a duty that I should make some explanations in defence of my refusal of your hospitable invitation. I must speak, whatever be the penalty. Your beauty and charms of person--your mental fascina- tion—render it too dangerous for me to continue my visits! We must part—forever!” In a hurried and agitated manner the young painter rushed toward the door. “ Stay 1" cried Valeria, in whom the struggle between love and duty was for a moment so violent as to deprive her of her faculties, “ Da Vinci, why must we part thus? Why are we never again to meet? I am sure it is no harm for us to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s society." This was said in a voice of such warmth and artlessness, that, for a moment, he was unnerved in his resolution. The danger, however, was too great; and he resisted the temptation. “ Valeria," said Marco Da Vinci, endeavoring to answer calmly, " I am an outcast—a beggar!” “ But I do not think less of you for that !” cried Valeria, passionately. “ Hear me i" cried Da Vinci, in a hurried and choaking voice, “ you know me not 1 I have dared —I still dare—to love you l" Valeria might have suspected, and probably did suspect, that this declaration was inevitable; but there is a great deal of deceit in the female heart; and she evinced much astonishment at the words of her lover. She endeavored to frown—to look serious THE CONFESSIONS -—to speak of my authority—but love was the conqueror! That resource which woman is ever prone to make use of, was at hand ; and Valeria wept. Her beauty had always been a subject of dangerous in- terest to Marco Da Vinci: it was now heightened in his mind by the consciousness that she loved him. No longer able to control those feelings, which from the moment of their meeting, had taken possession of Da Vinci’s heart, the enthusiastic lover sprang forward and clasped Valeria to his bosom. He pressed her lips to his own, and im- printed on them the burning kiss of first-love. At this critical moment I entered. Unable to believe my senses, I stood gasping for breath, and transfixed with doubt and astonishment. Convinced at length that I was not deceived, I sprang forward to wreak my vengeance on the villain who had so basely abused my confidence. 4" Monster !" cried Da Vinci, confronting me face to face, and darting from his fine expressive eyes the most deadly hatred, “ Monster! you are known! whatever obligations I may have formerly consider- ed myself under to you, I now look upon them as entirely cancelled by your hypocrisy toward myself, and your base conduct toward your daughter. Know, hoary villain, that no later than to day, I received a letter from Don Ferdinand Ruzzina, warning me t9 be on my guard in any of my trans- actions with you. Nor was this all! He openly exposed your villainy, and revealed the unnatural and cruel schemes you have concerted for the dispo- sal of your daughter’s honor. Behold, wretch, in use her protector! You have forfeited the title, and by the God that made me, your baseness shall not triumph 1” So struck was I at this change in the conduct of Da Vinci, that for several moments I stood trans- fixed to the spot. Still stupified with rage and shame, I staggered back, and flung myself on a bench. Valeria, with that filial affection, which I had never known her to violate, sprang toward me in an agony of remorse; and kneeling at my feet, earnestly avowed her determination to remain for- ever obedient to my will; and craved forgiveness for her instrumentality in causing me such shame and misery. Already goaded to desperation by the taunts of young Da Vinci, and the reproaches of my own conscience, I was not prepared for this act of unmerited constancy. In the bitterness of my own self-detestation, I rushed from the room, striking my temples with my clenched hands, and uttering imprecations on those who gave me life. I hastily mounted the ladder, leading to my miserable garret; and darting through the trap-door, threw myself head-long on the squalid and tattered pallet. Ruzzina had not forgotten me! Awed by the unconquerable virtue of my daughter, he had no de- sire to renew visits which he well knew were alike useless and unwelcome. But I had exacted large sums from him. He was my dupe! Even in that, there was a pleasure. Aye, such a pleasure as a miser can feel when avarice triumphs over con- science, and vice over‘virtue! Early on the following morning, I indited a note to Don Ferdinand, which, in the plenitude of OF A Mtsnlt. 103 my craft, I looked upon as relieving me from all claims whatever on his part. It ran thus: “If you have any intention of consummating your designs on my daughter’s virtue—a thing which I regard as a mere misnomer—you must do so imme- diately. The advance-money hitherto received from you, I consider fairly my own ; and if you think pro- per to neglect the chance I now give you of achieving your wishes, I am sure it is your own fault. “Be so good as to let me have a definite answer, when it suits your convenience ; and believe me, CATRUCCIO FALIRI.” It afforded me much gratification to anticipate the wrath and indignation Ruzzina should evince on reading this. To gloat over the dark traits of men’s characters, has ever been my choicest amusement; and I well knew that he would either make a des- perate attempt to retrieve his imprudence by recovering the money, or desist altogether and keep silent to avoid the shafts of satire and ridicule. I suffered much uneasiness, and had much to fear on account of the ardent and fiery temperament of Valeria. The passion she had betrayed for Marco Da Vinci was no childish fancy; but a deep- rooted, irrevocable love, which nothing could eradi- cate or assuage. Her pure Italian blood permitted no medium between passion and indifference. She loved him once, and was destined to love, or hate him forever after. Of this I quickly had a most satisfactory proof. Enraged one day at the obstinate manner in which she rejected the advances of every suitor I thought proper to introduce into my house, I bitter- ly reproached her for her disobedience; and in the excess of my anger, struck her a violent blow. Her proud spirit was instantly up. “ Father,” said she, “ you have struck me for the first, and for the last time. In defiance of your cruel and unnatural machinations for the disposal of my honor, you shall never reproach me with their success. I have hitherto mildly resisted your ini- quitous designs ; and I now boldly put myself out of your power. This roof shall never more shelter your daughter!” In scarcely any gradation of human depravity is man totally callous to the qualms of conscience. I have before remarked that I anticipated with joy the hour of death; but this was merely a fiendish delirium, wrought by the recollection of past iniqui- ties: a kind of bravo, which, in the hour of cool contemplation, would be regarded with fear and horror. I confess I was much staggered at the justice of Valeria’s reproaches, and the firmness and dignity of her demeanor. Whatever might have been the nature of my former conduct toward her, I did feel, at that moment, a sense of my baseness. Her fine, expressive eyes were eloquent with deter- mination ; and her beautiful figure, as she glided steadily from my presence, seemed to acquire a queenliness from passion and indignation. She spoke no more; and I was too relentless to excuse myself, or break the silence. I had pride— uy, the pride of a demon. I would not humble it by confessing my cruelty, or soliciting her forgive- 104 ness. Thus originated a disunion, which was soon destined to lead to the most tragical effects. I follow, for a moment, the fortunes of Valeria. During her residence in that part of Venice, in which we had latterly lived, she had, by the merest accident, become acquainted with the daughter of a neighboring officer, and had cultivated tlte society of this young lady, more from a natural fondness for association with the educated of her sex, than from any particular liking to her new acquaintance. Signora Almeda—the lady’s name—was not unusu- ally prepossessing in her person or manners; but she had a vigorous and masculine mind, and pos- sessed no small share of sound knowledge, both literary and scientific. She had, from the begin- ning, regarded my daughter with peculiar favor. Their acquaintance bad latterly become quite inti- mate; and on the strength of this intimacy, and the dependence of her situation, Valeria resolved to claim the hospitality of her friend, until fortune should place it in her power to earn a livelihood by her own exertions. Signora Almeda accepted, with pleasure, the proposition of her accomplished acquaintance. For several months a sisterly harmony was observed between the friends. Though Valeria steadily refused to enter into society, yet it soon became obvious to her entertainer that she hadi Of all stings ' the ascendency in the social circle. prone to penetrate the female heart, none is so poisonous or painful as that which wounds vanity. Signora Almedn was piqued to discover that the suitors, who had before paid her the utmost devo- tion, now eagerly transferred their addresses to her guest. From learning to view her as a rival, she THE CONFESSIONS presently looked upon her as an ungrateful and‘ disagreeable dependant. Every opportunity was now taken advantage of, both publicly and pri- vately, by Signora Almeda, to vent her envy toward Valeria. The innocent cause of this disquietude, meantime wondered at the change. It was true, her entertainer still continued to treat her with formal hospitality; but all intimacy and friendship were at an end. This state of things was destined to be speedily brought to a close. Signora Ahneda had among other suitors, one who really admired her, and for whom she had evinced much respect. This gentleman, inspired by the superiority of Valeria, physically if not mentally, forgot for a moment his promises and devotions toward Signora Almeda. The blow was not to be home. A proud Italian spirit was roused. Revenge was now the sole subject of her thought. Valeria one evening, soon after this, retired to her chamber to enjoy a few moments of solitude. In searching a small drawer for some article of hiabiliment, she accidentally discovered a note, directed to herself and handsomely sealed. It was inscribed in a bold, masculine hand; and ran thus :— “Bewitching girli—In accordance with your re- peated desire, I shall to-night gently tap at your chamber-window. O ruptures! how I shall—but why anticipate. Votre roturica: CAIUS Pazzro. Louisville, Kentntlty February, 1811. OF A MISER- Astonished and indignant, Valeria was about to tear this insulting epistle to atoms, when the door gently opened; and Signora Almeda glided in. H Ah 2 my charming guest," she whispered, with forced friendship, “ what now? Mercy, you seem like one who had just caught sight of an apparition! Dear me! what’s the matter ?" “Matter!” cried Valeria, fired with shame and indignation, “read l—but no—the insult must not be known 1” " Heavens! a letter—Ah, I guess the contents!” She snatched it playfully, and read with apparent surprise—what she had herself written! The result was such as might be expected. Va- leria was peremptorily forbidden the house. Her character was blasted—her happiness destroyed ! In this melancholy situation, Marco Da Vinci found her, when after a long and indefatigable search, he succeeded in tracing her to the residence of Signora Almeda. With all the ardor and sincer- ity of his character, Da Vinci had determined on bringing his fate to a speedy close, either by wed- ding the object of his affection, or by bidding her farewell forever. The critical situation in which he found her, immediately determined him to adoptthe former course, if possible. He had, since his triumph at the Academy of Arts, attained some eminence; and his circumstances were now in a favorable condition. Valeria had many objections to the course pro- posed; but on the one hand poverty—perhaps beg- gary would be her lot; While on the other the importunities of Da Vinci were so urgent as to remove most of the remaining obstacles. After much hesitation she consented to acquiesce in his wishes. The young and loving couple were immediately united. 1 now return to my own narrative. Nearly a year had elapsed since I was left alone and desolate; when one evening I was astonished to see a female, closely muffled, enter my house. My mind had that day been peculiarly embittered against my daughter, and she was even now the subject of my thoughts. Great, indeed, was my astonishment, when the apparent stranger flung herself in a kneeling posture before me, and casting off her disguise revealed to my sight the faded lineaments of Valeria ! “ Father !" she cried, “forgive me l—forgive the partner of my misery ! \Ve are mined by a reverse of fortune—we are beggars ! Distress has deprived us of pride! We seek your pardon!" “Curse you !"I shouted, spurning her with my foot, " you demand pardon do you ? Begone ! Par- don, eh? Begone !” I thundered; and I pushed her violently toward the door. She fell. Her head struck a bureau ; and the warm blood spouted from the gash. Had I reflected on the delicacy of her situation, it is probable I might have felt compassion enough to let her pass unmolested; but the deed was done. I did not regret it. My vengeance for the series of disappointments she had caused me was satiated. (To be Continued) THE ALCHYMIST. BY MRS- LAMBERT. “ THE machine of human life. though constituted of a thousand parts, is iu_all its parts systematically connected; nor is it easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—-Godwt'n. IT was midnight. of a funeral pall, hung over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing. For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares, and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible Auto de fe. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful; in such a 'night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he, so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence. I have said no living thing moved in the street, and every building was closed against the storm; but in the outskirts of the city, in a narrow and solitary lane, built up at intervals with a few houses of mean and wretched appearance—a faint light shone through the gloom. It proceeded from the casement of a house of antique structure, and dila- pidated appearance. Years must have gone by since that dwelling was the abode of comfort, for poverty and wretchedness seemed to have long marked it for their own. The exterior gave faith- ful promise of what was revealed within. -In a large and gothic room, the broken and discolored walls of which betokened decay, an aged man was bending over a fire of charcoal, and busily engaged in some metallic preparation. His form was bent by age. The hair of his head, and the beard, which descended to his breast, Darkness, deep as the sable I were bleached by time to a silvery whiteness. His forehead was ample, but furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. His eyes, deep set, small, and still re- taining much quickness and fire, yet at times their expression was wild, despairing, even fearful. A cap of peculiar and ancient form was upon his head, and his person was enveloped in a robe of russet, confined about the waist by a twisted girdle. His motions were tremulous and feeble, his countenance wan and death-like, his frame to the last degree emaciated. A bed stood in one corner of the room ; a table, and two roughly made forms, were all the furniture of that miserable apartment; but around the small furnace, at which the old man had been lately employed, were gathered crucibles, minerals, chemi- cal preparations, and tools of mysterious form and curious workmanshlp, but well understood by the artist. Once more the adept, for such was the inmate of this lonely dwelling, scanned with search- ing eye the contents of a crucible; while the pale flame which rose suddenly from the sullen fire, cast over his sunken features a hue still more livid and cadaverous. His labors had resulted in disappointment; he sighed heavily, and dropping his implements, aban- doned his self-imposed task. “ It is over," he murmured, “ my hour is almost come—and should I repine? No—no. Life !-—- wretched and misspent l—world! I have sacrificed thee, to thyself !—wonderful enigma, yet how true 1” Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked feeny to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and deeply. “ He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his crimes—shunned by his fellows— hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such is the meed of innocence! I, shall never more know rest,—-till the long sleep of death that knows no awakening l—No awakening -—and is it so ?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking 106 the old pile to its foundation, the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone through every crevice. The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples. “ The angel of death is surely abroad this night —he seeks his victim." Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was afi'righted and gazed earnest- ly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table. on which stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke, but his voice was tremulous and low. “Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy," he continued exerting the last remains of strength, “ thou must go hence. The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.” The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his young face. “ Yes,” be repeated, “ thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the alert. Me they would cer- tainly destroy, and thy youth and innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they watched, and sought, and hunted tne, from country to country, and from town to town. I have mingled- in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be confounded with the multitude—to pass unmarked—unquestion- ed—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of suspicion followed me—danger dogged my foot- steps. I sought the shelter of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor —Man—seldom came. Even there I was discov- ered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.--I repeat, by the morning dawn I shall be no tnore, and thou must fly.” “No, no," returned the boy, “ urge me not to depart—father I will remain and share thy fate." He threw himself as he spoke upon the bosom of the old man who pressed him in his feeble arms.— “And oh! father, I cannot go hence—l am weak— I am ill— father I die of hunger." An expression of keen anguish passed over the ' face of Zampieri, and he pushed his child from him. " Boy,” he cried, “ ask me not for bread—thou knowest I have it not. Have I not been laboring for thee—for thy wealth—for thy aggrandizement —ingrate—bread sayest thou—thou shalt have gold, buy, gold." The intellect of the adept wandered, and he laughed Wildly. The large, soft, lustrous eyes of Adolf swam in tears, and his heart trembled within THE ALCHYMIST. his bosom. With weak steps he retreated to the foot of the bed, and kneeling there, hid his face on his folded arms, and wept. After a pause Zampieri again spoke. “ Life l" he muttered, “ how have I wasted thee. Time! Thou art no longer mine. \Vould that I could redeem thee—but it is to late. Zillia, my murdered love ! Thou art avenged. I left thy food and simple afl‘ections for the depths of mysterious research. I madly thought to realise the dreams of illimitable Wealth. Vain and destructive ambition. For thy sake have I riven asunder every tie." The voice of the old man ceased, and the sobs of the child too were silenced—percbance in sleep. The violence of the tempest had subsided, and all was still ; save that the blast still shrieked at inter- vals by; making the old easements rattle as it pam- ed—and the thunder muttered low at a distance. The hours rolled on. A faint grey light dawned in the east. The clouds broken in heavy masses, rolled rapidly onward obscuring and revealing, as they flew, the few bright stars that appeared far beyond this scene of petty turmoil, shining on, in their own unchanging, never ending harmony. And now the dawn strengthened, and the stars grew pale. The last blue flickering flame, that vvandeted ignus'fatuus like, over the surface of the dying charcoal, had spent itself; and the wasting lamp looked ghastly in the beams of rising day. A noise was heard at the lonely portal. It was that of forcible entrance, and came harshly over the deep silence that reigned within. Footsteps ap~ proachcd, not such as told the drawing near of a friend, the light, soft step of sympathy with sorrow. No. They heralded force and violence—bond and imprisonment—racks and torture. ' Three Alguazils ot the Inquisition entered the solitary apartment. They came to conduct Nicoli Zampieri to the holy office on a charge of perform- ing or seeking to perform prcternatural acts by unholy means—by conjuration and necromancy. Guilty or not guilty, suspicion had fallen upon him, and he had become amenable to the law. Their anticipated victim remained quiet. The Alguazils approached the bed on which he lay. The limbs were stark and stiff—the features immovcable. The Alc'nymist was dead. Yet the eyes—widely opened, glassy, fixed and staring, gave the startling idea, that the gloomy and reluctant soul had through them strained its last agonising gaze on some opening view—some unim- aginable scene in the dread arena of the shadowy world beyond the grave. Silently they turned front the bed of death, for the power of the king of Terrors, thus displayed before them, quelled for a moment their iron nerves. A kneeling figure at the bed’s foot next drew their attention. It was Adolf. They spoke to him, but he answered not: they shook him, but the form immobile, gave no sign of warmth or elastici- ty. One of the men turned aside the rich curls that clustered above the boy’s fair brow, and gently raised his lteadl. It was cold and pale. The sufi'er- ing spirit of the young and innocent Adolf, had winged its way to a happier world. THE CIRCAS BY ESTHER SIAN BRIDE. WETHERALD. “She walks in beauty, like the nights Of cloudless climes and starry skies." Naamm was the daughter of a shepherd, who dwelt in one of the charming portions of Circassia. Byron. I Nerinda believed herself alone, but immediately , after the departure of Leila, a finely formed youth If beauty was a blessing, Nerinda was blessed beyond I had crossed the stream, and stood at the distance of the ordinary lot of mortals, for the fame of her I a few paces, gazing on her with a passionate tender- loveliness had extended through the neighboringi vallies, and at the early age of fourteen her hand had been sought by many, with an earnestness which showed her parents what a treasure they possessed in their eldest born. But no one had been able to obtain her. Money is not so plentiful in the vales of Circassia, as in the mart of Constantinople; and few of the neighboring youths might venture therefore to aspire to her hand. There appeared, every day, less probability that the fair girl would be permitted to pass her life amidst scenes endeared to her by a thousand childish and tender recollections. Nerin- da felt this and her eye became less bright, and her step iess buoyant, than when she trod the flow- ery turf a few short months before, a happy careless child, attending those flocks now abandoned to the care of the younger children. She became pensive and melancholy. Her rich. color faded, and her parents saw with surprise and concern that the dazzling beauty on which so muclt depended, would be tarnished by the very means they were taking to j preserve it. What was to be done? She must re- some her old employment, since healthful exercise was of such consequence to her appearance; she could do so in the neighboring meadows without danger, accompanied by her sister Leila. Oh 2 how happy was Nerinda, when she received this unlock- ed for indulgence; with what haste did she braid and arrange her beautiful hair, and fasten on the veil without which she must not be seen; then join- ing her sister, she visited every spot endeared to her by memory, and at length, seating herself on a mossy bank which separated her father’s possessions from those of a neighboring shepherd, began to arrange the many flowers she had culled into beau- tiful bouquets and chaplets, an occupation befitting one so young and lovely; but even whilst her hands were thus employed, it was evident her thoughts Were for distant, for she fell into reveries so deep, that her sister, unable to arouse her from her ab- straction, became weary of attempting it, and returned to her fleecy charge, leaving Nerinda to muse alone. ness which betokened the strength of his attach- ment. Almost afraid to disturb her meditations, yet anxious to obtain a single word, a single glance, he remained motionless; waiting, hoping that she might raise her eyes, and give him permission to advance. She raised them at length, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and in a moment the youth was at her feet. “Nerinda 3" “Hassan !" were the first words that escaped their lips. “ Do I indeed see thee? and dost thou still love ; thy Nerinda ?” said the maiden. “ Love thee 7" replied the youth in an impassion- ed tone, “ thy image is entwined with every fibre of my heart. They may tear thee from me, they may destroy me if they will, but while life remains I i cannot cease to love.” “ Alas !” said Nerindu, “ weeks have passed since i I saw thee, and I feared—I—." She stopped confu- 1 sed, for Hassan had seized her hand, and was press- ‘ ing it to his lips with an energy which showed how well he understood what was passing in her mind. “ Oh! Nerindu,” said he, “ I have entrented, I have implored thy father to bestow thee on me, but in , vain, for all the money I could offer was not one 1, tenth of the sum he requires; yet do not despair,” ; he said, as the color faded from her cheek, " I Istill may hope if thou remainest constant." ' “This very morning,” continued Hassan, “ I l sought thy father; at first he was unwilling to listen to me. At length I prevailed on him to hearken, even if he refused his assent to what I proposed: but he did not refuse. Pleased with my anxiety to obtain thee, he has promised that if in two years I can gain the required sum thou shalt be my wife; if I cannot he will wait no longer, but part with thee to him who will pay the highest price.” The voice of the youth {altered—he was scarcely able to continue, “ in two days I am to take all the money my father can spare, and join the caravan which proceeds to the south; fear not," said he, replying to the alarm expressed in her varying ,countenance, “there is no danger, the caravan is 'large, and if fortunate as a trader,I shall return before two years have passed to claim my plightcd 108 bride. Wilt thou be true? may I trust thee ?" were questions the lover asked, though he felt sure the answers would be such as he could desire, and when the assurance was given, he for the first time ventured to impress a kiss on those beautiful lips. Long did they thus converse, but at length they parted; Nerinda promising to come to the same spot on the next evening to bid him farewell. They parted, Hassan vainly endeavoring to inspire Nerinda with his own hopes. She almost sank under the trial, and it was many days before she had strength to revisit the bank of turf, their accus- tomed trysting place. When she did, how changed did all appear; the flowers were still blooming around; the stream flowed on with its accustomed murmur; the birds earolled sweetly as of old; where then was the change? Alas! it was in her own heart: joy and happiness had fled with Hassan, and melancholy had taken their place. Two years and six months had passed since the departure of the youth, and there seemed little pro- bability of his return; even his venerable father mourned him as dead, when a company of traders entered the mountains. One of them was an old acquaintance in the valley. He renewed his soli- citations to the father of Nerinda, that she might be placed under his charge; offering the highest price, and promising that her future lot should be as brilliant and delightful as her past had been obscure. H'he shepherd was greatly disappointed by the non- appearance of Hassan, for he would have preferred keeping his daughter near him if he could have done so with advantage to himself, but being poor as well as avaricious, and imagining he should be perfectly happy if possessed of so much wealth as the trader offered, he consented to part with her, who had ever been his chief delight, and the pride of his heart. ‘ Language cannot paint the consternation of Nerinda when she learned her father’s determina- tion. _ The delay of Hassan.she accounted for by \supposing he had not yet acquired the full amount necessary for his purpose, and hoped that after a while he would return to call her his. Now all hope was at an end. Hassan might still come, but , she would be far distant, perhaps the wife of an- other. Her mother nnd sister too shared her grief, for they thought it would be impossible to live without Nerinda; but all entreaties and lamenta- tions were vain, the shepherd had made the bargain and would abide by it; and she was hurried to-the caravan in a state little short of insensibility. And where was Hassan? He had determined in the first place to proceed with the caravan to Mecca, whither it was bound, and laying out the money he possessed in merchandise, to trade at the different towns on their route. Before they arrived at the holy city he had consequently so greatly increased his store, that he felt no doubt he should be able to return before the time, appointed; but meeting soon afterward with a heavy loss, he was thrown back when be least expected it, and at the end of two years had not more than half the amount required. To return withoubit was use- less, and he set about repairing his loss with a heavy heart. Six months passed in this endeavor, THE CIRCASSIAN BRIDE. at the end of which time he found himself rich enough to return, but it was necessary he should proceed to Constantinople to settle some business, and join a. caravan which was going toward his native country. His anxiety increased every day: of what avail would be his wealth, if she, for whose sake it had been accumulated, was lost forever? The day before the one fixed for his departure from Constantinople, a company of traders arrived, bringing with them Circassian slaves. He hap- pened to be passing by the slave-market, and im- pelled by sudden curiosity, entered the room. He had scarcely done so when he was struck by the graceful figure of one of the girls, which reminded him of Nerinda. He felt almost afraid to have her veil removed, then remembering that it would be impossible for her to recognise him in his present dress, and determining to suppress his emotions whatever the result, he made the request, which was instantly complied with. It was indeed Nerinda, but how changed! She stood before him pale as marble, with downeast eyes, looking as if no smile would ever again illumine those pensive features; once only a faint color tinged her cheek as he advanced toward her, then in- stantly gave place to more deathly paleness. The price was soon agreed upon, for the trader was now as anxious to get rid of his fair slave as he had been desirous to obtain her; having resigned the hope of making an immense profit in consequence of the continual dejection and grief she indulged, which had greatly impaired her health and beauty,~ Hassan ordered the trader to send her to his apart- ments immediately. ' When he entered the room to which she had been conducted, he gently raised her veil. She looked up, and recognised him instantly ;- her joy was as unbounded as his own, but was displayed in a different manner. She threw herself into his arms and sobbed and wept. She was, however, at length able to listen tranquilly to the account of his adventures, and to relate her o_wn. The remembrance of his aged parent, doubly endeared by absence, and of his joyous childhood, were still alive in the breast of Hassan; and after a few days spent at Constantinople, he proposed to return to his native valley. They set out, the health and beauty of Nerinda improving, in spite of the fatigues of their journey. The joy with which they were greeted was un- bounded. All had given Hassan up for dead; and Nerinda was regarded as lost to them forever. Even her father had repented of his avarice, and would willugly have returned his gold, could he have once more had Nerinda by his side. Her mother and sisters hung around her with tears of joy ; and the whole valley welcomed her return with glad re- joicings. The young couple took up their residence with Hassan’s father; many a visit did they pay to that bank of turf, the scene of their former meetings, and never dtd they look on that spot without feeling their bosom swell with the emotions of gratitude to that kind Providence who had disposed all things for their gaud, and had watched over and protected them, even when they believed themselves deserted. THE MAIDEN’S ADVENTURE. A TALE OF THE EARLY “ WELL Kate,” said her bridesmaid, Lucy Came- I ron, “ the clouds look very threatening, and you know it is said to be an unlucky omen for one‘st wedding. night to be stormy." “Pshaw, Lucy, would you frighten me with some old grandmother’s tale, as if I were a child? I believe not in omens, and shall forget all unlucky presages, when the wife of Richard Gaston,” an- swered the lovely and smiling bride. “You treat it lightly, and I trust it may not be ominous of your conjugal life,” resumed Lucy; “ but my Aunt Kitty says that ’s the reason she never married; because it was raining in torrents the day she was to have been wedded, and she discarded her lover because it was unlucky.” ' “ Ah, Lucy, I do not mean to doubt your good aunt’s word; but there must have been some more serious cause linked with the one you have men- tioned. My life on it, Ido not lose a husband for so slight a cause. It must be something more than a common occurrence, that shall now break: off the match with Dick and myself. But see, the company are beginning to arrive,” said Kate, as she looked from the window of her room, “and I must prepare for the ceremony." The morning of the day of which we have spoken, had opened in unclouded splendor, and all' seemed propitious to the nuptials that were to be solemnised in the evening. The inmates of the cabin in which the preceding conversation had been carried on, had arisen cheerfully with the first notes’of the early robin, to prepare for the festival, to which the whole neighborhood, con- sisting of all within fifteen or twenty miles, (for neighborhoods were then large, and habitations scarce) werc indiscriminately invited. SETTLERS OF VIRGINIA. together with his superior knowledge, gave him a standing among the settlers superior to all. Ever ready to assist the needy, and always just in his opinions and actions, he was looked to for council, rather titan treated as an equal. As We said before, Kate was his only child, and had been the solace of her parents for nineteen years. She had now attained to full-blown wo- manhood, and, from her beauty and intelligence, her hand had been often asked, by the hardy sons of the pioneers. Her heart was untouched, until young Gaston laid seige to it. To his eloquent appeals she lent a willing ear, and promised to be his bride. ,. As Kate was the loveliest girl in the country, so was Richard Gaston the most to be envied among the youths. Of fine, manly stature, superior intel- lect, and unfiagging energy, he was the best match ‘in the settlement. He cultivated a little farm on ,the other side of the river, and when occasion offered, engaged in the practice of law, for which both education and nature fitted him. He had been- in the settlement about seven years, and from his open and conciliatory manners, his bold and manly bearing, had become a favorite with all around him. He was always the first to take up his rifle, and sally against the hostile Indians, when necessity required it, and from his undoubted courage, was always chosen leader of the little bands, formed- to repel the savage foe. \Vhen the toils of the week had passed, Gaston ‘ might be seen, with his rifle on his shoulder, moving toward the river where his canoe was fastened, and. springing lightly into it, dashing thi'ough the foam- ing waters, and among the rocks, as safely and cheerfully, as if passing over a smooth and glassy Kate Lee was the only child of her parents, and had been born and raised in the humble cottage which her father had assisted to construct with his own hands. residence, when few ventured thus far into the Indian territory; and by his own labors, and that of his two servants, had erected a double cabin, and cleared about fifty acres of land, upon a rich piece of high ground, a,mile and a half from the James River. By his urbanity and kindness, he had gained the confidence of the Indians; and in all their depredations so far, he had gone unscathed. He was of good birth and education, and the most hospitable man in the settlement. The property which he held, and the style in which he lived, Mr. Lee had moved to his present ; lake; and on the following evening, he might be , seen again, braving the rushing current, with the i same careless ease, but more thoughtful brow; for who over yet parted from the girl of his heart, with l the same joyful aspect, which he wore when going E to meet her? Let us now return to the wedding . day. l " Have you heard of the Indian that was found I murdered on the bank of the creek this morning?" i said a young man, after the company had assembled, l to Mr. Lee. “ No,” answered Mr. Lee, with surprise, “ I had hoped from the long peace that has reigned, we should have no more such outrages against the poor Indians. But.v how is it possible, air, if they 10 110 are thus shot down, that we can expect them to be quiet 'l" u The body,” continued the first speaker, “ was found by some of his tribe; and they immediately threatened vengeance if the murderers were not given up. But that is impossible; because we do not know them." At this moment. a loud crash of thunder echoed through the woods, so suddenly as to make all start from their seats. “ Well, my friends," said Mr. Lee, as soon as all was again quiet, " we shall be as likely to suffer from this rashness as the offender, and must be pre_ pared. I am glad you have brought your guns with you, for unless they come in too large a body we shall be able to hold out against them." This was said with that calmness which a fre- quent recurrence of such circumstances will pro- duce; and as be rehung his rifle, after preparing it for immediate use, the bride entered the room, in all the loveliness of graceful beauty. Few orna- ments decked her person, because none could add to her natural grace and elegance. Her hair of jet black, was simply parted in front, drawn back, and fastened behind,displaying a forehead of marble whiteness; a wreath, mingling the wild rose with other forest flowers, was the only ornament on her head. Her skin was of transparent whiteness. Her large black eyes, peering through their long lashes, spoke a playful mischief in every glance. A perfectly Grecian nose; cherry lips; a beautiful row of pearly teeth; a dimple displaying itself in each cheek whenever a smile suffused itself over her features, and a complexion richer than the soft red of the tulip, completed a picture such as the mind can rarely imagine. Her neck and arms were perfectly bare, and scented as if they, with her small fairy feet, and the rest of her figure, had been made in nature’s most perfect mould. The storm, which had before been heard but at a distance, seemed now to have attained its greatest violence, and to be concentrated over the house. Peal after peal of thunder, came ringing through the hollows, each succeeding one apparently louder and more crashing than the former. Flash upon flash, of the quick and vivid lightning, streamed o'ut, resting awhile upon the surrounding scenery, and striking terror into the hearts of the more superstitious guests. The rain, which at first fell in large drops, that could be distinctly heard, amid the awful silence, save when the thunders echoed, now came down in torrents; and the thunder pealed out, louder and louder, quicker and quicker, leav- ing scarcely intermission enough, for the voice of Richard Gaston to be heard by his beautiful bride. He had impatiently awaited the invitation of Mr. Lee to meet his daughter, but no longer able, amid the war of elements, to restrain himself, he advanced to, and seated himself by the side of his beloved Kate, and gently taking her hand in his, inquired if she was alarmed by the storm? To his enquiry, she only smiled, and shook her head. " I see not then, why we may not proceed with the ceremony; the storm,"---- ltere a keen and fearful crash, jarred the house to its foundation, leaving traces of fear on the countenances of all, THE MAIDEN’S ADVENTURE- but the levers and the person; Gaston continued, however, “ the storm may last an hour, and that is longer, my Kate, than I would like to defer the consummation of my hopes." uI am ready," answered Kate, blushing, and without raising her eyes. They rose. from their seats, and advanced to the person, who immediately commenced the ceremony. It was impossible to tell, whether pleasure or fear predominated on the countenances of the guests, as they pressed forward, to witness the solemn cere- many of uniting two beings for life. In the inter- vals of the thunder, a faint smile would play upon their faces, but, as a rattling volley would strike their cars, their shrinking forms and bloodless lips, betrayed their terror. The tempest seemed for a moment to have held its breath, as if to witness the conclusion of the nuptials; but now as the person concluded with, ‘I salute your bride ;" a peal of thunder, kcener and more startling than any yet, struck such terror to their scale, that none, not even the parson, or Gaston himself, both of whom had been shocked, perceived that the chimney had fallen to the earth; until awakened to a sense of their situation, by the shrill war-whoop of the In- dians, which now mingled in dreadful unison with the bowling storm. All thought of the storm vanished at once— defence against the savages scented to be the first idea of all, as each man, with determined look, grasped his rifle, and gathered around the females. The Indians, led on by their noted chief Eagle Eye, to avenge the death of their comrade, found in the moniing, would perhaps have awaited the subsidence of the storm, had not the falling of the chimney displayed to them, the disorder and con- fusion Within the cabin. Viewing it, as the most favorable time for an attack, they raised their dreaded war-whoop, and sprung to the breach. That whoop, however, served but to nerve the hardy pioneers, and chase from their bosoms the fears, which the wars of nature alone created. Richard Gaston, from custom, assumed the com- mand; and with that coolness and self-possession, which indicates undaunted bravery, proceeded to give such orders as the time would allow. " Let the females," said he, “ go above, and lie upon the floor, and we, my brave boys, will show them what stout hearts and strong arms can do in defence of beauty. Six of you go in the next room, and see that the villains enter not, except over your dead bodies; the rest will remain, and defend this opening." ' The reader must not suppose that all was still during this brief address. The Indians, whose numbers amounted to several hundred, had fired once, and not being able, on account of the rain, to load again, now attempted to enter over the ruins of the chitnney, and through the windows. The lights had been extinguished at the first yell, and all was dark, save when the flashes of light- ning revealed to the few within, the fearful odds against them without. Several volleys had mean- while been poured into the Indians, and a momen- tary flash revealed the effects. Many were lying dead or dying, forming a sort of breastwork at the THE MAIDEN’S breach. Becoming more infuriated, as those who had gone before, fell, under the constant fire of the whites, the savages, now, in a compact body, at- tempted an entrance; and the whites, still cool, as if danger threatened not, waited until they reached the very breach, and then every man, with his muzzle almost touching the Indians, discharged his piece. The savages wavered and then fell back, amid the shouts of the victorious yeomen. The next flash of lightning discovered the In- dians retreating to the woods, and dragging many of their dead with them. Another wild shout burst from the lips of the victorious whites. When all was again still, the voice of Mr. Lee was heard in thanksgiving, for their deliverance so far; and when he had concluded, he proposed a consultation upon the best means to he pursued, as it was certain the Indians had only retired to devise some other mode of attack. Some were for deserting their present situation, and flying to the woods for concealment; others, and the greater number, proposed remaining where they were, because the Indians had not certainly gone far, and if discovered, unprotected by the logs, they must fall an easy prey, to such superior numbers, whlle by remaining, they had some advantage, and a small chance to keep them off. In the meantime, the females, the firing having ceased, had left their hiding-place, and now mingled with the warriors. It was soon determined to hold on to their present situation, and defend it to the last, should they be again attacked. The better to add to its security, several of the stoutest com- menced raising a. barrier at the opening, with the logs that had been thrown down; while others, barricadoed the doors and windows. This being finished, they began an enquiry into the injury they had received; and found six of their number were killed. The rain meanwhile had ceased, and the distant mutterings of the thunder could be heard only at intervals. All was silent in the cabin, awaiting the expected approach of the savages. Kate had ap_ proached Gaston when she first came into the room, and timidly asked if he was hurt. Having received a satisfactory answer, she had remained silently by his side, until all was prepared for action. Then, for a moment forgetting the dangers that sur- rounded him, Gaston yielded to the impulse of his heart, and drawing the lovely being, who was now his wedded wife, in all the ardor of passionate love, to his bosom, imprinted upon her ruby lips, the kiss of which he had been so suddenly deprived by the onset of the savages. “ My own Kate,” said he, “ if you find we are to be overcome, you must try and make your escape through the back door, and thence to the woods. Here is one of my pistols, take it, and if you are pursued, you know how to use it; shoot down the first foe who dares to lay a hand on you. Make for the river, you know where my canoe is; the current is rapid and dangerous, but. if you can reach the other bank you are safe. Farewell now, my own sweet love, and if I fall, may heaven shed its protection over you." Gaston was not a man to melt at every circum- ADVENTURE. lll stance, but to be thus separated from his bride, perhaps never to meet again, brought a tear to his manly cheek. Love, had for a moment, unmanned his firm and noble heart; but it had past, and be was again a soldier; thinking only how best to defend, what he valued more than his life—his wife. ' At this instant the whoop of the Indians again sounded to the assault. Each man sprang to his post. The whites had been equally divided, and a party stationed in each room. The rooms were now simultaneously attacked by the foe; and with clubs and large stones, they endeavored to force the doors. The silence of death reigned within, while without all was tumult and confusion. The door at length yielded—one board and then an- other gave way, while yell upon yell rose at their success. “ Hold on boys, until I give the wor ,” said Gaston, “ and then stop your blows only with your lives.” The door and its whole support yielded, and in poured the savages like a whirlwind. “ Fire new," cried Gaston, “ and club your guns." Almost as one report, sounded the guns of every one in the house—the yells and cries of the wounded and infuriated foe, almost appalled the stoutest hearts; but this was no time to admit fear, if they felt it. The Indians were making every exertion to enter over the pile of dead bodies that blocked up the doorway ; and the gun of each man within, clenched by the barrel, was lowered only to add another to the heap. For twenty minutes the fight had raged with unabated fury, and with unre- laxed exertions, when the moon, breaking forth in all her splendor, exhibited the combatants as plain as in the light of mid-day. One Indian, stouter and bolder than the rest, had gained an entrance, and fixing his eyes on Gaston, as he saw him en- couraging and directing the others to their work of death, he gave a loud yell, and sprang at him like the tiger on his prey. The quick eye and arm of Gaston were too rapid for him; and in an instant he lay dead from a blow of the young man's rifle. But the strength of the brave little band began at length to fail. Their numbers had diminished more than half. Before the enemy had, however, entered, it had been proposed and acceded to, as the only chance, that the females should attempt an escape from the back door, next the river, while the men should cover their retreat, as well as their diminished numbers would admit. Accordingly, the attempt was made, and an exit gained; the whole force of the Indians being collected at the front door, to overcome the stubborn resistance of the whites. The little phalanx stood firm to its post, until they saw the women had sufficient start to reach the woods before they could be overtaken; and then, pressed by such superior numbers, they slowly fell back to the same door, and the few that sur- vived, made a rush, and drew the door close after them. They had now given way, and nothing but superior speed could possibly save them. If over- taken before reaching the woods, they were inevi- tably lost—if they could gain them they might 112 escape. The delay caused by the closing of the door was short, and the enemy were now scarcely .fifteen yards in the rear. Fear moved the one party almost to the speed of lightning—thirst for revenge gave additional strength to the other. Tlte Indian, fresher than his chase, gained upon them rapidly. As they heard the savages close upon them, every nerve was excited, every muscle strained to the utmost. For a shortdistance indeed they maintained the same space between them, but alas! the strength of the whites failed, and too many of them overtaken, fell beneath the club of, the savages. Gaston, who was equal in activity to any of his Pursuers, had soon gained the lead; and with the speed of an arrow, had increased the dis_ tance between him and the Indians. He knew that his wife would make for the river, and in all probability, would be able to reach it, and it was his object to get there also, if possible, in time to assist her across the rocky and rapid current, or at least to see that she was safe beyond pursuit. The river was not far, and as he bounded down the rough hill sides, he could distinctly hear the rolling of its waters, over the rocky bed. He took the nearest course to the landing, and the yells of the Indians, scattered in every direction through the woods, strained him to the greatest exertions. He reached the river—his canoe was there—his wife was not—despair overcame his souL “She must be taken, and I too will die," he exclaimed, in bitter agony. At that moment, a light and bounding step, like that of a startled fawn, drew his attention to the top of the bank, and his wife, whom he had given up for lost—his darling Kate, bounded into his embrace. This was no time for love. He took but one embrace, and hurried her into his canoe; for the Indians were but a few yards behind. It was but the work of a moment, to cut loose the line that held his bark; but before he could spring into it, three stout Indians were close upon him. “ Shove off, Kate, and trust to fortune to reach the other shore,” cried Gaston, distractedly, as he turned to engage the Indians, while his bride es~ caped. The devoted girl seemed doubtful whether to fly, or stay and die with her husband. Gaston, seeing her hesitation, again called frantically to her to escape, before the Indians were upon them. She now attempted to push her boat~ off, but she had remained a minute too long—a brawny and athletic savage seized the boat and sprang into it, within a few feet of the alarmed maiden. She quickly retreated to the other end, and faced about, despair painted in every lineament of her face. The Indian involuntarily stopped to gaze upon the beau- tiful being before him. That pause was fatal to him. Kate’s self-possession instantaneously re- turned, and as the savage sprang toward her she THE MAIDEN’S ADVENTURE. turned the bow of her boat in the direction of the opposite shore, and began to stem the rapid current. During the few seconds that had thus elapsed, the canoe had shot below the place where her husband struggled with the remaining Indians; and she was now out of hearing of the combatants. Standing erect in the boat, her long hair hanging loosely on her uncovered neck, her white dress moving gently to the soft breeze, and her little bark avoiding the many rocks jutting their heads above the rushing waters, it gave to a beholder the idea of some fairy skiff, kept up, and guided by the superior power of its mistress. Steadin she moved on, until near the middle of the river, when she " heard a splash, followed by a voice, some distance behind her. At first she thought it another Indian in pursuit, but soon the chilling thought was dis pelled. Her own name, breathed in accents that had often thrilled her to the soul, was heard, sounding a thousand times more sweetly than ever on her ear. She quickly turned the head of her boat, and although she could not propel it against the stream, she kept it stationary, until Gaston, who had over- come his pursuers, reached it. His great exertions in the unequal struggle on the bank, his efforts to reach the boat, and the loss of blood from a deep cut on his arm, had left him so little of the powers of life, that he fainted a few moments after he had regained his wife. Kate knew the peril of permit- ting the boat to float with the current, and with all that courage and coolness, which woman possesses in times of danger, she did not stop to weep over him, but again seizing the oar, directed her bark to the opposite bank. Guided by the careful hand of love, how could the fragile skiff be lost, even amid the rushing whirlpools it had to pass. They safely reached the bank, and Gaston having returned to consciousness, supported by the arm of his wife, slowly wended his way to his fartn. Their anxiety, however, was, for some time, almost intolerable to learn the fate of their friends whom they had left on the other side of the river. Whether the Indians had triumphed completely, whether a successful stand had been made by any of those they pursued, or whether all had been alike murdered by the relentless savages, were un- known to Kate and Gaston, and filled their minds with uneasy fears. While, however, they were thus in doubt as to the fate of their friends, a hur- ried footstep was heard approaching, and Mr. Lee, the next moment, was in his daughter‘s arms. With about half of his visitors, he had escaped, and, in a. few days, rallying around them their re. maining border neighbors, they succeeded, finally, in driving the hostile savages front their vicinity. If any one will visit the hospitable mansion of the present proprietor of the estate, which has de- scended from our Kate, they may hear her story with increased interest, from the lips of some of levelled her husband’s pistol and fired. The bullet her fair descendants; and upon taking a view of entered the savage’s brain: he fell over the side of the boat, and disappeared beneath the bubbling waters; while instantly seizing the oar which had dropped from her hand on her first alarm, Kate l “MAIDEN'S Anvntvrntttt.” February, 1841. l l I the place, where she crossed amid such perils, they will not be surprised to learn that the circum- stance should have given to it the name of the S. NAPOLEON. BY J. E. DOW- “ About the twenty-second of January, 1821, Napoleon’s energies revived. He mounted his horse and galloped for the last time around Longwood, but nature was overcome by the efl'ort." Gunmen to a wild and sea-girt rock Where the volcano‘s fires were dead ; He woke to hear the surges mock The living thunder o’er his head. His charger spurned the mountain turf, For he o'er glaciered Alps had trod,— He seemed to bear the island serf, And only stood to Europe’s God. And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared, And fiercely glanced his eagle eye ; He grasped again his crimson sword, And bade his silken eagle fly. High on a cliff, that braved the storm, And beat the thundering ocean back; He felt the life-blood coursing warm As on in mountain bivouac. Around him bowed a bannered world: And lightnings played beneath his feet; The storm's wild ensign o’er him curled, And ocean drums his grand march beat. .r. Above the Alps' eternal snows He led his freezing legions on : And when the morning sun arose— The land of‘deathless song was won. The desert waste before him rolled, And haughty Mam'lukes bit the ground; Old Cairo reared her mosques of gold, And Nile returned his bugle’s sound. The doors of centuries opened wide Before the master spirit’s blows, And flapped his eagles’ wings in pride Above the time-dried Pharoahs. Then northward moved his ehainless soul, And Europe’s host in wrath he met, The Danube heard his drum’s wild roll, And Wagram dimmed his bayonet. On many a field his cannons rung, The Nations heard his wild hurrah : And brazen gates were open flung, To usher in the Conqueror. The Cossack yelled his dread advance, And legions bared their scymetars, ‘Vhen with the infantry of France He trampled on the sleeping Czars. And Moscow‘s sea of fire arose Upon the dark and stomry sky, While cohorts, in their stirrups froze, Or pillowed on the snow to die. A merry strain the lancers blew When morning o’er his legions shone I But evening closed o‘er Waterloo, And death, dread sentinel, wateh‘d alone. Ilis eagles to the dust were hurled, And bright Marengo’s star grew dim, The conqueror of half the world, Had none to sooth or pity him. And he has come to view again The hills his flashing sword'hath won: To hear the music of the main, And note the thunder’s evening gun. His heart is cold, his eye is dim, His burning brand shall blaze no more; The living world is dead to him, The sea's wild dash, the tempest's roar. Marengo's cloak is round him cast, And J ena’s blade is by his side, But where is now his trumpet’s blast? And where the soldiers of his pride? They sleep by Nilus bull-rushed wave, They slumber on the Danube‘s bed; The earth is but a common grave For gallant France‘s immortal dead. His charger rushes from the height: The fitful dream of life is o'er, And oh! that eye that beamed so bright, Shall never wake to glory more. Beneath the mountain’s misty head, Where streamed the lava's burning tide, They made the scourge of Europe's bed, And laid his falchion by his side. 10* 114' He sleeps alone, as sweetly now As they who fell by Neva’s shore : And peasants near him guide the plough, And craven Europe fears no more. He sleeps alone—nor shall he start Till Time's last trumpet rings the wave: For death has still’d the mighty heart Where fierce ambition made his grave. \Vashington, February, 1841. 2 __ N'sa'm A win-as » LIN LINES. ’T is sad to view, when day grows dim, The stone that closed o'er Europe's fears: And listen to the waves’ wild hymn, That swallowed up the exile's tears. The eagle screams his dirge by day, The tempest answers, and the sea, And streaming lightnings leap to play Above the man of Destiny. gar-2‘0— ES. To the Author of time Requiem, “I SEE Tune STILL." BY E- OFT when o'er my young being, shades of grief Have darkly gathered, and been spent in tears, Thy “ spirit-stirring muse” hath brought relief, And called back images of other years! _ As from the world my soul removed her care, And sought the healing balm of Poesy to share. Perchance’t was but some scraps that met my eye, Yet like a charm, it soothed an aching heart— Bidding it turn from hopes beneath the sky, To choose above the wise, unfailing part; And while I read, I blessed aloud thy name, And prayed that Heaven‘s best gifts might mingle with its fame! And now, though stranger to thy form and face, Yet since familiar with thy spirit's tone; Pardon this humble pen, which fain would trace Some thought, to cheer a heart bereaved and lone, Some sympathetic token, from a soul Which bleeds to know that thine is bowed ’neath grief’s control. The human heart, it hath been aptly said, Is like that tree, which must a wound receive, Ere yet the kindly balsam it will shed, Which to the sufl'erer’s wound doth healing give; Such as have seen their fondest hopes-laid low, Can only feel for thee, or thy deep anguish know .' Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J., Feb, 1841. CLEMENTINE STEDDIAN. This bosom bears a kindred stroke to thine. Yet owncth that the Hand which wounds can heal! May Gilead's balm, as it hath brought to mine, So to thy wound restoring life reveal ; Show thee a Father, in a ehastening God, And bid thee meekly bow, and kiss his gentle rod. I knew her not, whose image blendeth yet \Vith every dream of joy the night doth bring— Whose blessed features Love will ne‘er forget, Nor of whose worth thy muse e'er cease to sing! But 't is enough, that she was all thy choice, To know that sorrow hath with thee a deep-toned voice. And is she not thy “ guardian angel" now ? Doth she not “live in beauty” yet, above, And oft descend, to watch thy steps below, And whisper in thy dreams sweet words of love? A spirit, ’twixt whose spotless charms, and thee, Hangs but the veil of Time, behind which, soon thou ’lt see. Till then, look upward to her home of light— ‘T will chase the shadows from thy kmely hearth, And think of her, as of a being bright— Still thy “ beloved,” though not now of earth! F ollow the traces of her heavenward feet, And soon in perfect love, to part no more, ye ’ll meet. THVE DESTROYER’S DOOM. For if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human power Which could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search, and vigil long, Of him who treasures up a wrong. The night was waxing late, when the beautiful and witty Mrs. Anson was promenading at a party where all the elite of the city were assembled, with an imposing looking man, who seemed to unite—- rare combination—high fashion and dignity of bearing. His face was almost constantly turned toward the lady, and he seemed careful that his words should reach no ears but those for which he uttered them. His last remark, whatever it was, seemed to have ofl'ended the lady, for she stopped suddenly, and gazing full in his face, exhibited as dark a frown as those bright, beautiful eyes could be made to produce. It was but a passing cloud, however, for the next moment she said, laughingly, “Upon my word, Major Derode, you give your tongue strange license.” His peace was soon made, and drawing the arm of Mrs. Anson within his own, he asked her ifshe would dance any more. “ N 0,” she replied, “ if you ’ll tell them to draw up, I .’ll go home; the room: are close; I am fatigued; besides, in the absence of my husband, I must keep good hours." “Excuse me," said the major, “if I am not anxious for his return. I should not dare to hope for so much of your precious society, were he to command it.” “ He has the best right to it,” rejoined the lady, “ but he never uses command with me ;—I vow I am an ungrateful wretch, and love him much less than he deserves to be loved.” “That sentimentpmy dear Mrs. Anson, is not founded on nature or truth. Gratitude and love are sensations as different in their natures, as your disposition and that ofyour husband ; but for what should you be grateful to him? ‘or having had the vanity to address, and the good fortune to win the loveliest creature that ever wildered human brain, or fired human heart 'I And how does he repay an afi'ection which monarchs would value more than conquest 7—by indifl'erence,—hay, studied neglect.” “ You wrong him,” said the wife, but with much less warmth than she would have defended her husband a fortnight before, " his passion for litera- ture, it. is true, estranges him from me more than many wives would like, but I have reason to know he loves me well. Alas! why should love be such M'azeppa. a sickly flower, that needs constant culture to keep it from perishing! Time was, when the hour he passed from my side was fraught with anxiety,— now, days glide by, and I scarcely think of him 1” “Think only of him,” returned the major, “whose love for you is as imperishable as it is ardent. Renounce the man who is unworthy of you, and—” “Render myself unworthy of any man,” con- tinued the lady, “ no, I implore you, urge me to this no more; spare me, dear Henry, I entreat you." And I will spare the reader the remainder of a dialogue which evinced yielding virtue on one side, and seductive sophistry on the other. “ The woman who hesitates is lost," says the proverb. Charles Anson, a young man of high intellectual endowments, and fine personal appearance, had studied law in his native city—Philadelphia—and at an early age married the daughter of a merchant in moderate circumstances. The union was thought to have resulted from love on both sides, and indeed for four years the youthful pair enjoyed as much happiness as is allotted to mortals; when, depend- ing on his professional exertions, no ambition dis- turbed their dreams, no envy of rank or grandeur poisoned their present blessings. In a luckiess hour, a relation, living in England, from whom Anson had no expectations, died, leav- ing him a large fortune. This sudden acquisition of wealth enabled him, much to his satisfaction, to quit a profession in which he wanted several requisites for great success. He turned his attention to a science which has since become popular in this country, and became so devoted to its pursuit, that he spent large sums of money in prosecuting it. His wife launched at once into a mode of life which she said her husband’s altered circumstances justified. She plunged deeply into fashionable dissipation, and altlfough Anson eldom accom panied her into the gay circles she frequented, he never objected to her giddy course. His only wish was to see her happy. He was on a visit to an eastern city, collecting materials fora work on his favorite science, at the time I introduced his wife to the reader, and spring advanced before he was ready to bend his steps homeward. He had tra- 116 THE nasrno velled, as was usual then, by land from New York, and having taken a wltole day to perform the jour- ney, it was night when the lumbering mail coach, set Anson down at tlte door of his house. He had received no answer to the last two letters he had written to his wife, and he feared she was ill. If any one of my readers has been long absent from a happy home, he can understand the trembling eagerness with which the traveller placed his foot upon-his door-stone. He pulled at the bell, and its clear sound came back upon his ear, as he stood in breathless anxiety waiting for an anwer to the summons. No hasty footstep, however, no opening of inner doors, no audible bustle within, gave token of admittance. Almost convulsively, he grasped again at the handle of the bell, and its startling response pcaled through the adjacent dwellings. Slowly a sash creaked up in an adjoining house, and a petulent female voice said,— “ There ’s no use of your disturbing the neigh- borhood by ringing there,—nobody lives in that house.” Anson staggered back from the step, and falt- ringly enquired,— “ Has Mrs. Anson removed ?" “ Removed l” crooked the old woman, “ aye, she has removed, far enough from this, I warrant.” “Where has she gone?" gasped the husband. “ I know nothing about her," was the reply, and the sash fell with a rattling sound that struck like clods upon a coffin upon the desolate heart of Anson. He stood upon the pavement with one foot resting on a trunk, and his eyes turned to the windows of his late dwelling, as if expecting the form of his wife to appear there. The voice of the watchman, calling the first hour of the night, aroused him from his abstraction, and suggested the necessity of present action. He remembered that he had a duplicate key of the street door, and if not fastened within, he could at least gain admit- tance. On applying the instrument, it was evident that the person who had last left the house, had egressed through the door, for no bar or bolt be- trayed the caution of an inmate. Anson engaged the watchman to place his efl'ects in the hall, and procure a light. Having once more secured the main entrance of lhe house, he wandered through its tenantless chambers, like a suffering ghost among scenes of its happier hours. The splendid parapher- nalia which wealth and taste had spread throughout that happy mansion, were there yet. Not an orna- tnent had been removed, nor had the most fragile article decayed,—nay, the very exotics in the bow- pots had begun to put fortlt their tender blossoms under the genial influence of the season. But hu- man life was absent. She that had diffused joy, and hope, and a heaven-like halo round her, was gone. Mad with apprehension, Anson rushed to his wife’s bed-chamber, hoping there to find some clue to her mysterious departure. Her toilet was in confusion; ornaments lay scattered about; and a diamond ring, his gift to her on her last birth-day, shone, on the approach of the light, so like a living thing, that Anson, in the wildness of his brain, thought that its thousand eyes flashed with intelli- Y a R ’ s D o 0 M. gence of its departed mistress. On a small writing desk lay some sheets of pure paper, and in the open drawer a sealed note caught the eye of Anson. He seized it with a trembling hand, but paused ere he opened it; a sickness, like that of death, settled down upon his heart. Unhappy man! \Vltat had he to hope or fear 7—he read: “ Husband :—We meet no more on earth. At the bar of eternal justice your curse will blast me! I am ill the coils ofa fiend, disguised like a. god! As the fluttering bird, though conscious of destruction, obeys the fatal fascination ofthe serpent's eye, so I, heholding in the future nought but despair, yield, a victim to a assion that has mocked my struggles to subdue it. on must be happy because you are virtuous, and in mercy forget the fallen . “ J OSEPHINE." Anson sat long with this letter in his hand, gazing firmly on a portrait of his wife, that hung over her escrutoire. She had sat for that painting at a time when her health was delicate, and asacred pledge of their happy love was expected. Heaven had—mercifully it seemed now—denied the boon. Mcntory struck the fountain of tears in the heart of that bereaved man, and he wept. Oh! it is fearful to see a strong man weep. Tears are natu- ral in children, and beautiful in women ;-éin men, they often seem mysterious gushings from the stern soul—dread forebodings of evil to come. The de- serted husband gazed upon the painting, until he thought some evil spirit had changed the sweet smile and mild eye into a scornful sneer. A change came over his spirit-his features gradually assumed a look of unutterable ferocity; his frame dilated as with the conception of awful deeds—strange whis- perings of dark purposes whizzed, as from legions of fiends, through his brain, and he went forth navanoa! Muoa DERODE, of the British army, was one of the most strikingly handsome tnen of the last age, and his address the most insinuating that a constant intercourse with the best society could confer. Although he had led a life of much dissipation, his fine constitution had withstood its ravages, and calling art to the aid of nature, he looked like a man of thirty, when he was really twelve years older. He had married in early life, and was the father of a son and daughter. The son had entered the navy, and had already obiained a lieutenancy,—- to the daughter fell a large share of the singttlar beauty of her father, refined into feminine loveliness by the delicate graces of her mother. Mrs. Derode had been dead some years, and the major’s present visit to America was connected with some govern- mental mission to the comniantler-iu-chicf of the British forces in Canada, Viewing the cities of the United States on his return home, he became acquainted with the beautiful Mrs. Anson. He he- came at once her lover. He was a cold-hearted systematic seducer, and besieged her heart with a perseverance and address long accustomed to con- quer. He imagined that his own callous heart was touched by her bright eyes, and be delayed his THE DESTRO departure for two months, in order to accomplish her ruin. When I introduced him to the reader, in conver- sation with Mrs. Anson, the poison of his flattery had already tainted that weak woman’s heart. I will not follow ltis serpent-like course—it is sick- ening to mark the progress of such arts. We left him in a gay assembly in Walnut Street—we now find him in London, and, it pains me to write it, Mrs. Anson was with him. To dispel the gloom that had already overcast her features, and to feed his own inordinate vanity, Derode introduced his victim to much society, but her keen ‘eye soon penetrated the equivocal character of those who visited her in her splendid apartments. With this discovery came tlte first deep sense of her utter degradation. “I will mix no more with these people,” said she to the major one day, after an unsually large party left the house. “ As you please," said he, “I was in hopes society would amuse you.” “ Not such society,” she replied with some dignity. The major observed the slight curl on her lip, and said, with something of a sneer,— “ Your notions are elevated, my pretty republi- can; your visiters are people of fashion, and you know we should not scrutinise character too se- verely." This cruel remark pierced deeper than the base speaker intended. The deluded woman raised her eyes-those eyes, in repose so meek—to the face of Derode, and he quailed beneath their unnatural light. “ True," said she with a choking voice, “true, true l—the meanest wretch that ever bartered her soul for bread, should spurn my fellowship, and fine my infecting touch." Her head fell on herlap,and a series of hysterical sobs threatened to end her brief career of guilt upon the spot. But it was not so to be. She recovered only to new miseries. Half tired of his new victim already, Major Derode hired a cottage a few miles from London, and, taking Mrs. Anson at her word, car- ried her down there to reside in lonely misery. His visits, at first frequent, soon became rare, and many days had now elapsed since she had seen him. She stood by the open casement watching the moonlight for his expected appearance, but he came not. A horseman emerged from the deep shadow of the trees, but seemed to pass on toward the turnpike. Hope sank within her, and she wished to die. She was now gathering the bitter fruits of her guilt. Her love for her destroyer was eating up her life— the scorching intensity of her passion was consuming the heart that gave it birth. “Great God !" he exclaimed with frantic im- piety, “ art thou just? Thou didst not endow me with strength to resist this destiny. Thou knowest it was not volition, but FATE! If for thine own unseen ends, thou hast seleted me to work out thy great designs—oh! for the love of thy meek son who was reviled on earth, make my innocence clear. I am but thy stricken agent, oh! God! I am innocent—innocent !” The suffering creature was on her knees, and Yen’s DOOM. 117 when she had uttered this wild sophistry, she threw her head downward, until it almost touched the ground. Her temples throbbed till the bandage that confined her hair snapped, and the dark covering of her head enveloped her figure like a pull. “Innocent ! ha! ha! ha t!" shouted at hoarse voice, in a tone of wild mockery, that rung through the lonely house, and reverberated in the stillness of the night. Starting to her feet, Mrs. Anson gazed around the room with an indescribable awe, for she thought the sound bore a harsh resemblance to that -of her forsaken husband. No one, however, was visible, and she began to think it was some creation of her excited fancy, when, turning her eye to the lattioed casement that overlooked the garden, she plainly saw a man gliding away through the copse. An- other moment, and the same horseman she had before observed, dashed into the shadow at furious speed, and disappeared. Mama Dsaona was holding high revel in London. There was a report that two marriages had been projected—those of himself and of his daughter. His fortune, never large, had been entirely dissipated at the gaming table, and he was deeply involved in debt. Thecontetnplated alliances would, however, bring wealth into the Emily, and causing his expec- tations to be known, his creditors were patient. The object of his personal attentions was the Ho- norable Mrs. Torrance,-—a. widow of brilliant charms and large property. The handsome major had wonher heart andreceivedhar troth before his visit to America, and that one obstacle existed to their immediate union. Rumor, with her hundred tongues had apprised the dashing widow that the gallant matior had brought over with him an Ame- rican beauty, who was now residing in the neigh- borhood of the metropolis. The major first denied, then confessed it, but declared she had returned to her native forests. “ I scarce believe you," said the widow, “but I will send down tomorrow to the cottage, which has been pointed out to me as her residence, and learn the truth.” . “She must remove, then, before to-morrow,” said Derode to himself as he drove home. “Fool that I was to bring her here; however, I suppose I can ship her home again, consigned to her plodding Yankee husband, who will be rejoiced that his wik has seen the world free of expense." Night had closed in when Derode arrived at the cottage. Mrs. Anson was ill. She had been in a high fever, as the abigail informed the major, and delirious. :She was calmer now, however, and be approached her couch. “ How unlucky you are ill at this time,” said he, “ for circumstances render it necessary for you to quit this place immediately.” “ Let me remains. few days longer,” replied the heart-broken woman, “ and my next remove will be to the peaceful grave.” “ It is impossible—to-morrow morning, the earlier the better, you must depart." 118 THE DESTRO “ And whither must I go T” “ \Vhy, reflection must have convinced you that it was an imprudent step to leave your husband; nay, tears are useless now,— the frolic was pleasant enough while it lasted, but it is time to think of more serious matters. My advice to you is, that you immediately return home, solicityour husband‘s forgiveness, and no doubt that will be the end of the affair. For myself, you must know it—and lt is best you should learn it at once—my pecuniary involvements make it imperative on me to marry immediately—the sale of this furniture will enable y°u_71 But his voice fell on a dull ear. Mrs. Anson heard nothing after the word “ marry," and she lay in a death-like swoon. Finding she did not revive immediately, Derode consigned her to the care of her maid, and hastily wrote the following lines :— “ Madam,--Our unfortunate connexion must be broken 011' at once. I can see you no more. I enclose you twenty pounds, a sum sufficient to hear your ex- penses to America. My last command is, that you quit this cottage to-morrow morning. “ Yours. -‘ Danona.” He gave the note to the girl, for her mistress, and left the house. “ How do you feel now, madam '2” enquired the maid, as Mrs. Anson opened her heavy eyes, and pressed her hands against her temples, as if endea- voring to collect her thoughts, " can I do anything for you, madam I” “ Yes; assist me to rise; bring my bonnet and shawl ;—thank you. You have been very kind to me my good girl; take this ring—it is of some value—keep it for the sake of her whom no living thing regards." “But, dear madam,” affectionately enquired the girl, “ for heaven's sake, where are you going? You will not leave the house to-night? you are ill—weak—a storm threatens—there—the thunder mutters already, and the rain is plashing in big drops on the broad leaves of that strange-looking tree at the window. It is midnight, and will be broad day before you can reach the nearest part of London. The major said you might stay till morn- ing,—and, oh ! I had forgot, here is a letter he left for you.” The hapless woman took the note mechanically; no ray of hope gave brightness to her eye—no emotion lighted up her features as she broke the seal. Misery had chilled her heart’s blood~des- pair had unstrung the chords of life. She glanced over the lines, and dropping the letter and bank note on the floor, supported herself for a moment by a chair. She rallied her strength, and saying, “farewell, my good Martha,” staggered forth into the dreary night. The sun had long risen, when Martha was startled from the deep sleep into which the last night’s watching had thrown her, by a loud knock- ing at the cottage door. A splendid carriage had driven up the narrow avenue, and a liveried foot- man enquired if a young lady, under the protection of Major Derode, lived there. Martha stated the Y E R. ’ s n o 0 M. manner in which Mrs. Anson had, on the previous night, left the cottage. “ My mistress, the Hon. Mrs. Torrance,” said the tootman, “ seems so anxious to learn the par- ticulars respecting this young woman, that I wish you would ride up to town with us, and give her whatever information you can." Martha willingly complied, and the carriage had scarce accomplished seven miles of the journey, when the girl observed a female toiling slowly and painfully along the road. She called to the coach- man to stop, for she recognised her mistress in the wanderer. They partly forced the passive creature into the carriage, and as she expressed no wish to be driven to any particular place, in less than an hour she was reposing her wearied limbs on an ottoman in the house of the Hon. Mrs. Torrance. All the servants who knew of the arrival of the strange lady, were forbidden by the Hon. Mrs. Torrance to reveal the circumstances, and Martha was instructed to tell the major she had seen no- thing of Mrs. Anson after her departure from the cottage r-Derode, therefore, had no doubt that his victim had left the kingdom. Still he observed that the widow had altered her demeanor toward him. She received him coldly, and with something like mystery. He urged the hastening of the nuptials. She baffled him by trifling excuses, for she resolved the moment Mrs. Anson had recovered from the fever which seized her on the day she entered that hospitable abode, to confront her with the treache rous man. “ So, in three weeks more, my dear Isabel, I must give more form to my speech, for I shall address in you the bride of Lord Edward Fortescue; your elevation to the peerage will not change your heart toward us, Isabel '1” said a sprightly girl to the daughter of Major Derode. “ For shame, to think of such a thing," answered the afiianced, “ but, as poor Juliet says in the play, “ ‘ I have no joy in this contract to-night.’ I have, my dear Emily, for a day or two past, felt a strange reluctance to marry his lordship. His title dazzledeme at firt, but I fear its novelty will wear off, and then where shall I seek for hap- piness 7" “ In the spending of his fortune, to be sure,” re- plied her companion, “ and as his lordship’s way of life is fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, he surely cannot object to such a proceeding. Besides, if dame nature does you but common justice, you ’ll be in weeds before you are thirty. But when was it your first objection started against his lordship ?— last Thursday, was it not 'l—yes, Thursday it was: I remember it, because it was the morning after you danced with that young wild man of the woods. Where did they say he came from? New South Wales was it ?—or Slave Lake—or the Ural Mountains 'I the Carrabee Islands—New Holland- or New Jersey? Why do n’t you answer? You must know; for after he led you to a seat so THE DESTROYER’S DOOM. gracefully, I observed you took a deep interest in his conversation during the rest of the night, and I have no doubt he was giving you lessons in Geo- graphy. Well, he is a handsome fellow, although his eyes have so wild an expression. Now, if he had a plume of eagle feathers on his head, and a tiger skin thrown over his shoulder, he would be irresistible. I think it entirely out of taste for these foreign monsters, when they come among us, to cast off their savage costume, and don our un- poetic garb.” ‘ “ Peace, Emily, you talk absurdly," exclaimed the now thoughtful Isabel. " I scarce attended to what he was saying—I only observed he seemed to be a man of general information and great con- versational powers. He possesses refinement in an eminent degree, and the earnestness and evident candor of his politeness contrast favorably with the sickly, superficial, drawling sentiment that daily and nightly clogs our wearied ears." “ Ah! it is clear you scarce attended to what he said. I met him this morning at Mrs. Balford’s, and thinking y0u wished to resume your researches into ‘The History of the Earth and Animated Na- ture,’ I asked him to come here this evening." uHeavens, Emily! you could not be so im- prudent!" “ Where can be the imprudence, Isabel, since you scarce attend to what he says? Hark! a cab; it is the American,—stay where you are—I ‘ll bring him up ;” and away flew the giddy girl, leav- ing her companion in a state of flurried anxiety, scarce proper for the bride elect of Lord Edward Fortescue. - The American prolonged his stay till a late hour, and that night Isabel Derode imbibed a deep, ab- sorbing passion for the graceful foreigner. Lord Edward, feeling himself secure of his prize, troubled his betrothed but little with his company. He con- fined his attentions to sending her presents, and escorting her twice a week to the opera. The latitude which English society allows females of rank, caused the persevering assiduities of the American to be but little noticed, and one week before the intended nuptials of Lord Edward For- tescue and Isabel Derode, the fashionable circles were thrown into unutterable excitement by the following announcement in a morning paper :— - “Elopement in High Life—On \Vednesday last, the beautiful and accent lished daughter of a certain gallant major in ——- bquare, eloped with a young gentleman of fortune from the United States. This imprudent step. on the part of the young lady, is the more to be regretted, as she was under promise of marriage to a certain noble lord. As her flight was almost immediately discovered, hopes are entertained of overtaking the fugitives before they reach Gretna Green." No such parties, however, as those described, had reached that matrimonial mart. Pursuit was made on almost every avenue leading from the metro- polis, but in vain. 'l'he fugitives had an hour’s start, and the advantage of having arranged their means of flight. The smoking horses were scarcely checked at the door of each inn, when fresh relays were springing in the harness, and Anson—for it 119 was he—with his victim, was enjoying a hasty re- past in Calais, at the moment the emissaries of Derode reached Dover. Lord Edward professed himself greatly shocked at the unhappy occurrence, but derived comfort from the reflection that his betroth had eloped before, instead of after marriage; and having p0- litely expressed to Derode his opinion that all the daughters of Eve were dangerous, if not useless members of the community, he, with the utmost sang froid wished him adieu. A month elapsed, and Derode pushed his suit with Mrs. Torrance with more vigor, from the un- lucky circumstance of his daughterhaving frustrated his hopes of her high match with Lord Edward. All enquiries concerning the whereabout of the erring girl were fruitless, and what was singular, none knew the name or person of her seducer— until one night a hackney coach drew up at the door of Mrs. Torrance, and a gentleman handed,or rather. lifted a drooping woman out of the carriage, and placed her on the steps of the house. The parties were Anson and his victim. He merely said to the servant who answered the knock, “take care ofthis lady: she is a friend of your mistress," and hastily re-entering the vehicle, drove rapidly off. The benevolent mistress of the mansion received the forsaken wanderer with the utmost kindness, and overlooking her error, sought, with true Chris- tian charity, to bind up her crushed spirit. Thus, by a strange coincidence, this amiable lady had under her roofat the same moment, two wretched outcasts—victims to man’s unhallowed passions. Mrs. Anson had been growing weaker every day since she entered this hospitable dwelling, and it was now evident she held her life by a frail tenure. Derode was a constant visitor, yet he knew not Mrs. Anson was an inmate of the house; he deemed she had complied with his wishes and crossed the Atlantic. ‘ “ What motive can you have,”st he to Mrs. Torrance one day, “ for deferring our happiness? You are too generous to allow so untoward an event as my daughter’s flight to influence your de- cision. Add not to the afliiction of that blow, by cold procrastination. Speak, madam, have my misfortunes lost me your affection?" " No, major," replied the lady, “ but I fear your faults have lessened it. Where is the American lady ?” “ At home," said he earnestly, “at home, with her husband. I, myself, placed her on board a packet bound to New York." The lady regarded the utterer of this bold false; hood with inefi'able contempt, and stepping into the middle of the room, she threw open a folding door, and pointed to Mrs. Anson, who was reclining on an ottoman. ' “Are there devils in league against mo 7” mat. tered Derode, “ how came that wretched woman here, madam ?—she is a maniac—but I will con- vey her to an asylum, whence she shall not escape," and he was advancing toward her. "Stay," exclaimed Mrs. Torrance, restraining him, “ that lady is under the protection of my root, and she leaves it only with her own free will.” 1120 “By heavens! madam," said he, “ she quits not my sight till I consign her to a mad house," and, forgetting every thing in his wrath, he roughly re- moved the lady from before him, as the door abruptly opened, and a tall, stern looking man stood before him. The intruder was dressed in strict conformity with the fashion of the day, and, on re- moving his hat, he exhibited a forehead of high intelligence, but two or three strong lines were drawn across it; two deep furrows also descended between his heavy brows, giving, to his otherwise agreeable features, alierce, if not a ferocious ex- pression. His dark eyes, deeply set in his head, flashed with the fierceness, and yet fascination, of a serpent’s orbs, are he makes his deadly spring. The stranger expanded his lofty figure, and throwing forward his ample chest, he crossed his arms upon it, and gazed intently on Derode. The major turned from his burning gaze, and advancing to the couch where lay the invalid, said, in a. harsh voice, “ rise, madam, and follow me,” at the same time laying his hand on her shoulder. Three strides brought the stranger to the spot, and seizing Derode, he whirled him against the opposite wall with the strength of a giant, exclaiming, “ let y0ur victim die in peace!” The expiring woman raised herself with her last collected stength, and articulating, “ my husband!" sank back in a swoon. . The moment Derode became aware of the rain, tion in which the stranger stood to the fainting woman, he made an attempt to reach the door, but was intercepted by Anson. “Stay,” said the latter, “ you stir not hence. Stay, and behold the consummation of your vil- lainy. See! she breathes again. Let her curse you and expire l” The lamp of life had been long flickering in the poor patient, and was now giving forth its last brightness. She held out her hands imploringly to her husband, and said,“ forgive me I" but before his lips could utter the pardon, she fell back in the arms of Mrs. Torrance—a corpse. - The mysterious awe with which the presence of death fills the human heart, caused a silence as pro- found as that which had just fallen on the departed. Anson bent over the stiffening body and murmured: “Hadst thou died spotless, my wife, how joyfully would my spirit have journeyed with thine to the bar of God—and in the realms of peace, where the temptet' comes not—where sin and shame, and sorrow enter not—we should forever have enjoyed that bliss-our foretaste of which on earth, was so rudely broken by the destroyer. But enough. The last tears these eyes shall ever shed, have fallen upon thy bier—and now again to my work of vengeance!" He-arose, and bent on Derode a look of inel‘fable ferocity. “ Look," he said, “ on the man you have ruined. You. beheld me for the first time, yet my eyes have scarce lost sight of you for months—and henceforward will I be like your ever-present shadow. The solace of my life shall be to blight the joy of yours—in crowds Or in solitude—amid the gay revel, and through the silent watches of the night, will I hover around you. I' will become the living, embodied spirit of your remorse, walking with you in darkness and in light, THE DESTRO Yen’s noon. and when a smile would mantle on your lips, I will dispel it with the sound of MURDEREB l" “I ‘ll rid myself of such companionship,” said Derode,--"I have pistols here—follow me, sir, and seek a manly satisfaction at once.” The loud voices of Anson and her father, had been heard by Isabel, and the unhappy girl on entering the apartment—to the astonishment and horror of Derode—threw herself on the bosom of Anson, who, putting her aside, exclaimed—" that you may want no motive to hate as well as fear me, know that I am the seducer of your daughter. Thus have I begun my work of destruction.” Driven to desperation by this taunt, Derode drew a pistol, aimed it at Anson, and fired. By a move- ment equally sudden, Isabel, with a scream, threw herself before her betrayer, and received the ball in her shoulder. The wretched father groaned in agony, and fled from the house, while Anson, consigning the wounded girl to the care of Mrs. Torrance, pursued the culprit. The same day on which Anson committed his wife to the earth, Isabel Derode yielded up her spirit—and a jury declared that she died from a wound inflicted by the hand of her father. » Time passed slowly away, and Derode was pre- paring for his trial. The legal gentlemen whom he had employed, could perceive some palliating, but no justifiable, points in his case. He vehe- mently declared he had no purpose of injuring his daughter—his object being to inflict a just punish- ment on her seducer. His counsel, however, sor- rowfully assured him, that if the intent and attempt to kill could be proved, and a death resulted from such attempt, it mattered little who fell by his hand. The amiable Mrs. Torrance, resolving not to appear as a witness against him, had retired to the continent, and was now living in much seclusion at Dresden. But Anson remained ; and the relent- less heart of that altered man expanded with savage joy when he reflected that it was his evidence that would condemn his wronger. Some of the friends of the unhappy criminal waited on Anson, and besought him, in the_most moving manner, not to appear against the wretched man, alleging that if no direct evidence were adduced, justice would wink, and the oflender escape. The witness was inflexible. Derode himself sent a respectful request to see him. Anson entered his cell, and the de- spairing murderer begged for life like a very cow~ ard. Anson spurned the miserable suppliant from him :—“ Villain! villain l” he said, " ten thousand dastard lives like yours would but poorly expiate your fiend-like crime, or glut my insatiate ven- geance !”—and casting a look of inextinguishable hate on the prisoner, he left the cell. ~ A few days after his comtnitrnent, Derode had written to his son who was stationed at Bermuda, an account of his misfortunes and imprisonment. The dutiful boy having obtained leave, had instantly sailed for England, and was now sitting in his fa- ther’s dismal apartment. “ Cheer up, father," said the young sailor,— “things will go well yet. No proof, you say, but that man’s evidence,-—and that man the seducer oi my sister '1" THE DESTRO “ Even so," replied the parent—“ no prayers can touch him.” “I ’ll touch him,” said the fiery young man, “but not with prayers. Farewell father! to-mor- row I ’ll be here to tell you I have stopped the mouth of the king's witness.” Anson, promptly answering the challenge of young Derode, was at Chalk Farm at daylight. When he surveyed the slightly formed, but noble looking youth who stood before him, prepared for deadly contest. he remembered his unremitting pis- tol-practice, his unerring aim, and one human feel- ing, one pulsation of pity played around his heart. They were evanescent. He recalled his deserted home, his violated hearth, his vow for REVENGE, and at the fatal signal, his youthful antagonist lay on the frozen earth, with his life-blood bubbling out. Could Anson have seen Derode when his son’s death was communicated to him, he would have deemed the dcstroyer’s cup of bitterness full. Anson was arraigned for this murder, and under- went a trial, which was mere mockery, for having plied his gold freely—flaws, defective evidence, and questions of identity, as usual, in cases of duelling, hoodwinked justice. “ Plate sin with gold, and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks, Clothe it with rags, a pigmy’s straw will pierce it." Well, the day of trial came. Public excitement was at its highest pitch. The jailor, accompanied by sheriffs and tipstaves, proceeded to the cell of the prisoner, to escort him to the tribunal ofjustice. But lo! the apartment was tenantless. The crimi- nal had escaped. A brief survey of his cell revealed the means of his egress. The heavy stones forming the sides of his grated window, were displaced. Large tools lay scattered about—files, chisels, and other articles, plainly indicating a bold confederacy. And such was indeed the case 2—er the officers belonging to the same regiment with Derode had contrived his escape. “'ords cannot depict Anson’s feelings of mingled rage and disappointment when he learned that his victim had fled. At his own expense, he instituted .a search that pervaded the three kingdoms. He himself flew to the continent, and offered a thou‘ sand guineas for the capture of the murderer. His efforts were fruitless. The men who liberated De- rode did not withdraw their protection until they had placed him in safety. _ For more than a year Anson wandered about Europe, in hopes to light upon the fugitive. Weary at length with the vain pursuit, and thinking that the fire in his heart was consuming his life, he returned home, as he‘thoright, to die. He re- mained in Philadelphia a few months, during which time he conveyed a great part of the remainder of his property to some of our public charities, and then retired from the haunts of men to live and die alone. With a strong tinge of romance, he selected a wild, mountainous country, in the interior of our state, never leaving the precincts of the hovel where he dwelt, except to purchase a stock of the home- liost food. Ynn’s Doom. 121 He had been living thus more than eight years without any thing occurring to disturb the monotony of his life, when one blustering night, a cry from a creature in distress reached his ear, as he sat in his mountain hut, poring over a black-letter folio. Surprised that any one should invade his dangerous premises, and on such a night, he ignited a frag- ment of resinous wood, and sallied forth. As he descended the path that left his door, and struck into that which wound round a precipitous ledge, the voice came nearer on the blast. Anson shouted loudly to the stranger not to approach, until he reached him, as another step in the dark might be certain destruction. Proceeding hastily onward, he found the traveller standing on the outermost edge of the fearful precipice. The t0r~ rent was heard boiling and dashing far below, and the wind swept in eddying blasts round the dizzy cliff. Anson extended his hand to the wanderer, and the blaze of the torch flashed brightly in the faces of both men. Anson riveted his eyes on the features of the stranger, and with a yell of demoniac joy fastened on his throat. It was the miserable Derode, who, in the last stage of poverty, was wan- dering from the far west, to the sea-board, on foot. In the darkness, be had mistaken the mountain path for a bye-road, which had been described to him as greatly shortening the distance to the village. He quailed beneath the iron grasp of Anson, and struggled to say :—“ dreaded man! are you not surfeited with revenge? My ruined daughterB—my murdered son !” “ No !" shouted the infuriated recluse, “my ruined—murdered wife! I see her pale face there—down in the black abyss! she demands the sacrifice! down !” . He hurled the trembling seducer over the preci- pice, and laughed aloud as the wretch dashed from rock to rock in his descent. A heavy plunge! and the surging torrent closed over the hapless Derodc forever! Anson dwelt on in his gloomy solitude, until his hair became blanched, and the memory of passion and crime had furrowed- deep channels in his face. In the summer of 1828, we one day followed a trout stream far up into the mountain, and encoun- tered the old man. Giving him the fruits of our morning sport, and seating ourselves in his hut, we learned from himself the leading incidents of this melancholy story. His eye lighted up with unna- tural fire, as he pointed with unsteady finger to the fearful cliff, and said, " there, sir, ’t was from yon projection, I dashed my destroyer into the chasm. The law would call it murder, and I live in daily expectation that the bloodhounds will drag me hence. Well,let them come when they will; from my youth, life has been to me one deep, enduring curse." We saw him at least once in the summer for many years, and in our last interview with him, we said cheerfully,—-“ you look quite hale yet, Mr. Anson.” He regarded as steadily for a moment, and said, in a voice that reminded us of Shelly’s * * Ahasuerus,“ I cannot die." 11 THE EMPRESS. “ Adieu, my lord— I never wished to see you sorry; now, I trust, I shall." IT was evening. The mass had been concluded in the royal chapel, and the Empress Josephine was returning to her apartments through the gallery that led thereto. As she was proceeding along, she felt a touch upon her arm, and, upon looking round, discovered the form of a man beside her. He made his obeisance, and she immediately recognin the Counsellor Fouché. “ What would Monsieur Fouché '!” she demanded. “ A few moments private converse with you, if it please your majesty," he replied, and, at the same time, pointing to the embrasure of a window near by. Josephine understood the motion, and made a sign that she would follow. He led the way; and when they arrived, she again demanded what he wanted. “ I crave your majesty's pardon for the liberty I have taken," said the minister of police respectfully, yet boldly, " but I wish to make a communication, which, though it may not be of the most pleasing nature, yet, demands your majesty’s most serious attention.” ‘ " And what may it be? speak," said the empress. " You are aware," began the minister, “ that I am much with the emperor, and have ample oppor- tunity for learning his secret wishes and desires. I have become acquainted with one recently, which, 'of late, has much occupied his mind, and which he would fain gratify but for the love he bears your majesty. It is this: he wishes for an heir to in- herit his title and power. Every man, you know, feels an inherent pride in transmitting his name to posterity; and it is but natural that the emperor should feel such a desire. I would, therefore, sug- gest to your majesty the necessity of a sacrifice, which will add to the interest of France, make his majesty happy, and which would be as equally sublime as it will be inevitable. Beg him to obtain a divorce.” During this disclosure, the empress betrayed ex- cessive emotion. Her mild eyes were suffused with tears—her lips swelled—her bosom heaved— her face became deadly pale—and the tremor that took possession of her frame, told how deeply her feelings were agitated. But it was as the momen- tary cloud that obscures the noonday sun; in a moment it was past, and with a slightly tremulous voice, she asked— Winter'l Tale. “And what authority has the duke of Otranto for holding such language ?" " None," he replied, “ it is only from a convic- tion of what must most certainly come to pass, and a desire to turn your attention to what so nearly concerns your majesty’s glory and happiness, that I have dared to speak upon the subject. Never- theless, if I have ofl'ended, I beg your majesty’s forgiveness. Permit me now to depart." He stood silent for a few minutes, as if waiting for her assent. She waved her hand, and the boldest political intriguer of his time departed, conscious of having done that which none other in France would have presumed. Josephine turned away with it beating heart. She reached her apartments, and throwing herself on a sofa, gave vent to her over-burthened soul in a flood of tears. It was not long before dinner was announced; but she refused to appear at the table, on a plea of indisposition, and retired to her chamber. _ It was a short time afterward that the door of the chamber opened, and the emperor entered. He approached Josephine. Her eyes were red with weeping, and the tears yet moistened those bright orbs, in defiance of her efforts to appear calm. He seated himself beside her, and put his arm around her waist. “Josephine,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “ what is the cause of this emotion 1'" it Nothing," she answered, in a faltering voice, and scarcely audible. “Something has occurred to bring forth those tears. Tell me, what is it ?" and he looked ten- derly in her face. “ I cannot,” she said, bitterly, whilst she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and gave vent to an- other flood of tears. “No, I cannot speak those fearful words." “ What words, Josephine ? speak; what words Z” She hesitated, and then faltered out, “That—that you—you do not love me as you used to." u ’T is false l" he exclaimed. " Then why Wish to be separated? why wish for a divorce? Oh! Napoleon, is it my fault that we have no children to bless our union? God has so willed it," and her bosom heaved convulsiver Trra EMPRESS. He started as she pronounced the two first sen- tences, and compressed his lips as if to suppress the pang of conviction that shot through his heart. " Josephine," said the emperor, tenderly, “ some one has been poisoning your mind with idle tales. Who has it been 2?” She then related to him her interview with Fouché, and asked him to dismiss that minister as a penalty for his audacity in playing with her feelings. He strenuously denied the communica- tion; but refused to dismiss him. “No,” said he, “circumstances compel me to retain him, though he well deserves my displeasure. But why give credit to such silly assertions, Joseph- ine ? Have I ever treated you but with affection? Have you discovered aught in my behaviour to war. rant suspicion? No; believe me you are still clear to me. Banish those foolish fears from your breast then, and weep no more.” So saying, he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, and left the chamber to attend to the affairs of state. It was touching to hear such expressions of ten- derness issue from the greatest monarch of his time, and to witness that act of devotion—to see that proud spirit unbent; but it was those tears of anguish, and the whisperings of that “still small voice” of conscience, that had humbled him, to whom kings and monarchs humbled themselves, and whose mighty mind aspired to the conquest of the world. The setting sun threw its parting rays over the earth, and pierced the windows of the imperial palace. The golden flood, softened by the crimson curtains, fell upon the charming features of the empress Josephine, as she sat in thoughtful attitude, with her head resting upon her hand, on a sofa of royal purple, near the centre of her chamber. A page, in waiting, stood near the d00r, carelessly humming a light ditty; his heart as sunny as his own native France. What a contrast with that which heat within the bosom of the empress! Care weighed heavily upon her breast. Long before her interview with Fouché she had, from the very cause hinted at by the minister, dreaded a withdrawal of her husband's affections; but since that event her anxieties had doubly increased, and suspicion would take possession of her mind, amounting, at times, even to jealousy. Not that‘ she apprehended his proceeding to that extreme at which the wily minister had hinted; no !—no person on earth could have persuaded her that he, whose joys and woes she had cheerfully shared, wished for a separation: but that some Syren would ensnare him with her charms, and usurp that place in his heart which she only should hold. All the powers she possessed were exerted by Josephine, in order to retain his love, and some- times she fancied she had succeeded; for of late, in proportion as the sense of injustice he was about to do her, presented itself to his mind, he became more than usually kind and tender; but there were moments when a gloomy melancholy would settle upon her—an indefinable something that seemed to warn of approaching affliction. It was in one of those fits of abstraction, so foreign to her naturally cheerful nature, that she 123 sat, as we have said, seemingly unconscious of all around, when the door opened, and Napoleon en- tered. He seemed disturbed, and trouble was vividly depicted in his expressive countenance. He m0- tioned for the page to retire, and seated himself beside her. ' “Josephine!” he said. She started front her reverie, as he pronounced her name—for buried in thought, she had not ob- served his entrance—and bent upon him such a look, full of sweetness and affection, that it disarmed him; he could not proceed. IIe arose. He folded his arms upon his breast and paced to and fro; his brow was contracted,—his lips compressed; and the unquiet restlessness of his piercing eye, belo- kened the agitation he could scarce control. He thus continued for some moments. At length he stopped before her, as if his resolution was taken, and then again turned away, continuing to walk up and down the apartment with rapid and hasty strides. After a short time he stopped again. “ It must be done,” he muttered, “ I will acquaint her with it at once; delay but makés it still more difiicult.” He made an effort to suppress his emotion, and seated himself beside her. But again his voice failed him, and he could only articulate,— “ Josephine, prepare yourself for sad news." Ever on the alarm, the purport of his words seemed anticipated by her, though not to their full extent, and she burst into a flood of tears, scarce knowing why. Dinner was now announced, and their majesties proceeded to the table. Silence prevailed through- out the meal, and the dishes were scarcely touched. They arose from their seats, and as they did so, the page on duty presented the emperor with his accustomed cup of coffee. He took it, but handed it back scarcely touched. He then proceeded to his chamber ; the empress followed. They seated themselves when they had entered, and remained for some time silent. The emperor at length spoke. , “ There is no use in deferring the truth, Joseph- ine,” said he, in a tremulous voice, “ it must sooner - or later be made known to you, and suspense is more cruel than certainty. The interests of France demand that we separate." " What l” she exclaimed, placing both hands on his shoulders, and gazing with an eager and inquir- ing look in his face, " what'! separate !” “ Yes," he answered, “ France demands the sacrifice.” Her hands dropped heavily—her bosom heaved— and hot, burning tears, such only as flow from a surcharged heart, gushed forth in torrents from her eyes. “ And I—oh! God 2” she exclaimed, " I who have shared your joys‘and sorrows—who have been your companion for years—who loved you through weal and woe—who—but I will not upbraid you, Napoleon. Yet she who supplahts me, Maria Louise, the daughter of the Emperor Francis, can never love you as I have done,--oh! no !" She buried her face in her hands; the emperor remained silent. 124 t LAKE GEORGE. "But," she continued, starting sudddenly, and , by the tongue of a beloved husband? Her heart throwing her arms around his neck, H you do not mean it. Oh! no! say you do not! speak,--you cannot mean it. Tell cme, quick—say it is not so—that it cannot, must not be. Speak, Napoleon, and the blessing of God rest upon you l" “ Alas! it is too true," he said, his eyes suffused with tears. conscience that shot through his guilty heart. “ True !” she exclaimed, “and you confirm it? Then Fouché was right. But 1 will never survive it—no! I will never survive it. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu l” She uttered a piercing scream, and reeled back- ward, for she had risen from her seat in her eltcite- ment. Napoleon caught her in his arms, and laid her gently upon the carpet. Her agony was too deep for words, and she could only weep and groan in bitterness of spirit. He stepped to the door and called de Bausset. They raised her in their arms, and bore her to her chamber. Her women were immediately summoned, and she was resigned to their care. Napoleon retired, greatly agitated. De Bausser followed; tears were also in his eyes; for Josephine, by her goodness, won all hearts. Napoleon stopped a moment outside to listen to her groan of anguish. He related what had-occurred. “ The interests of France :” he continued, address- ing De Bausset, “ and as my dynasty does violence to my heart, the divorce has become a rigorous duty. I am more afflicted by what has happened to Josephine, because, three days ago, she must have learned it from Hortensia. The unhappy obligation which condemns me to separate myself from her, I deplore with all my heart, but I thought she possessed more strength of character, and I was not prepared for these bursts of grief.” They hurried away. Conscience, ever-faithful conscience, was already performing its duty; he felt its just upbraidings. He essayed to stifle it. It was this that led him to utter such language to De Bausset—to assert that he thought she possessed strength of character enough to receive the an- nouncement without those bursts of grief. W'hat virtuous and affectionate woman could receive with calmness a sentence of repudiation; and that, too, Philadelphia, 1841. r l l l l l l Oh! how keen was the pang of, must have become as stone. On the sixteenth of December, 1809, the law, authorising the divorce, was enacted by the conser- vative senate. In the following March the nuptials between Napoleon and Marie Louise, were per- formed in Vienna; and on the first day of April, a little more than four months after the scene above described, they were joined in wedlock in the city of Paris, by his uncle, Cardinal Fesch. Thus was consummated that act which cast a stain upon the character of “ the great Napoleon,” which time cannot efi'ace. A blot, deep and indel- ible, that will remain whilst his name lives among men. It was an act contrary to the laws of God and of humanity. One wrong action will often tarnish a whole life. We may admire his bravery, and courage, his vast conception of mind, his gigantic intellect, his unpa- ralelled energy, his perseverance, and his determi- nation of character, but when we turn to this dark page in his history, admiration vanishes, and con- tempt and disgust usurp its place. It was indeed an act unworthy of the man, and one that admits of no palliation. It was not to France the sacrifice, as he termed it, was made; it was to ambition. And may we not surmise that the lowering fortunes which ever after were his, and the dark fate which closed his days in a lonely island, afar off on the bosom of the ocean, were, in some measure, acts of divine retribution, which this act of his called forth. Long years after the occurrence of the foregoing events, and when Napoleon was no more master of Europe,—when Louis XVIII. was seated on the throne of France, and “ Le Grand Monarque,” Was a prisoner, confined for life on ‘the island of St. Helena—the lovely and accomplished Josephine,— the injured wife,-ended a virtuous life at the villa of Malmaison, near St. Germain, whither she had retired after the divorce. Her death was attributed to disease of the body; but it is likely it was not altogether that, or at least a secret sorrow had so weakened and enfeebled her mortal frame that the least rude touch of disease overthrew the structure. Differently died the repudiator and the repudiated. SKETCHER. \ THERE is a clear and bright blue lake Embosom’d in the rocky north; No murmurs e’er its silence break, ' As on its waves we sally forth; The mountain bird floats high aloft, Above his wild and craggy nest, And gazes from his towering throne, Upon the torrent’s sparkling breast; While for beneath, in light and shade, Lake George, Feb., 1841. LAKE GEORGE. The bright green valleys frown and smile, And in the bed sweet nature made, The lake sleeps soft and sweet the while. O’er many a green and lovely wild, The golden sun-beams gaily smile ; But ’mid them all he doth not break, As on his race he snllics forth, On fairer sceneY or sweeter lake. Than that within the rocky north. M. T. THE REEFER OF ’76. BY THE AUTHOR or “CRUISING IN THE LAST was.” PAUL JONES. “S'raanv, there, steady!” thundered the master of the merchantman, his voice seeming, however, in the fierce uproar of the gale, to die away into a whisper. I looked ahead. A giant wave, towering as high as the yard arm, its angry crest hissing above us, and its dark green bosom seeming to open to engulph our fated bark, was rolling down toward us, shutting out half the horizon from sight, and striking terror into the stoutest heart. It was a fearful spectacle. Involuntarin I glanced around the horizon. All was dark, lowering, and ominous. On every hand the mountain waves were heaving to the sky, while the roar of the hurricane was awfully sublime. Now we rose to the heavens: now sunk into a yawning abyss. But I had little time to gaze upon the fearful scene. Already the angry billow was rushing down upon our bows, when the master again sung out, as if with the voice of a giant, “ Hold on all .'" and as he spoke, the huge volume of waters came tumbling in upon us, sweeping our decks like a whirlwind, hissing, roar- ing, and foaming along, and making the merchant. man quiver in every timber from bulwark to kelson. Not a moveable thing was left. The long boat was swept from the decks like 'chafl' before a hurricane. For an instant the merchantman lay powerless be- neath the blow, as if a thunderbolt had stunned her; but gradually recovering from the shock, she shook the waters gallantly from her bows, emerged from the deluge, and rolling her tall masts heavily to starboard, once more breasted the storm. We had been a week at sea without meeting a single sail. During that time we had enjoyed a succession of favorable breezes, until within the last few days, when the gale, which now raged, had overtaken us, and driven us out into the Atlan- tic, somewhere, as near as we could guess, between the Bermudas and our port of destination. Within the last few hours we had been lying-to, under a close-reefed foresail; but every succeeding wave had seemed to become more dangerous than the last, until it was now evident that our craft could not much longer endure the continued surges which breaking over her bows, threatened momentarily to engulph us. The master stood by my siderhold- ing on to a rope, his weather-beaten countenance drenched with spray, but his keen, anxious eye changing continually from the bow of his craft, to the wild scene around him. “ She can’t stand it much longer, Mr. Parker,” said the old man, “ many a gale have I weathered in her, but none like this. God help us 3” “ Meet it with the helm—hold on all,” came faintly from the forecastle, and before the words had whizzed past upon the gale, another mountain wave was hurled in upon us, and I felt myself, the next instant, borne away, as in the arms of a giant, upon its bosom. The rope by which I held had parted. There was a hissing in my ears—a rapid shooting like an arrow—a desperate effort to stay my progress by catching at a rope, I missed—and then I felt myself whirled away astern of the merchantman, my eyes blinded with the spray, my ears ringing with a strange, wild sound, and a feel- ing of sudden, utter hopelessness at my heart, such as they only can know who have experienced a fate as terrible as mine, at that moment, threatened to be. “ A man overboard!” came faintly from the fast- receding ship. “ Ahoy!” I shouted. “.Hillo—hil—lo—o,” was answered back. “ Ahoy—a—a--hoy l" “ Throw over that spar." “ Toll the hell that he may know where we are.” “ Hillo—hi—il—lo I” “ Who is it ?" “ Bring a lantern here." “ Hil--l—o—o—o—o l” “ Can you see him '2” t " It ’s as dark as death." “ God have mercy then upon his soul.” I could hear every word of the conversation, as the excited tones of the speakers came borne to leeward upon the gale, but although I shouted back with desperate strength, I felt that my cries were unheard by my shipmates to windward. The dis- tance between myself and the merchantman was meanwhile rapidly increasing, and every moment her dark figure became more and more shadowy. With that presence of mind which is soon acquired in a life of peril, I had begun to trea water the instant I had gone overboard; but I elt that my strength would soon fail me, and that I must sink, 11" 126 unaided, into the watery abyss. Oh ! who can tell my feelings as I saw the figure of the merchantman gradually becoming more dim in the distance, and heard the voices of my friends, at first loud and distinct, dying away into indistinct murmurs. Alone on the ocean! My breath came quick; my heart beat wildly; I felt the blood rushing in torrents to my brain'. The scene meanwhile grew darker around me. The faint hope I had entertained that the ship would be put about, gradually died away; and even while I looked, she suddenly vanished from my vision. I strained my eyes to catch a sight of her as I rose upon a billow. Alas! she was not to be seen. “has there then no hope? Young; full of life; in the heyday of love—oh! God it was too much to endure! I felt that my last hour had come. Already the waters seemed roaring through tny ears, and strange, fantastic figures to dance before my eyes. In that hour every event of my life whirled through my memory! I thought of my childhood; of my mother in her weeds ;' of her prayers over her only child; and of the cold wintry day when they laid her in her grave, and told me that I was an orphan. I thought too of my boyhood; of my college life; of my early days at sea; of the eventful months which had just passed; of my hopes of a bright career or a glorious death, thus to be quenched forever; and of Beatrice, my own Beatrice, whom I was to see no more. Wild with the agony of that thought, I tossed my arms aloft, and invoked a dying blessing on her head. At that instant something came shooting past me, borne on the bosom of a towering wave. It was a lumbering chest, doubtless one of those thrown overboard from the merchantman. I grasped it with a des- perate effort: I clatnbered up upon it ; and as I felt its frail planks beneath me, a revulsion came over my bosom. The fisherman by his fireside, when the tempest howls around his dwelling, could not have felt more confident of safety than I now did, with nothing but this simple chest between me and the yawning abyss. Quick, gushing emotions swept through my bosom; I burst into tears; and lifting up my voice, there, alone, on the wide ocean, I poured forth my'thanksgivings to God. It was with no little difficulty I maintained my position on the chest, during the long hours which elapsed before the morning dawned. Now borne to the heavens, now hurried into the abyss below ; now drenched with the surge, now whirled wildly onward, on the bosom of some wave, I passed the weary moments, in alternate efforts to maintain my hold, and' ardent longings for' the morning’s light. The gale, meantime, gradually diminished. At length the long looked-for dawn appeared, creeping slowly and ominously over the horizon, and reveal- ing to my eager sight nothing but the white surges, the agitated deep, and the leaden colored ky on every hand. My heart sank within me. All through the weary watches of that seemingly interminable night, I had cheered my drooping hopes with the certainty of seeing the merchantman in the morn- ing, and now, as I scanned the frowning horizon; and saw only that stormy waste on every hand, my heart once more died within me, and I altnost THE REEFER OF ’7 6. despaired. Suddenly, however, I thought I per- ceived something flashing on the weather seaboard like the wing of a water-fowl, and straining my eyes in that direction, whenever I rose upon a wave, I beheld at length, to my joy, that the object was a sail. Oh! the overpowering emotions of that moment. The vessel was evidently one of considerable size, and coming down right toward me. As she approached I made her out to be a sloop of war, driving under close-reefed courses before the gale. Her hull of glossy black; her snowy canvass; and her trim jaunty finish were in remarkable contrast with the usual slovenly appear- ance of a mere merchantman. No jack was at her mast-head; no ensign fluttered at her gaff. But I cared not to what nation she belonged, in that moment of hope and fear. To me she was a messenger of mercy. I had watched her eagerly until she had approached within almost a pistol-shot of me, trembling momentarily lest she should alter her course. I now shouted with all my strength. No one, however, seemed to hear me. Onward she came, swinging with the surges, and driving a cataract of foam along before her bows. A look- out was idly leaning on the bowsprit. As the huge fabric surged down toward me another danger arose. I might be run down. Nerved to superna- tural strength By the imminency of the peril, I raised myself half up upon my chest, and placing my hand to my mouth, shouted with desperate energy, “ Ahoy ! a—a—hoy I" “Hillel” said the look-out, turning sharply in the direction of my voice. “ Ahoy ! ship a—ho—o—y !" “ Starboard your helm," thundered the scamart, discovering me upon my little raft, " heave a rope here—easy—easy—God bless you, shipmate,” and with the rapidity with which events are transacted in a dream, I was hoisted on board, and clasped in the arms of the warm-hearted old fellow, before he saw, by my uniform, that I was an officer. When he perceived this, however, he started back, and hastily touching his hat, said, with humorous per- plexity, “ Beg pardon, sir—did n’t see you belonged aft——" “ An American officer in this extremity,” said a deep voice at my elbow, with startling sudden- ness, and as the speaker advanced, the group of curious seamen fell away from around me, as if by magic; while I felt, at once, that I was in the pre- sence of the commanding officer of the ship. “ You are among friends," said the speaker, in a voice slightly tinged with the Scotch accent, “ we bear the flag of the Congress—but walk aft—you are drenched, exhausted—you need rest—l must delay my inquiries until you have been provided for -send the doctor to my cabin—and steward mix us a rumtner of hot grog.” During these rapid remarks the speaker, taking me by the arm, had conducted, or rather led me to a neat cabin all, and closing the door with his last remarks, he opened a locker, and producing a suit of dry clothes, bid we array myself in them, and then vanished fora the apartment. THE REEFER O‘F In a few minutes, however, he re-appeared, fol- lowed by the steward, bearing a huge tumbler of hot brandy, which he made me drink 06', nothing 10th, at a draught. From the first instant of his appearance, I had felt a strange, but unaccountable awe in the pre- sence of the commading officer, and I now sought to account for it by a rigid, but hasty scrutiny of his person, as he stood before me. He was a short, thick-set, muscular man, appa- rently about thirty years of age, drest in a blue, tight-fitting naval frock coat, with an epaulette upon one shoulder, and a sword hanging by his side. But his face was the most striking part of him. Such a countenance I never saw. It had a fire in the eye, a compression about the lips, a dis- tention of the nostrils, and a sternness in its whole appearance, which betokened a man, not only of strong passions, but of inflexible decision of cha- racter. That brow, bold, massy, and threatening, might have shaped the destinies of a nation. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. He appeared to read my thoughts, for smiling faintly, he cour- teoust signed to the steward to take my glass, and when the door had closed upon him, said, “ But to What brether officer am I indebted for this honor 'l" I mentioned my name, and the schooner in which I had sailed from New York. “ The Fire-Fly!” he said, with some surprise, “ah! I have heard of your gallantry in that brush with the pirates—” and then, half unconsciously, as if musing, he continued, “and so your name is Parker.” “ And yours ’2" I asked, with a. nod of assent. " PAUL Jonas t" For a moment we stood ilently gazing on each other—he seeming to wish to pierce my very soul with his small, grey eye, and I regarding with a feeling akin to fascination, the wonderful man whose after career was even then foreshadowed in my mind. “I see you are of the right stuffi” exclaimed this singular being, breaking the silence, “ we shall yet make those haughty English weep in blood for their tyranny.” I know not how it was; but from that moment I felt certain my companion would make his name a terror to his enemies, and a wonder to the world. For some days we continued our course, with but little deviation; and every day I became more and more interested in the commander of the man- of-war. Although my situation as his guest brought me into closer contact with him than any one ex- cept his lieutenant, yet, after the first New hours of our intercourse, he became reserved and silent, though without any diminution of courtesy. His former career was little known even in the ward- room. He had been brought up, it was said, by the earl of Selkirk, but had left his patron’s house at the age of fifteen, and embarked in a seafaring life. Dark hints were whispered about as to the causes of his sudden departure, and it was said that the dishonor of one of his family had driven him forth from the roof of his patron. Upon these subjects, however,l made no ungenerous enquiries; ’ 7 6 . 127 but learned that he had subsequently been engaged in the West India trade as master, and that he had, on the breaking out of the war, come to America, and offered himself to Congress for a commission in our navy. Some deep, but, as yet unknown, cause of hatred toward the English, was said to have prompted him to this act. As time passed on, however, I enjoyed many opportunities of studying his singular character, which, had I not felt my curiosity aroused, might have passed by unused. Often would I, in our slight conversations, endeavor to pierce into his bosom, and read there the history of all those dark emotions which slumbered there. But he seemed generally to suspect my purpose—at least he appeared always on his guard. He was ever the same courteous but unfathomable being. We had run down as far south as the Bermudas, when, one day the look-out made five sail; and in an instant every eye was directed toward the quarter where the strangers appeared, to see if there was any chance of a prize. “ How hear they _?" asked Paul Jones quickly, to the look-out at the mast-bead. “ I can ’t make out but one, and she seerris a large merchantman, on a taut bowline." “ Watch her sharp." “ Ay, ay, sir." For sometime every eye was fastened upon the approaching sail, which, apparently unconscious of an enemy so near, kept blindly approachingus. At length her royals began to lift, her Atopsails followed rapidly, and directly the heads of her courses loomed up on the horizon. Every eye sparkled with the certainty of a rich prize. - " She ’s a fat Indiamtrn, by St. George,” said our lieutenant, who had not yet so far forgot the country of his ancestors, as to swear by any saint but her patron one. “ I guess we ’d better not be too sure," said a cautious old quarter-master from Cape God, as he levelled at much worn spy-glass, and prepared to take a long squint at the stranger. “ By St. Pathrick,” said an Irish midshipman, in a whisper to one of his comrades, “ but wont she make a beautiful prize—with the rule Jamaica, my boys, by the hogshead in he_r,and we nothing to do afther the capture, but to drink it up, to be share." ~‘ The strange sail is a frigate," said the look-out at the mast head, with startling earnestness. “Too true, by G—d,” muttered the lieutenant, shutting his glass with a jerk ; and as he spoke, the hull of the stranger loomed up above the horizon, presenting a. row of yawning teeth that. boded as little good, for we knew that our own little navy boasted no vessel with so large an armament. " That fellow is an English frigate," calmly said Paul Jones, closing his telescope leisurely, “ we shall have to try our heels.” Every thing that could draw was soon set, and we went off upon a wind, hoping to distance our pursuer by superior sailing. But though, for a while, we deluded ourselves with this hope, it soon became apparent that the enemy was rapidly gain- ing upon us, and with a heavy cross sea to contend against, we found ourselves, in less than four hours, 128 within musket shot of the frigate, upon her weather bow. During all this time the Englishman had been firing her chase guns after us, but not one of them, as yet, had touched us. The game, however, was now apparently over. Every one gave them- selves up as lost, to die, perhaps, the death of rebels. Resistance would only inflame our captors. How astonished then, were we all to hear the cap tain exclaim,-- “ Beat to quarters !” The high discipline of the crew brought every man to his post at the first tap of the drum, though not a countenance but exhibited amazement at the order. “Open the magazine!” said Paul Jones in the same stern, collected tone. The order was obeyed, and then all was silent again. It was a moment of exciting interest. As I looked along the deck at the dark groups gathered at the guns, and then at the calm, but iron-like countenance of the daring commander, I felt strange doubts as to whether it might not be his intention to sink beneath the broadside of the frigate, or, grappling with the foe, blow himself and the Eng- lishman up. My reverie, however, was soon cut short by a shot from the frigate whizzing harm- lessly past us, overhead. The eye of the singular being standing beside me, flashed lightning, as he thundered,-- ‘ “ Show him the bunting. Let drive at him, gunner," and at the same instant our flag shot up to the gaff, unrolled, and then whipt in the wind; while ashot from one of our four pounders, cut through and through the fore-course of the enemy. “ Keep her away a point or two,quarter-master,” said the captain, again breaking in upon the omi- nous silence, now interrupted only by the report of the cannon, or the fierce dashing of the waves against the sloop’s bows. uDoes he mean to have us all strung up at the yard arm 7” whispered the lieutenant to me, as he beheld this perilous bravado, yet felt himself re- strained as much by the awe in which he held his superior, as by his own rigid notions of discipline, from remonstrating against the manoeuvre. Meantime, the frigate was slowly gaining upon us, and had her batteries been better served, would have soon riddled us to pieces; but the want of skill in her crew, as well as the violence of the cross sea, prevented her shot from taking effect. The distance between us, however, gradually less- ened. We saw no hope of escape. Every resort had been tried, but in vain. Already the frigate —®?€§CQ THE DEPARTED. was dashing on to us in dangerous proximity, and we could see the eager countenances of her ofiicers apparently exulting over their prize. Our crew, meanwhile, began to murmur. Despair was in many faces: despondency in all. Only our com. mander maintained the same inflexible. demeanor which had characterised him throughout the chase. He had kept his eye steadily fixed upon the frigate for the last ten minutes in silence, only speaking now and then to order the sloop to be kept away another point or two. By this means the relative positions of the two vessels had been changed so as to bring us upon the lee-bow of the enemy. Sud- denly his eye kindled, and turning quickly around to his lieutenant, he said,— "- Order all hands to be ready to make sail," and as soon as the men had sprung to their stations, he shouted— “ Up with your helm; hard,—harder. Man the claw garnets—board tacks—topsails, royals—and flying jib,—-merrily all, my men." And as sheet after sheet of canvass was dis- tended to the wind, we came gallantly around, and catching the breeze over our taffrail, went off dead before the wind, passing, however, within pistol shot of the enemy. “ Have you any message for Newport 7" said Paul Jones, springing into the mizzen-rigging, and hailing the infuriated English captain, as we shot past him. “ Give it to him with the grape—all hands make sail—fire !" came hoarser down from the frigate, in harsh and angry tones. “ Good day, and many thanks for your present,” said our impertubable commander, as the discharge swept harmlesst by; and then leaping upon the deck, he ran his eye aloft. ' “Run aft with that sheet--eend out the kites aloft there, more merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows," shouted the elated cap- tain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manceuvre, worked with a redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise, she could neither throw out her light sails sufiiciently quick, nor direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail. We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot. 2—— THE DEPARTED. HER parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear, Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear 2— The hyacinth blossom is plucked from it stem, The casket is broken, and scattered the gem. ' Pale Death! the grim nrcher,'ltath bended his bow, The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low; Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed, And well might the spoiler exalt in his deed. ‘THE MAJOR’S WEDDING. A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ- “ An! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no uir, hot as a furnaue—egad, I ’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you ’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the man that first invented tobacco. But hark 'e, who was that tall, slim, low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room corner, in a semi- animated state, and hadn‘t spoke for a half an hour until he growled back your salutation ?” “ Who 7 Jeremy—that'was a poet.” “ A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married 7” “ No—he swears he 'll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know they ’re a scarce article in the market.” “Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man writing poetry? F lum- mery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—— away with‘your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular lteefsteak, with a spice of wit to make it palateable, boy. Now there ’s Oliver Old- fellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grin- der before he got married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love youl—he has n’t written a line these twenty years.” “You ’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to be a law against poets marrying.” ‘ ‘I‘ And what ’s the use of law, to stop what one can’t help? No man—let me tell you—ever got married in his senses. No, no, my boy, they are crazy, bewitched, ‘non compos mentis.’ Did you ever meet a girl that did n’t say she ’d never get married, and why then should she do it if she did n’t get possessed? But the poor victims are to be pitied more than blamed. It ’s not their fault. It’s destiny, sir, destiny. When a thiet‘s hour comes he ’s got to be hung—and when a man’s time is up he ’s got to suffer matrimony. There ‘s no escape. Let him double like a bare, turn to the right or left, dive like a duck, or pretend to be dead like a dormouse, he ’11 be sure to be found out at every trick, and made a Benedict of— even if it's done by spirits—before he ’s aware of it. Let me tell you a story to prove my position. “Major Compton was a hale, hearty old fellow when I knew him in the last war, though I believe gout and morning drama have long since driven the nails in his coffin. He had been a gay chap when young-a soldier, a beaux, a bit of a fop,i and then—egad, sir—a poet of no little fashion. He could knock you off a sonnet on a lady’s charms sooner than old Tom the blacksmith could knock off a horse-shoe. But after a while he fell in love, and—to cut short my story—was married. Ah! many and many a time have I heard him tell me how he felt it coming on him as if he was be- witched; how he struggled against the malady but could not prevail; and how he shuddered when he found himself writing poetry, because, like the sight of water in the hydrophobia, he knew then that it was all over with him. But this happened years before we met. When I knew him he was a jolly, red-faced widower, and had a horror of all poets, women, and cold water—the last of which he used to say made men effeminate, in proof of which he said all savages who used nothing else, like the Tahitans, were cowards. Betwixt you and I, he must have married a Tartar. " Well—he ’d been out one night at a supper, and the bottle had passed around so frequently that every soul of the company, except the major, got. under the -table,—so, after amusing himself by blocking their faces with burnt cork, and moral- ising, as a gentleman ought to,.over their deplo_ rable condition, he set out to find his way home to his quarters. As he emerged into the cool air he felt his head getting light as if it were going up, balloon-like, with himself for a parachute; but holding his hat down with both hands, as he .re- membered to have seen them keep down an inflated balloon, he managed to get along pretty well, though he could n’t keep his head front swinging about with the wind, which made him, he said,walk as crooked as if he had been drunk, though he was never so- berer in his life. _ 5 “ It was a wild, gusty night, and the clouds were drifting like snow-flakes overhead, when the major sallied out into the street, and began his journey to his lodgings. The wind roared around the corners, or whistled down the chimneys of the old houses around, whose tall, dark, chilly figures rose up against the November sky, until they seemed, to the major’s vision, fairly to shiver with cold." The stars, high up, Were winking through the drift, ex- cept now and then a sturdy old fellow who stared right into the major’s face. One of these seemed determined to abash him whether or no. Go where he would it followed him, so that if he looked up he would be sure to see it staring full upon him 130 with its dull yellow eye. It made him think, he said, of his spouse of blessed memory, when she would stick her arms a-kimbo, and make faces at him. Now the major was a good-humored soul, but there are some things, even Job could n’t endure. The major bore it, however, until he reached a wild common, when taking a seat upon a heap of stones, he planted his elbows on his knees, buried his chin in his hands, and looking right at the saucy star, said, “ ‘ Hillo ! up there—now take a good look, and let ’s see who ’11 give over first.’ mHillo 1’ said a voice close behind him. W Hillo it i, you old mocking curmudgeon, say that again and I '11 pound your face into a jelly,‘ said the major, turning wrathfully around ; but, though he looked every where, not a bit of a man could he see even as big as the fabled Tom Thumb. It was, as I have said, a wide, open common, with not a tree or a house upon it, and if any living thing had been moving across its surface he would have been sure to have detected it. What could it have been? He thought of all the stories of gob- lins he had ever read, and his hair almost stood on end as he remembered them. But rallying himself, he began to whistle aloud, and stare again at the saucy star overhead. The sky, however, had grown darker during the interruption; and in a few moments the clouds obscured the provoking star. For a moment he closed his eyes, and feel- ing sleepy, dozed; but his head suddenly pitching forward, aroused him, and he once more looked up. What a sight was there! Dark, frowning masses of vapor swept wildly across the firmament; while the wind now wailed out in unearthly tones, and then went shrieking across the common like the laughter of a troop of malignant fiends. A wood, some distance off, skirting the common, tossed its gray, leafles branches wantonly in the winds; and anon a loud, shrill whistle, as of an army of hun- ters, rung out, down in the very heart of the forest. The major almost started from his feet, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from his drowsiness. The clouds were once more drifting swittly across the sky, now rolling together into huge, dark masses, and now separating, and then weaving together again into a thousand fantastic shapes. Just at that instant the provoking star gleamed once more through the drift, and this time it stared at him more like his spouse than ever. The major could stand it no longer. Forgetting the fearful things around him, he shook his clenched fist at it, and said, “ ‘ Hillo ! you old, wry-faced vixen, how dare you squint at me—Ma—a—a—jor—Com—Compt— Compton—how dare you, I say? Do you want to remind me that I was once fool enough to get mar- ried '!—I ’d like to see the woman I 'd have now: all the powers above or below could n‘t force me to get married again—no, no, you old crab-appple '.'-- I—I—say—' “ They could n’t—could n’t they 7” quietly said a voice at his elbow. “ And who the deuce are you 1" said the major, turning sharply around. “ ‘ Who do you think 7’ said one of the oddest THE MAJOR’S WEDDING. looking beings the major ever beheld—a short, mis-shapen man, with great goggle eyes, a roguish leer on his face, legs that were doubled up under him like a pocket-rule, and long, bony fingers, one of which was stuck knowingly aside his nose, while his eyes alternately were winking at the astonished major; for the little fellow seemed to be in high glee at the wonder he occasioned. “ For some minutes they stood looking at each other without a word—the major’s eyes growing larger and larger with astonishment; while the odd little fellow kept winking away, with his finger at his nose, to his own apparent glee. At length he said, “ ‘ Well—what d‘ y’e think, old carbuncle '1’ “ Now the major was a valiant man, and had any mortal thing called him by such a nick name, he would have first run him through and then almost eaten him alive; but he has told me a hun- dred times that his heart went like a forge-hammer to be addressed by a being of another world. So he only stammered, H ‘ I—-I--don’t know—’ “ ‘ Speak up, man, speak up—why your voice is as thin and weak as if you ’d been doctored for the quinzy a month.’ “ ‘ Lord ble you, sir, I never had it in my life,’ said the major, with sudden boldness. “ ' Uh—uh—uh,’ interrupted the little fellow, menacingly, ‘ none of that—none of that. No strange names if you please.’ ' “ The major’s heart again went like a fulling mill, and his throat felt as if he was about to choke; for he had no doubt it was the devil him- self who stood before him. " * I—I—beg pardon—your majesty—I—I.’ “ ' What! Strange names again,’ sternly inter- posed the goggle-eyed little fellow, and then, seeing how he had frightened his companion, he said, to reassure him, ‘ come, come, Major, this will never do. Let ’s proceed to business.’ “ The major bowed, for he could not speak. The odd little fellow arose with the word, and taking the major’s hand, gave a spring from the ground, and in an instant they were sailing away through the air, over wood, river, hill, and valley, until they alighted ate the door of a lone, solitary house, at the foot of a mountain. His companion pushed open the door, without ceremony, and they stood in the presence of a large company, apparently assembled to witnes a marriage, for the bride, with her bridemaids, was sitting at the head of the room, and the company, especially the young ladies, were smiling and smirk- ing as they always do on such occasions. The only thing wanting was a groom, and when the major took a second look at the bride, he did not wonder that he delayed his coming to the last mo- ment. She was an old, withered beldame, sixty years of age, at the least, With a yellow skin,a hook nose, a sharp protruding chin, and little sunken grey eyes that leered on the major, as the door opened, with most provoking familiarity. Her ugliness was more apparent from the extreme beauty of the bridemaids, who seemed as if they might have been Houris from Paradise. As the major entered, the bridal company arose simultaneously. The par- THE MAJOR’S on stepped forward and opened his book. Every eye was turned upon the new-comers. “ ‘ You are very late, my love,’ said the old hag, taming to the major. u‘Late !—my love !’ said be, starting back, and turning with astonishment, from his conductor, to the bride. " ' I have brought you to your wedding, you see,’ said the odd little fellow composedly, with a tanta- lising grin, ‘ did n’t I hear you say, on the common, “ that you ’d like to see the woman you ’d marry,” did n’t I T and he grinned again. " * Yes—my duck,’ simpered the hateful bride, leering on the major, ‘ and I 've been so alarmed lest you might have met with an accident to detain you. Why were you so long ?’ and she placed her hand fondly on the major’s arm. “ ‘ Hands ofi',’ thundered the major, springing back, and again turning bewildered from one to another of his torrnenters. “ ‘ Come, come, now, major,‘ said his conductor, with a malicious grin, ‘it ’s no use to resist, for that,‘ said he with emphasis, pointing to the old hag, ‘ is your bride. written you know. I ’ve no doubt,’ and here he grave another malicious grin, *that your married life in future will be one of unmitigated felicity. Come,— dou’t you see the parson ’s waiting?’ “ ' Yes, dear,‘ said the bride, distorting her with- ered jaws into what was meant for a smile, ‘ and don’t let us think, by any more hard words,’ and here she tried to sobpthatyour fatigues have thrown you into a fever and delirium.’ “ Cold drops of sweat were on the major’s brow, / as he looked around the room, and saw every eye bent upon him, some with amazement, some with contempt, but most with indignation. There was a menacing air on the brow of his conductor, which made him shake as if he had an ague chill. The major, moreover, was unarmed. But he made a desperate effort, and said piteously— “ * Marry! I did n’t want to get married—’ mNot want to get married, when it ’s your des- tiny 3’ broke in his conductor, with a voice of thun- der, striding up” to the major, whose very teeth chattered with fright at his peril. " ‘ Why—why—y—I ’ve no particular objec- tion—that 'is to say,‘ exclaimed the major with another desperate efi'ort, ‘ if I must get married, I ’d sooner take one of these pretty, blue~eyed bride- maids here.’ ' “‘You would—would you !’ said his conductor with a threatening look, ‘dare but to think of it, and I ’ll make you rue it to the last day of your existence,’ and again he scowled upon the major with a brow blacker than midnight, and which had a fearful indentation—the major used to say—as of a gigantic spear head, right in the centre. “ The major always said that he resisted stoutly for a long time, even after his tormentor had fairly prostrated him with only a tap of his finger, and until strange figures, of unearthly shape, uttering terrible cries of anger, and attended by a strong smell of brimstone, came rushing into the room, without any apparent way of ingress, and surround- February, 1841. It is fate; and what is written, is' 131 WEDDING. ing him in a body, awaited the signal of his con- ductor to hear him off, he knew not whither, and inflict on him unheard of torments ;—but as I knew the major was sometimes given to vaporing in his cups, I always set the better part of it down for exaggeration. However, at length he gave in,even according to his own account, and signified his willingness, though not without some qualms as he looked at the bride, to have the ceremony performed. m I knew it, major—a brave man never should struggle against fate,’ said the little fellow with goggle eyes. ‘- ‘ Needs must, when the—' “ ‘Sir,’ said the little fellow, taming fiercely around. i . “ ‘ I beg pardon,’ said the major meekly. “ But to wind up my story—for, egad, I believe you ’re asleep—the major was manied, had kissed the bride, and was actually performing the same duty on the bridemaids, when the little fellow with the goggle-eyes, perceiving what he was at, seized him angrily by the arm, whisked him up the chim- ney, bore him swiftly through the air, and with a roar of malicious laughter, that might have been heard a mile, exclaiming,-— mThere—-wait, and your wife will pop in on you when you least expect it,’—let him drop to the earth, on the very common, and aside of the _very pile of stones, where he had been sitting when he first saw the little, old fellow. But meantime the night had passed, and it was broad morning. The birds were singing in the neigboring woods,—tbe sound of the village clock striking the hour, boomed clear upon the air,-and a few cattle, with the mo- notonous tinkle of their bells, were leisurely crossing the commons, under the charge of a herd boy. For some minutes the major could not persuade himself but what it had all been a dream; but the damp sweat was still upon his brow, and every limb ached with the fall. So he could n’t comfort himself with that assurance, but set himself down, on the con- trary, as one of the most luckless men alive. “From that hour, ‘sir, the major was a firm believer in destiny, and-'used to sigh whenever any one would talk of matrimony. He lived in con- stant fear lest his wife should find him out, and at last threw up his commission, only, I believe, that he might go to Europe, for better security. Some used to say it was only a drunken dream, out of which he had been awakened by falling upon the stones, but if the major heard it he was sure to challenge the slanderer, so that, in course of time, his story got to be believed by general consent. And now—you old curmudgeon—who ’11 say marriages ain’t fixed by fate 7" “ But, Jeremy, to credit your ghost story requires rather a good deal of credulity." “Credulity ! Ghost story ! what, egad, is life without a touch of romance, and what romance is so glorious as the one which deals in diablerie? Ah! my good fellow if I did n’t know that the major was generally credible, and therefore in this instance to be believed, I ’d endorse his story just because it proves my assertion. Answcr that, if you can I” J. S. THE FATHER’S BLESSING. BY MRS. 5- A. Tt-tl: wind moaned in low and fitful gusts around the mansion, sounding at times, as if the wailings of departed spirits were borne upon the blast, when Mary Levingston sat alone in the solitude of her chamber. Her lamp was bid in a recess at a dis- tance, and casting its pale and feeble beams across the darkened room, scarcely disclosed her drooping figure, or the tears upon her cheek. It was not that the fearful tumult without had affected her imagination, nor the thought that her only brother might be exposed to all the dangers of the coast. Something that more deeply touched her happiness awoke her grief. Wild, tumultuous thoughts agitated her bosom, and mocked the storm that shook her casement, and reared in all its fury around her. The substantial mansion of Mr. Levingston was situated in a delightful town in New Jersey. Here he had trained up an interesting and lovely family. Four of his daughters were married; three of them were settled in the same town with their father; the other resided in the city of New York. His only son, possessing many virtues, but a wild and roving disposition had, in opposition to his father‘s advice, gone to sea, and had not been seen by any of his family for four years. Mary Levingston was the sole remaining daughter at home. She was the sun that lit up her father’s dwelling. Swift and light as the fawn had been her footstep till of late; when a cloud had passed over her gentle bosom, and obscured its brightness. A blast had swept‘ over the flower and it was changed; but neither the cloud had been seen, her the blast heard. Then wherefore this change? _ It was well known to Mr. Levingston’s family, that a strong and bitter alienation of feeling existed between himself and Mr. James, an early, and once dear friend, who, at the time of which we speak, resided in New York. S0 exasperated had Mr. L. become by a series of ungrateful acts on the part of this early friend, that on pain of his everlasting dis- pleasure, he had forbidden his children over asso- ciating with the family. Unfortunately for Mary, during a visit to the city, she had met with a son of Mr. James, and it was not until her affections were unchangeably fixed, that she had discovered his relationship to the most bitter enemy of her father. Admiring Mary at first sight, and conscious of the enmity between the families, her lover had sought an introduction to her under a false name, and it was long before she discovered the truth. WHZLPLEY. When she did so, however, her determination was soon made. Obedience had been the law of her life, and she resolved at once to sacrifice her own feelings, in preference to that of her kind father's wishes. She felt pained, moreover, that her lover should have deceived her even to win her affections. She fled from the scene of danger; but she could not fly from herself. In her own bosom she carried the image she had so fondly cherished, and which had been the object of her waking and sleeping dreams. It was after a long struggle, in which she had almost conquered, that she received a letter—which had caused her present grief— written by her sister, and informing her that her lever was about to sail for Europe, and asked for a last interview, if only to beg her forgiveness, and bid her farewell forever. " I will see him," said Mary “ and convince him there is no hope, and then I will retum and confess all to my beloved father, and throw myself upon his mercy. He will not cast me off when he finds I did not err knowingly.” She rose from her chair, as she thus spoke, arranged her dress, and descended to the parlor, with a countenance from which, except to a suspi- cious eye, every trace of grief had vanished. “ You must not leave us so long again, my daughter," said her venerable father, as she entered the room. My home appears almost cheerless, unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.” M What shall I sing, dear father? your favorite, Grace Darling '1” “ Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells ul'sltipwreek and death." u\‘Vell, I will sing my own favorite," said Mary, seating herself at the piano, “ it shall be Shall it be ‘ My heart ’5 in the Highlands, My heart is not here,’ " The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their own Mary. “ Dear papa 1" said she at length, suddenly stop- ping, and tumiug around, “ I want to ask a. favor of you,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me go to New York next week. There now, I knew ' you would,—y0u are always such a kind and THE FATHER, indulgent papa," and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him tenderly. “Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear Mary, don't come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon, play me another song.” Mary felt the blood rush to her very brow at this chance remark of her father; but turning around to her piano, she struck into a march, to hide her emotion. In a few days'she set forth to New York, with a heart, vacillating between duty and love,-determin- ed, however, to permit only one interview, and then to bid her lover adieu forever. “ You will have a strong advocate in my wife” said Mr. M to Mr. James, who sat on the sofa by Mary Levingston the evening of her arrival. H She is resolved, she says, to return home with her sister hoping she may be enabled to soften the feel- ings of Mr. Levingston toward your father. “I hope she may prove a successful pleader,” said the lover, “ and prepare the way for my casting myself at his feet when I return. Since I have ob- tained my sweet Mary’s forgiveness, I feel that I can now with courage brave the hardships of the deep. The thought that she loves me, will be the sun that will light my path in a distant clime. The thought that she is my advocate with her father fills me with the conviction that the ancient enmity will be buried in oblivion and that all will soon be well.” “You are far more sanguine, as to the result, dear Edward, than I am,” said Mary: “ I have little hope myself of succeeding with my father. I know his feelings so well on this point, that I trem- ble lest I have sinned beyond forgiveness. One thing, here, in the presence of those that are so dear, I solemnly declare, though my heart may be crushed, never to unite my destiny to one his judg- ment disapproves. I should feel a solitary outcast, even with him I so tenderly love, without a father’s blessing.” “ We shall have it, dear Mary, we shall have your father’s blessing,” exclaimed Edward, pressing her to his bosom, " for God will reward so filial and dutile a daughter. I should feel myself to be a wretch were I to corrupt such purity, or wish you, for my sake, to sacrifice his peace.” We pass over the last two or three hours the lovers passed together. The clock had told the departure of midnight before they separated. ‘ Who could blame them for lengthening out an interview that was to be their last for months and perhaps forever ? “ I leave you, dear Mary," said Edward, at length rising to go, “ in obedience to the commands of my father. If God prospers me I shall soon again be with you. Cheer up my love, and remember my motto is ‘ Brighter days will come.’ ” When Edward arrived in London, he hastened to. fulfil the object of his voyage and put his business in a train for speedy adjustment. Days seemed to him weeks, and Mary could not have doubted his love had she known there was none in that great metropolis who could eclipse her beauty in the eyes of him she so fondly loved. In about three weeks s BLESSING. 133 the business which took him to London was settled. Mr. James was preparing to return home, when one night, at a late hour, the cry of “fire” resounded through the long halls of the Hotel in which he lodged. In an instant all was alarm and confusion. He enquired what part of the building was on fire, and was told that the eastern wing was all in flames. He hastened to the scene of danger, which appeared to be entirely forsaken. Nearly suffocated with smoke, he turned to retrace his steps, when a wild scream arrested his attention, and the next instant he beheld a young and beautifiil female in her night dress rushing through the flames. “ Save, oh ! save him, for heaven’s sake,” she ex- claimed, “save my sick husband. he is perishing! who, who will rescue him 7" “ I will," said Mr. James, “ but do not on your peril attempt to follow me.” In an instant he was lost to sight, but directly re- appeared, hearing in a blanket the body of the help- less being he had been the means of snatching from an untimely death. He hastened to his own room and deposited his burden on the bed, and was ad- ministering restoratives, when his servant informed him that the firemen had succeeded in pulling down the eastern wing and were rapidly extinguishing the flames. . “ We have nothing now to fear,” said Mr. James, addressing the young female, who had partly shrunk behind the curtains to conceal her thinly clad per- son—“ but you are cold," said he, as he threw his own cloak around her, “ pardon my neglect.” “ Oh," she exclaimed, bursting into tears z,“ talk not of neglect. You have been every thing to us. You have saved the life of my beloved husband, and an age of gratitude is ours.” Edward now left the room to seek for rest in another apartment. To sleep was impossible. The excitement of the past hour had been so great, that his nervous system was completely unstrung, and he passed the night in listening for some alarm. After breakfast he hastened to the room of the invalid, to enquire for his health. Most joyfully was he greeted by both husband and wife, who now‘ appeared to have recovered from the alarm of the past night. In the course of conversation, Mr. James mentioned that he was on the eve of starting for America. “ When does the vessel sail?” inquired the lady anxiously. “This afternoon, at four o’clock,” replied Mr. J , “ and I should like before Isay adieu, to become acquainted with the name of those I feel so deep an interest in." “ Our name is Levingston,“ said the gentleman. “And yours, sir 3" “ James.” “ Well, this is remarkable. A Levingston and a James to meet under circumstances that have bound them together by cords that death alone can sever 1” Long and interesting was the communion of that morning. All was told. The gentleman he had rescued was the long absent brother of his own Mary. The tale of love was revealed, and Edward persuaded to wait one week longer, that they might return together to their native land. “ I shall send despatches to my father by the vas- 12 134 sci in which you expected to sail, this afternoon," said Mr. Levingston, " and if he has any love for his only son, he must receive as as brothers." We now hasten back to Mary Levingston. After the departure of Edward, New York had lost its attractions for her. Mr. M——-- returned home with Mary. She indulged strong hopes of influen- cing her father in favor of Mr. James, and inducing ~ him to consent to his union with her sister. But she was destined to be disappointed. Mr. Leving- lton would not even listen to her. Ringing the bell, he ordered Mary to be summoned to his pre- sence. When Mary entered the room, her eye fell in- stantly beneath the steady gaze of her father. " I have sent for you” said he, “ to express my deep displeasure at your/ conduct, and my utter ab- horrence for the man who could impose upon such a child as you. Your sister says you love the son of one that has insulted and abused me. Can it be so, Mary, my child l" said he, bursting into tears. In a moment Mary was on her knees before him. “ Forgive me, dear father, I have sinned ignorantly. Forgive me," she exclaimed, “ for I here promise to renounce him forever.” “ If this is your determination,” said Mr. Leving- ston, “ rise and receive your father’s blessing. May you long enjoy the consolation of knowingyou render- ed the last days of your father peaceful and happy." From that hour, Mary Levingston was calm and happy. Innocence and an approving conscience supported her. “ Never,” said Mary, to her sister, Mrs. M-—--, on fire morning of her departure, " mention in your letters the name of Mr. James, who in future must be as one dead to me. Tell him, when he returns, that my determination is unalterable, and bid him seek some more congenial alliance." Weeks rolled round and found the calm quiet of the Levingston’s unbroken. The rose was still blooming on the cheek of Mary. No change had taken place in any except Mr. Levingston. It was very evident to all his friends that he rapidly failed. Every step of the hill he was descending seemed to fatigue him, and the only cordial that revived his fainting spirit, was the presence of his youngest child. Was not Mary Levingston, as she gazed on his pale face and feeble frame, rejoiced at the sacri- fice she had made to secure his peace? Yes, the happiness she now felt was of a calm, enduring nature. She could lie down and rise up without listening to the upbraidings of a guilty conscience, without having to reflect that it was her rebellion which had dimmed the eye and paralyzed the step of her father. Every night before she retired, she received his embrace, and heard him say, H God bless you Mary, you have been a dutiful child." Late one evening, in the latter part of October, a servant entered the parlor where the family was sitting with a package of letters. He delivered them to Mr. Levingston, and retired. The hand trembled that broke the seal. “ This is from our dear son," said be, turning to his wife, and holding up a letter, “ and here is one for each of his sisters. Let me see, two of them are directed to Mary, here they are, take them." THE FATHER, S BLESSING- He now commenced reading the letter aloud, which told of the prosperity and marriage of his son, and his intention of leaving England for home the following week. -Then came the description of the fire. The peril—the rescue; the name of him who had exposed his own life to snatch a stranger from the flames. At this part of the letter Mr. Levingston suddenly stopped and left the room. In his study he finished its perusal. “ What does this mean ?” he exclaimed, rapidly walking the floor, “ It seems as though the hand of God was in this thing. I would that some other one had saved him. He asks me to receive his deliverer as my son. Bold request—and yet I will do it. I will receive hitn as a son, for he has saved the life of my Walter at the risk of his own. ‘ For so generous, so noble an act, I here bury my enmity forever." Mr. Levingston, with a lighter heart than he had felt for months, returned to the parlor. Mary met him at the door. " This letter, dear papa,” said she, " I return to you. I have not read it, neither do I desire to. It is written ‘by one I have renounced forever." “ Keep it, Mary," said Mr. Levingston, “ and cherish the memory of the writer. I have buried my resentment forever toward that family. From this hour shall we not bless the deliverer of our son '2” Mary was astonished. She could scarcely per- suade herself that all was not a dream. Still holding the letter toward her father, and gazing immoveably in his face, he seemed rather a statue than a human being. “Do you think I am trifling 7” said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. " No, Mary, I love you too well for that. From this moment you have my consent to become the wife of him, who, although so tenderly loved, you felt willing to sacrifice to the peace of your aged father.” The intervening days, preceding the arrival of \Valter, rapidly glided away in busy preparation. Suddenly, however, Mr. Levingston was taken dangerously ill at midnight. His symptoms were so alarming that a council of physicians was called before morning, when an express was sent to New York for his children. Calm and collected, Mary Levingston might be seen noiselessly moving about her father’s chamber. No hand but hers could administer his medicine, or smooth his pillow. The thought of death—the death of her father—had not once crossed her mind. His life seemed so necessary to his family, that such an event appeared impossible. “ Has he come, Mary T" “ Who, dear father 7” she gently asked, stooping and kissing his brow. " Walter, my son, has he come '2” “ It is too soon yet to expect him." ‘ “Too soon," said he, faintly, “I fear then I shall never see him. The hand of death is on me, my child, I feel its chill." “You will kill me, dear father, if you talk so. You will soon be better. I thought this was to be the happiest week of my life," said she, bursting into tears. \I I AM YOUR “ Mary,” observed Mr. Levingston, “ I wish you to be calm and listen to me. If I should not live to see my son, tell him he was his father’s idol. Tell him to transmit the name of Levingston, unsullied, to posterity, and to be the comfort and support of his widowed mother. One more message and I am done," said he, wiping the cold sweat from off his brow. “ Hark l" he exclaimed, hear- ing a noise, “perhaps that is Walter." Finding himself disappointed, he proceeded—“ request Ed- ward James to tell his father that I die in peace with all men, and joyfully entrust the happiness of my daughter to his son. I had hoped to have given away the treasure with my own hand, but that is all over. Leave me now for a few moments, I wish to see your mother.” Tltat interview over there was a solemn silence for a few moments, when he exclaimed, “Did you say he had come? Oh my son, receive my bless- ing." “ You were dreaming, dear father,” said Mary, “ \Valter is not here.” “ Well, well, it is all right," he replied. He never spoke more: in a few hours his spirit took its final flight. ‘ It was late in the evening when the moumful intelligence of Mr. Levingston’s illness reached his children in New York. They instantly set forth to gain, if possible, his dying couch in time to ob- tain his blessing. “ Where is my father," exclaimed Walter on his arrival at the mansion, rushing by his mother and sisters who had hastened to the door to meet them. “ Lead me to my father,” said he, catching hold of Mary. As she went toward the room, he rushed by her; and entered, closed and locked the door. Mary stood without listening to his wild outbursts of grief. In anguish he called upon him once more to speak to him. It was the lamentation of the pro- digal yearning in vain to hear his father’s voice. It was the pleading of the wanderer who had returned with the hope'of cheering his last days. “ Mary,” said a gentle, well known voice, “ My beloved Mary, we meet with your father’s blessing resting upon us." In an instant she was in the arms of Edward -_-__--. . 135 James, and weeping upon his bosom. Walter Lev- ingston at this moment entered the apartment. “ Did my father ask for me, Mary ’I” said he. “ Oh yes," she replied, “ often. Almost his last words were, ‘ My son receive my blessing.’ And he told me to request you, Edward, to say to your father, * I die in peace with all men, and willingly entrust the happiness of my daughter to your son.'_” “Forever blessed be his memory," said Edward. “ Never shall his confidence be misplaced, or that daughter have reason to doubt my trust.” The door now opened, and Mrs. Levingston, lean- ing on the arm of one of her daughters, entered. “ Beloved mother,” said Walter, embracing her, “from this hour it shall be my first care and study to promote your comfort. Here by the corpse of my father,l resolve to do all in my power to fill his place, and render your last days peaceful and hflPPY?’ Some months from this period, a party was seen to alight from a carriage early one morning in front of Saint Paul’s Church. The blemings of many were heard in low murmurs from the crowd that filled the vestibule. “ She was the pride of her father,” said an aged female who stood leaning against the wall, “ and I know she will be a bless- ing to her husband." Early as was the hour, the Church was crowded with spectators. Many had risen to get a more perfect view of the fine manly form of him that was about to bear away the sweet Mary Levingston from her maiden home. The silence was intense as the impressive marriage ceremony of the Epis- copal Church was read; and fervent were the responses of those who promised through weal and wo to be faithful to each other. As the party turned to leave the Church, a hearty " God bless them,” resounded from many. Mrs. James was greatly affected as she cast a farewell glance on these familiar faces. Her husband. hurried her to the car- rings. " The blessing of many has rested on you, dear Mary, to-day,” said he, as they were borne to their new home. “ Yes," said she, “ and I‘ thought as I stood be- fore the bridal altar, I heard the voice of my de- parted father saying, “ God bless you.” PRISONER. I AM YOUR BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH, LADY! I bow before thee A captive to thy will, A spell of thine is o'er me, But joy is with me still. I yield me, not to beauty, Though thou, indeed art fair; PRISONER. M. D. I yield me—not to lightness, Though thou art light as air. I yield me, not to wisdom, ' Thou wisest of thy kind, ‘ But, rescue, or no rescue, To thy purity of mind. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BY J. Tr-rs subject of the present sketch has had in time, the most sincere friendship of the writer. One act, and one alone, has made them enemies—irre- concilably, forever. It is to be regretted that it is so, yet it cannot be otherwise, and the honor of both be preserved. There is in any and every one, that aspires to greatness, a tameless absurdity, when suffering a reprehensible action of an associate to pass away like the morning mist on the flower, without noticing it, or giving the admonitory reproof, that often corrects and finally subdues the evil. We are not such isolated creatures on the surface of a world passing away, as to require a more powerful impulse in the correction of an evil, than the bless- ings it gives to our fellow beings. Gordon De Severn was my senior by some seve- ral years ;—but in all of his actions, there was a freshness and younthfulness, so akin to what I did, and what I felt myself, that I could not keep away from him. He was a scholar, but not of the schools, therefore none ever complained of his dullness. His Aristotlean capacity grasped almost intuitively, what others could scarcely get by the most diligent researches; and with the perception of a Byron, he disclosed every beautiful thought that ever swept along the labyrinth of mind. He was a mighty genius, free, bold, and daring! He liked to see the bubbles of time vanish, and others coming in their places, but did not recollect, that soon, very soon, the vapour that supported his adolescent spirits, would dissolve, and be no more forever! He was an observer on the world—a spy on the tumultuous feelings that agitate, and corrupt the heart ;—-and he boasted that he was of the world, but a being removed beyond its temptations. Six summers ago, Eliza Wharton was young, happy, and full of innocence. How altered now is this creature, from what she was when I first knew her. Time often makes worse havoc with the rep- utation, than 'with the body. A little while ago,Eliza Wharton was nht more fair than she was innocent; but now at the heart the canker-worm preys vora- ciously, as is evidenced by the deep lines that mark the cheek. Retired beyond the precincts of the bustle of the multitude; lost to friends that once loved her,—she lives a solitary creature, ruined in reputation by the very being she once loved ;-—-peni- tent in seclusion, she has wept her sins forgiven, and will win her way to heaven,in spite of a cold— cold world. Being in aflluent circumstances, she moved in the TOHLIN- first circles of society in the little town that gave her birth. She was intellectual and beautiful,which made her an object of envy to the many. Women envy the beauty they see in every one of their sex, and man, the rich endowment of mind, that makes his fellow being more distinguished than himself. How apt are we to despise any noble capacity that we see in others, when we possess it not ourself— and the good qualities that show themselves most splendidly in our neighbor, are a bright mark, at which we level in bitterness, the wrath of our envy. Those that have but the most common endowments of our nature, are generally the most happy, and almost always move in a path, that leads to a peace- ful destiny. Had Eliza Wharton been one of the common, ordinary creatures that move in humble life, in her fall, she would have had the sympathies of the world. But being of a superior mould both in body and mind,—her fall was unregretted, unwept. In an evil hour there came along a being in the shape of man, like herself of towering intellect, but unlike her in goodness of heart and benevolence of feeling. She loved him! She thought that she saw in him something superior to any thing that she had ever seen before in others. Nobleness of mien he certainly had—and the ways of the world he was familiar with, for he had travelled much. He had studied, but not from books. The volume of nature as it lay spread out before him, in gorgeous robes of mixed colors, dyed with the richest tints the every avenue to the soul, and he became a poet in feeling. His was the philosophy of feeling and not of reason --therefore he erred. Every emotion of the heart, he mistook for inspiration of the soul—and he fed the keen appetites of his nature from every stream that rippled his path. What to him was good, he never considered might be poison to others. His was the mighty ocean of mind, not cramped by this usuage, or that custom—but free, bold and daring! He visited fountains that could not be reached by every one, and drank of waters that inspired difi'e- rent sensations from what were felt by the world in which he lived. I do well recollect the time when these two beings first met. It was on the eighteenth anni- versary of Eliza’s birth—and at a fete, given by her father, in honor of the occasion. It was in May, the month of flowers; and though a moonless night, yet the bright stars looked down in myriads on the happy earth. Eliza was all joy and animation. Before her lay the rich fields of pleasure, and she THE INV seized on every moment as one of gladness, and of \ him when he said, that he loved her. happiness. She did not know that in her path, there lay a serpent that would soon destroy her. Gor- don De Severn, like some fiery comet, attracted every eye, and spell-bound the poor maiden that happened to come within the hearing of his magic words. Exclusively on that night, did he appro- priate Eliza to himself. She listened, enraptured at every word he spoke, and fell at last a victim, to the snare he then laid. He played his part so well on that night, that he fairly captured the fair one’s heart—and for the first time in her life, she retired, to a sleepless pillow, bedewed with tears. De Severn admired her, but he was not in love. For several months after their first interview, he was almost a daily visitor at her house. He courted‘ her—and he won her. She believed him, when he told her, that he would be her friend. She believed Jackson, Tenn. 137 She trusted, , when he deceived. She fell because she loved one i too much, that preved himself a villain, and not be- cause she was base. She departed from virtue, not because she was in love with vice, but to oblige one that she loved much. She fell—and this vile seducer is now sporting in the sunshine of wealth— and has friends, and is received into the houses of the honorable, and is caressed, and is smiled upon; while the poor injured one—Eliza Wharton, is abandoned by the world, and by her relations, to pine in some sequestered spot, and die of a broken heart. How often does it happen in this world of ours, that the betrayer receives honor from the hands of the people, and the betrayed is scoffed at and re- viled, for being so credulous as to believe even a tale of—Lovrr. ITATION. .. vans/111% THEINV BY E. G. COME, altho' fair is thy southern clime, Where the sea-breeze fanneth thy cheek, And the stars come forth at the vesper chime, With a beauty no tongue may speak; Tho’ the moon-beam slumbers upon thy brow As it slumbered in hours of yore ; And the night bird’s song has the same tone now In thy life’s bright. spring that it bore ; Come, tho' from streamlet, from hill, and from plain, Rush a thousand fond memories forth, And cluster around thy light step to detain— Oh ! come to our home in the North! They tell you how bleak is our northern sky When the storm-spirit spreadeth-his wings; How his about is heard from the mountain high, How in glee thro’ the valley it rings: How his strong hand hows the proud old oak, And in sport uprooteth the pine; I How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak, And the groves with his brilliants shine: How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide, And bids the chaf'd torrent be still, Then dashes away in his might and his pride, And laughs that they heeded his will! Wyoming, 1841. ITATION. MALLERY- They tell you our birds at‘ the Autumn's breath, When the flow’rs droop over their tomb, Are off to the land where they meet no death, And the orange-trees ever more bloom. , Tell them we ask not affection so slight That at fortune’s first frown it is o'er, And we ’re certain again when our skies become b'iigh t They 'll flutter around us once more,- And tell them there grows on our mountain crest A plant which no winter can fade— And, as changeless, the love of a northern breast, Blooms ever in sunshine and shade! Come, and we’ll teach you when Summer is fled, And the' rich robe of Autumn withdrawn, To welcome old' Winter, whose hoary head Is bow'd ’neath his sparkling crown ; For soon as his whistle is heard from afar Commanding the winds round his throne, And echoes in distance the roll of his car, We encircle the joyous hearth-stone; And eyes brighter flash, and cheeks deeper glow,— The voice of the song gushes forth, And ceaseless and light is each heart's happy flow— Oh! come to our home in the North! 1 2* YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE.—BALLAD. Written by T. HAYNES BAYLY, Esau—The Music composed by C. M. Sou. Geo. W. Hewitt & 00., No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia. loco l'lodernt o. 0 con espress. gm. . . . . . . . . l _. . . . You praise each youthful form you see, Aml love is still your theme; And when you win no f 1>F~ ll 1 m > I ‘ I“: _ u- _ V_ _ V 1 I g" Iii-1“ : JAE-Fl 1 aw? wig-#12:; T IELIIIZELEQIV 2;;__ ______-__"‘s::5__:::_ praisefromme, You say- - how cold I seem: You know not whatit is to pine With SPORTS AND PASTIMES. WHEN the shooter has been long accustomed to a dog, he can tell by the dog's proceeding, whether game is near or not when pointed, or whether the birds are running before the dog. If he suspect them to be running, he must walk up quickly before his dog, for if he stop or appear to look about him, the birds instantly rise. Whenever it is practicable, unless the birds he very tame and his dogs young ones, the shooter should place himself so that the PARTRIDG-E WE commence our notice of feathered game with the partridge. as shooting that bird is generally the young sportsman’s first lesson, although in the order of the season grouse shooting takes precedence. The partridge may be termed a home bird, for the shooter who resides in the country, finds it almost at his door, while it is requisite to undertake a journey, perchance a very long one, before he arrives at the grounds frequented by grouse. As it requires neither woods, nor marshes, nor heaths to afford them shelter, they are found more widely scattered than the pheasant, the woodcock, or the grouse, and hence the pursuit of them is one of the chief sources of recreation to the shooter. Though not so highly prized by the sportsman as the birds last mentioned, the abundance in which partridges are found, .wherever they are preserved, renders the birds may be between him and the dogs. They will then lie well. The moment a dog points, the first thing to be done is to cast a glance round to ascertain in which direction the covers and corn-fields lie ; the next is to learn the point of the wind ; the shoot- er will then use his endeavor to gain the wind of the birds, and to place himself between them and the covers, or otherwise avail himself of other local cir' cumstances. SHOOTING. sport sufliciently attractive. At the commencement of the season, when they have not been much dis- turbed by persons breaking dogs, they are as tame as could be wished by the most inexpert sportsman, and at that time afi'ord capital diversion to the young shooter, and to those rheumatic and gouty old gentle- men who—too fond of their ease to brush the covers or range the mountains—in the lowland valleys, “ shoulder their crutch, and show how fields were won." Partridgcs are most plentiful in those countriel where much grain, buckwheat, and white crops are grown. While the corn is standing, it is very rare that many shots can be obtained, for the coveys, on being disturbed, wing their way to the nearest corn- field, where it is forbidden the shooter to follow them. or to send his dogs in after them. The habits of the partridge should be studied by SPORTS the shooter. In the early part of the season, par- [ridges will be found, just before sunrise, running to a brook, a spring, or marsh, to drink; from which place they almost immediately fly to some field where they can find abundance of insect, or else to the nearest corn-field or stubble field, where they will remain, according to the state of the weather, or other circumstances, until nine or ten o'clock, when they go to bask. The basking-place is commonly on a sandy bank-side facing the sun, where the whole covey sits huddled together for several hours. About four or five o’clock they return to the stubbles to feed, and about six or seven they go to their jucking-place, a place of rest for the night, which is mostly an after- math, or in a rough pasture field, where they remain huddled together until morning. Such are their habits during the early part of the season ; but their time of feeding and basking varies much with the length of the days. While the corn is standing, unless the weather be very fine or very wet, partridges will often remain in it all day; when fine, they bask on the out-skirts; when wet, they run to some bare place in a sheltered situation, where they will be found crowded together as if basking, for they seldom remain long in corn or grass when it is wet. Birds lie best on a hot day. They are wildest on a damp or boisterous day. The usual way of proceeding in search of par- tridges in September is to try the stubbles first. It not unfrequently happens that potatoes or turnips are grown on a headland in a corn field; in that case the headland will be a favorite resort of birds. After the middle of October, it is ever uncertain where birds will be found; the stubbles having been pretty well gleaned, birds do not remain in them so long as in the early part of the season. When dis- turbed at this time, they will sometimes take shelter in woods, where they are flushed one by one. The best shots that can be obtained at partridges, in winter, are when the birds are driven into woods. When a covey separates, the shooter will gene- rally be able to kill many birds, but late in the season it is seldom that the covey can be broken. In N mem- ber and December the shooter must not expect to have his birds pointed, but must remain content with firing at long distances. In the early part of the season, when the shooter breaks a covey, he should proceed without loss of time in search of the disper- sed birds, for the parent birds begin to call almost immediately on their alighting, the young ones Qnswer, and in less than half an hour, if not prevent- ed by the prescnce of the shooter and his dogs, the whole covey will be re-assembled, probably in secu- rity in some snug corner, where the shooter least thinks of looking for them. As the season advances, birds are longer in re-assembling after being disper- sed. It is necessary to beat very closely for dispersed birds, as they do not stir for some time after alight- ing, on which account dogs cannot wind them until nearly upon them, especially as they resort to the roughest places when dispersed. Birds dispersed afi'ord the primest sport. The pointing is often beau- tiful, the bird being generally in a patch of rushes,/ or tuft of grass or fern, and close to the dog. When a bird has been running about some time, dogs easily AND PASTIMESQ 141 come upon the scent of it; but when it has not stirred since alighting, and has perhaps crept into a drain, or run into a hedge-bottom, or the sedgy side of a ditch, no dog can wind it until close upon it, and the very best dogs will sometimes flush a single bird. In the month of October, and afterward, the shooter will find it difficult to approach within gun-shot of a covey, nor can he disperse them, except by firing at them when he chances to come close upon them. Should he then be so fortunate as to disperse a covey, he may follow them leisurely, for they will then lie several hours in their lurking-place, which is chosen with much tact, as a patch of rushes, a gorse bush, a holly bush, the bottom of a double bank fence, or a coppice of wood. The length of time that will trans- pire before a dispersed covey will re-assemble, de- pends too on the time of the day, and state of the weather. ln hot weather. they will lie still for several hours. A covey dispersed early in the morning, or late at night, will soon re-assemble. A covey dis- persed between the hours of ten and two, will be some time in re‘assembling. A covey found in the morning in a stubble-field, and dispersed, will next assemble near the basking-place. A covey dispersed after two o'clock, will next assemble in the stubble- field at feeding time. A covey disturbed and dispersed ‘ late in the afternoon, or evening, will next reassem- ble near the jacking-place. A covey being disturbed on or near to their jucking-place, will seek a fresh one, perhaps about two fields distant; and if ofien disturbed at night on their jacking-place, they will seek another stubble-field to feed in, and change their quarters altogether. The most certain method of driving partridges from a farm, is to disturb them night after night at their jucking-place, which is usually in meadow, where the aftermath is sufl'ered to grow, or in a field rough with rushes, fern, thistles, or heather, adjoining to a com-field. When a covey is dispersed on a dry hot day, it is necessary to search much longer, and beat closer, for the dispersed birds, than when the day is cool and the ground moist. A dog should be only slightly rated for run- ning up a bird on a hot day. The shooter, on entering a field, should make it a general rule, provided the wind or nature of the ground do not lead him to decide on a contrary course, to beat that side which is nearest the covers; or, if there be no neighboring covers, he should beat round the field, leaving the centre of the field to the last. In hot weather birds frequent bare places. sunny hill-sides, or sandy banks, at the root of a tree, or hedge-bottom, where there is plenty of loose loam or sand which they can scratch up. In cold weather they will be found in sheltered places. In cold windy weather those fields only which lie under the wind should be beaten. The warm valleys, the briary cloughs, and glens not over-wooded, but abounding in fern, underwood, and holly trees, and also those steep hill-sides which lie under the wind, are then places of resort. Heights and flats must be avoided, except where there are small enclosures well protected by double hedges, under the shelter of which birds will remain. The shooter who beats the south or west side ofa hedge, will generally obtain more shots than he who beats the north or east side. REVIEW OF 'NEW BOOKS. o “ The Tower of London." A Historical Romance. By W H. Ainsworth. Author of Jack Sheppard. 1 vol. Lea t} Blanchard: Philada. 1841. The authorship of this work does a little, and but a little more credit to Mr. Ainsworth than that of Jack Sheppard. It is in no spirit of cavilling that we say, that it is rarely our lot to review a work more utterly destitute of every ingredient requisite to a good romance. We would premise, however, in the outset of our remarks, that the popularity of this work in London is no proof of its merits. Its success,in fact, reminds us how nearly akin its author, in his treatment of the public, is to Dr. Sangrado. Blood-letting, and warm water was the making of the latter—and bombast and clap~trap is the Alpha and Omega of the former. In the present volume we have it plentifully adminis- tered in descriptions of the Tower of London, and the plots of the bloody Mary’s reign. It is this local interest which has given Mr. Ainsworth’s romance such a run in London, just as a family picture, in which a dozen ugl‘y urchins, and sundry as ugly angels in the clouds, is the delight of the parents, and the envy of all aunts. The Tower of London is, at once, forced and uninteresting. It is such a novel as sets one invo- luntarily to nodding. With plenty of incident, con- siderable historical truth, and a series of characters, such as an author can rarely command, it is yet, excepting a chapter here and there, “ fiat, stale, and unprofitable." The incidents want piquancy; the characters too often are destitute of truth. The misfortunes of Lady Jane are comparatively dull to any one who remembers Mr. Millar's late romance; and Simon Reynard is under another name, the same dark, remorseless villain as Jonathan Wild. The introduction 'of the giants would grate harshly on the reader’s feelings, if the author had not failed to touch them by his mock-heroics. Were it not for the tragic interest attached to Lady Jane Grey, and the pride that every Englishman feels- in the oldest surviving palace of his kings, this novel would have fallen still- born from the press in London, as completely it has mined the author’ reputation in America. We 'once, in reviewing Jack Sheppard, expressed our admiration of the author‘s talents, although we condemned their perversion in the novel then before us. This duplicate of that worthless romance, and scandaloust demoralising novel, proves either that the author is incorrigible, or that the public taste is vitiated. We rather think the former. \Ve almost recant our eulogy on Mr. Ainsworth's talents. If he means to earn a name, one whit lol'tier than that of a mere book-maker, let him at once betake himself to a better school of romance. Such libels on hu- manity; such provocatives to crime; such worthless, inane, disgraceful romances as .lack Sheppard and its successors, are ablot on our literature, and a curse to our land. “ Visits to Remarkable Places, Battle-Fields, Callie- drals, Castles, do." By W'. Hewitt. 2 vols. Carey <9 Hart, Philada. “ The Rural Life of England." By W. Hewitt. 1 vol. Carey & Hart, Philada. Next after Professor \Vilson comes Howitt. The same genial spirit, the same soul-breathing poetry. the same intense love for what is beautiful in nature, and often the same involution of style, and the same excursive ideas. characterise the editor of Blackwood, and the brother of the Quaker poet. The latter of the productions above, is. as its name imports, a description of the rural life of England, whether found under the gipsey‘s hedge, in the pea- sant's cottage, or amid the wide parks and lordly castles of the aristocracy. It is a picture of which England may be proud. The author has omitted nothing which could make his subject interesting, and in presenting it suitably to his reader he‘has sur- passed himself, and almost equalled North. The old, but now decaying customs of “ merrie England ;" the winter and summer life of peasant and noble in the country; the sports of every kind, and every class, from milling to‘horse-racing; and the forest and land- scape scenery of every portion of Great Britain are described with ,a graphic pen, and a fervor of lan- guage, which cannot fail to make “ The Rural Life of England" popular every where. Among the most interesting chapters of this work are those on the Gipsies, and that respecting May- day, and Christmas. The description of Grouse- Shooting, both in the north of England, and the Highlands is highly graphic; while the visits to _ Newstead and Annesley Hall are narrated with much vivacity. It was the popularity of these two last chapters which suggested the preceding volumes above, enti- tled “Visits to Remarkable Places.” Nothing can REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. be simpler than the design of this latter work. With a taste for antiquarian research, and a soul all-glowing with poetry, the author has gone forth into the quiet dells, and amid the time-worn cities of England, and visiting every old castle, or battle-field, known in history, and peopling them with the heroic actors of the past, he has produced a work of unrivalled inter- est. We wish we had room for a chapter from the second of these two volumes, entitled “ A Day-Dream at Tintangel.” It is one of the most poetical pieces of prose we have ever met with. The old castle of King Arthur seems once more to lift its massy hat- tlements, above the thundering surf below, and from its portals go forth the heroes of the Round Table, with hound and hawk, and many a fair demoiselle. Next, certainly, to a visit to any remarkable place, is a graphic description of its appearance. This, in every instance, where the author has attempted it, is presented in the “ Visits to Remarkable Places." Stratford on the Avon; Anne Hathaway’s cottage; the ancestral home of the Sidneys; Culloden battle- field; the old regal town of Winchester, formerly the abode of the Saxon kings, and where their monu- ments still remain; Flodden-field; Hampton Court; and in short, most of the remarkable places in Eng- land. are brought vividly before the reader’s mind. Indeed, many a traveller, who has seen these cele- brated places, might be put to the blush by one who had attentively perused this work, and who yet had never crossed the Atlantic. “ The Kinsmen, or the Black Riders of the Congaree." A Romance. By the author of Guy Rivers, 4-0. 2 vols.—Lea t} Blanchard, Philada. 1841. A good novel is always welcome; and a good one from an American pen is doubly so. Since the publi- cation of the Pathfinder, we have seen nothing equal to the Kinsmen. The story is laid at the period of the Revolution, and Clarence Conway, the hero, is a prominent actor in the partizan war, which then raged in the Caroli- nas. Many of the characters are well drawn, and the interest is kept up throughout. Flora Middleton is an exquisite creation of the novelist’s pen. She de- serves to he placed alongside of James's finest female characters. We have room for only a short extract. In it, however, the interest is worked up to a pitch of the most intense excitement. The hero, be it remember- ed, having fallen into the hands of the Black Riders, has irritated their ruifiauleader. To the outlaw’s threats he replies: “I am Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do your worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort you threaten. I defy and spit u on you." The face of the outlaw blackened :— laronco rose to his feet. “ Ha ! think you so ? We shall see. Shumway, F rink, Gasson !—you three are enough to saddle this fiery rebel to his last horse. Noose him, you slow moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling. and let him grow wiser in the wind. To your work, Villains—- away !" 143 The hands of more than one of the ruflians were already on the shoulders of the partizan. Though shocked at the seeming certainty of a deed which he had not been willing to believe they would venture to execute, he yet preserved the fearless aspect which he had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the lan- guage of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked for no delay—he simply denounced against them the vengeance of his command, and that of his reckless commander, whose fiery energy of soul and rapidity of execution they well knew. His language tended still farther to exasperate the person who acted in the capacity of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the subordinates in the awful dut in which they seem- ed to him to linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway with his own hands. and roceeded to drag him forward. There was eviden y no faltering in his fearful purpose. Ever thin was serious. He, was too familiar with suc dee s to make him at all heedful of consequences; and the proud bearing of the youth; the unmitigated scorn in his look and language; the hateful words which he had used, and the threats which he had denounced; while they exasperated all around, almost maddened the ruflian in command, to whom such defiance was new, and with whom the taking of life was a circumstance equallyY familiar and unimportant. “ hree minutes for prayer is all the grace I give him!" he cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordi- nates to drag the destined victim toward the door. He himself was not suffered one, The speech was scarce- ly s oken, when he fell prostrate on his face, stricken in tie mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered through» an aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, Whom his falling body also bore to the floor of the apartment. A wild shout from without followed the shot, and rose, strong and piercing, above all the clamor within. In that shout Clarence could not doubt that he heard the manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister. and the deed spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a friend only. “ The Hour and the Man.” A novel. By Harriet Martincau. 2 vols. Harper t} Brothers, New York, 1841. We do not belong to the admirers of Miss Mar- tineau, though barring her ear-trumpet, and a few foolish notions, she is a very respectable and innof. fensive old lady. Her present work is founded on the career of the celebrated negro chieitain, whom Napoleon had conveyed to France, and who there died. The good old spinster has taken up the Ortho- dox English account of this transaction, and as Na- poleon was always a monster in the eyes of the Cockneys, Touissant, according to their story and Miss Martineau‘s. was murdered. Nothing can be more ridiculous. Bonaparte never committed a crime where it could be avoided, and having once secured Touissant in a state prison in France, what further had the first consul to fear from the negro chieflain ! The story is. in some parts, well told. It has been apparently prepared with much care. But it fails totally fails, in its main object; and though as men' we sympathise with a persecuted man, we cannot, as critics, overlook the glaring faults of the novel, or, as partisans of truth, forgive the historical inaccuracies of the narrative. 144 “ The History of England from the Earliest Period to 1839." By Thomas Keightley. 5 vols. Harper 4- Brothers, New York. FASHIONS This is an edition, containing the ame matter, with the two large octavo volumes lately published under the same title. We have it now presented in this cheap and portable form, as a portion of the celebrated Family Library. A copious index has been added, which is not found in the larger edition' The history is a work of merit; but to both the American editions we object, in the name of all justice. The alterations made from the London edition are. scandalous. It is not, in its present shape, the author’s production. Good or bad, give us his work, and not that of an American Iedtior, however talented, or an American publisher, how- ever discerning. “ Applications of the Science of Mechanics to Practical Purposes." By J. Renwiek, L. L. D. 1 vol. 18 m0. Harper d Brothers, New York. The present is a practical age. Literature, science, learning, even the fine arts are popular, only as they can be rendered useful. Every department of know- ledge is ransackcd to advance the interests, and ele- vate the character of the age. Enfield's Natural Philosophy, and the present work illustrate this remark. The former belongs to the past age; to the days of theory; to the men of pro- found philosophy: the latter is adapted more to the present time; to a practical generation; to men of excursive rather than deep, and available rather than profound science. Not a principle is stated which is not applied to some mechanical contrivance ol‘ the day. The action of the screw, the wedge, the lever. FASHIONS FOR MARCH, EVENING DRESS. FIG. 1.-—Of plaid Mous de Laine. The head dress of bull' crape, trimmed with roses. FULL DRESS. F to. 2.—Crimson velvet robe, a low corsage, it is trimmed with a row of dentille d’ or in the heart style. Short sleeves, composed of two bouflants, with manchettes of dentille d‘ or, looped by gold and FOR MARCH. the spring, are described as they are adapted to mining, navigation, rail-roads, and the various species of manufactures. But, on the other hand, the knowledge imparted is not profound. Sufficient, as it is, however, for all practical purposes, the student leaves the work with a more thorough under- standing of the principles of his study, than more elaborate, but less skilful treatises could afford. “ Hope on, Hope Ever." 1 vol. 16 mo. “ Strive and Thrive." 1 vol. 16 mo. “ Sowing and Reaping]. 1 vol. 16 mo. By Mary Hewitt. J. Munro 1} Co. Boston. These are three excellent tales from the pen of one of the most delightful of female writers. A chaste style; a love for the oppressed; a practical moral in her writings render them at once beautiful, popular, and useful. “History of the United States.” By Selma Hale. 2 vols. Harper 1}- Brothers, New York. A compendious manual. It brings our history down to the end of Madison’s administration. “Life of John W'whlife, D. D." By Margaret Core. Columbus. Isaac N. Whiting. This is an interesting, though scanty biography of the first of the Reformers. It does not pretend to give a philosophic account of his times, but simply to present a chronicle of the principal events of his life. amfimoefia — 1841. jewelled ornaments, corresponding with that in the centre of the corsage. The tabiier and flounce that encircles the skirt are also of dentille d’ or of the most superb kind. The head-dress is a toquet of white satin, embroidered in gold, and trimmed with a profusion of white ostrich feathers. DINNER. DRESS. Fro. 3.--Ot‘ plain white; the apron slightly orna- mented. This is the prevailing style for the month- ‘1’ g drwadeSarm a. Q" . \ ‘ A - a ‘, @ .54.- 7 -JW/zm "D / '/ / PQ _\ w] .r' 1 J. 1 r/J/lnd/l' HMch by hula/.2 m flu: /¢’w.vm..-///n (MC/01ml W, Hh/(l l‘ 1 /»'r/1hm/ll¢ Mayan/11> liwm/ my I ’l/l/I'LII ( 5/2 fi/I' ,1 4-1 ‘A _¢‘9‘ .w‘ 4‘ .2; 1*» , fi..f. > & ~v, no IIIII\ )l L v vsA‘ <\.--‘. ' ,‘L i. \81 Elfi®§f “3 v a Omwerm: ems mom west: 'llld- Q) INE. N0. 4. ais determination," con-' hough it was somewhat ost to think that the lad , with his lute, and other ; the name that he bore. I his eye glisten to-day, red by his military title, e was every inch 21 Lor- hat it should ever come was a daughter of that nobleman, “ and I feel a ¥ success. Had you seen ve said he was a true ted warrior who led that t decided the fortune of :e was, I would e’en g0 learn how they fight in show them the manner Prince Rupert used to :ads.” , scarcely venturing to 'rd—no message?" got. He sent a note to re hawk, or lute, or his le bid you farewell, by faster at the enquiry of evasive answer to his and left the apartment. 1spect the agony which man from his halls, or tbel shed that night over It ran thus : not whether tov write to otl Are we not cousins ne roof—~taught to love -bound to one another by innot meet again as we GRAHANPS MAGAZINE. VOL. XVIII. APRIL, 1841. THE LADY ISABEL. CONTINUED axon PAGE 99. CHAPTER IV. The Disappearance. THERE is nothing so dreadful as the heart’s first disappointment. To love vainly—oh! what is more agonising. We feel as if every one had turned against us; as if there was nothing left to live for in this world; as if the springs of life, and the joy of existence had departed forever from us. The loss of a friend may be compensated for, and the ruin of our fortunes can be borne without despair; but the hopelessness of a first love can never be ameliorated by aught on earth. Go where we will, the blight of the heart will continue with us. We can never forget. Hope will have dried up within us. We feel, like a stranger in a strange land, as an outcast on the world, beholding feelings in which we can take no part around us, and re- minded daily of our misery by the happiness of others. Alas! for the one disappointed in afirst love. That night Isabel saw no more of her cousin. But when the whole of the next day passed, and she still did not meet him, she began to be alarmed. She feared to ask for him. Her father had been absent all day, and it was not until night that he returned. When he did, he brought the intelligence, that, in compliance with an old promise, he had that morning visited the earl of , an influential courtier of the neighboring county, in order to pro- cure for Lorraine a commission. The page had, the preceding evening, begged to be allowed to join the army so eagerly, that having nothing particular- ly to do, and noticing and applauding his young cousin’s anxiety to assume arms, he had ridden over with him to castle, and after obtaining the appointment for him, had left him there, at his urgent request, with his new colonel. “ And I rejoice too at his determination," con-' tinued Lord Deraine, “ although it was somewhat of a sudden. I began almost to think that the lad was growing too efleminate, with his lute, and other lady pastimes, and forgetting the name that he bore. But I ween had you beheld his eye glisten today, when he was first addressed by his military title, you would have said that he was every inch a Lor~ mine. And God forfend that it should ever come to disgrace! My mother was a daughter of that house,” continued the aged nobleman, “ and I feel a strange interest in the boy‘s success. Had you seen him today you would have said he was a true descendant of the iron-hearted warrior who led that charge at Agincourt, which decided the fortune of the day. Were I as I once was, I would e’en go one campaign with him to learn how they fight in these degenerate days, and show them the manner in which we cavaliers of Prince Rupert used to charge the canting round-heads.” “ But pa,” said Isabel, scarcely venturing to speak, “ did he leave no word—no message 1'" “ Oh! I had almost forgot. He sent a note to you—here it is—about some hawk, or lute, or his greyhound perhaps—did he bid you farewell, by the bye T" Isabel felt her heart beat faster at the enquiry of her parent, but giving an evasive answer to his question, she took the note, and left the apartment. Little did Lord Deraine suspect the agony which had driven his young kinsman from his halls, or dream of the tears that Isabel shed that night over her ill-fated cousin’s epistlc. It ran thus: Dearest Isabeli—I know not whether to_ write to you t and yet why should I not? Are we not cousins —brought up under the ame roof—taught to love each other from childhood—bound to one another by a thousand ties? Yet we cannot meet again as we 13 146 THE LADY have met! 0h! little did I think twenty-four hours ago that such agony as I now suffer would so soon be my lot. But I will not blame you. You never said you loved me—you never smiled on me except as a cousin. It is only I who am wrong. Could I ever think that you, the pure. the beautiful, the courted, would look on a poor page with love! Yet I did: I nursed the delusion long: and now—oh! God—the dream is forever broken. Forgive me, dear Isabel—4hr I will yet once more call you by that name—forgive me, forI scarce know what I write. I leave you for years, perhaps forever. I go to seek aname of which you will not be ashamed, or to die. God bless you, again and again, and again dearest Isabel! May you be happy. Once more God bless vou ! The tears of the maiden fell thick and fast as she perused this passionate epistle, and she sighed, “ Poor, poor Lorraine—would we had never met, or that you had never loved.” The absence of the page was felt throughout the castle, for all had loved the generous and high- souled boy. For many a long day the old servitors loved to recall his boyish deeds, and augur a glorious career for the young soldier. And often, as Isabel sat in her splendid chamber, while twilight deepened through the gorgeously curtained windows, her thoughts would wander away after her absent cousin, and taking the melancholy hue of the hour, she would indulge in moumful memories of the past, and sigh that she could make no return to Lorraine except whatwas all too cold for him,—hcr friendship. Even De Courtenay, could he have read her thoughts at such moments, would have pardoned her that involuntary pang. CHAPTER V. The Young Soldier. 11‘ was the eve of a battle. Far along the sides of the hill stretched the camp of the allies, the long lines of white tents gleaming in the starlight, and the death-like silence of the sleeping army filling the mind with an awe, second only to that inspired by the holy silence of the calm and peaceful stars above. Below was a wide extensive valley, through which wound a narrow river, while here and there along the plain were scattered rich farms, and solemn woodlands. On the opposite range of up- lands, the camp of the enemy might be detected by the long-line of watch-fires glittering on the horizon. Occasionally the neigh of a steed, or the “ all’s well !” of the sentinel, floated past on the night air. All else was still. A profound calm reigned where to-morrovv would be heard the shouts of thousands, the booming of artillery, and the clash of meeting squadrons. ‘- It was yet long before day when Lorraine sprang from his couch, and hastily attiring himself, pre- pared to join his troop, at the expected summons. It was to him a day of the most intense interest, for not only was he then for the first time to behold the conflict of man with man, but he was to begin that career of arms which he had determined should give him renown or death. r “ Yes I” he exclaimed energetically, “though Isabel may never love me, she shall hear my name ISABEL. in every mouth, or else be told by some pitying tongue that I have died in the heart of battle. I feel that within me which will make or mar me. To-day shall lay the first stone in my advancement. and men will talk no longer of the idle page, when they hear of the deeds of the warrior." With such emotions stirring in his bosom, Lor- raine joined his corps on the morning of that event- ful day; nor did be, for a moment, through the long hours of that celebrated battle, forget his vow. Wherever the danger was the most imminent, there the gallant young soldier was to be found. When the battle was at its fiercest, Lorraine seemed only more calm and collected; until even hoary veterans were astonished at the fearless composure of the young officer. Already had he performed deeds of daring, which had been alone enough to make him the wonder of his corps, when he was ordered to charge, with his body of dragoons, on a battalion of the enemy who were about making a movement on the left of the allies. Flushed with the confidence thus displayed in his coolness and valor, Lorraine dashed ofl' to take up his position so as to be able to check the enemy's advance at the most favorable moment. Rapid as was his movement, however, he had been anticipa- ted by the foe, and before he could reach the threatened position, the detachment of infantry de- fending the farm-house had been driven in, half their number made prisoners, and the rest compelled to fall back in disorder. When Lorraine approached their post, they were retreating up the hill immedi- ately in the rear of the farm-house, while a strong body of the enemy’s infantry was pressing upon them in the rear. A thick wood, running at right angles with the road taken by the retreating corps, effectually hid Lorraine‘s dragoons from sight, until the very moment when the enemy’s flank was exposed to his charge. Perceiving his advantage, the young soldier waved his sword, and turning to his troops, shouted, “ Charge 1” and in an instant, like a whirl-wind they burst upon the astonished enemy. The shock was irresistible. Taken completely by surprise, and already disordered by the pursuit, the foe scarcely stood their ground a moment, but broke in all directions. A scene of wild consternation ensued. Through and through the tumultuous crowd of fugi‘ tires, dashed the troopers of Lorraine, hewing and treading down their antagonists at every step. Amid this wild uproar, the young officer might be detected by his snowy plume and white charger; and wherever they were seen, there the battle was sure to rage the thickest. But though broken in nearly every direction, there was still a fragment of the enemy's corps, which, rallying around its leader, endeavored for a while to maintain its ground, and even succeeded in repelling the attack made upon it by a portion of the late fugitives, who, rallying at the first appearance of succor, under charge of their commander, attempted to cut ofl‘ the retreat of the enemy. At this moment Lorraine perceived their peril. Quick as lightning he dashed to their aid, followed by a portion of his gallant band; and arrived at the very moment when his brother officer, having been struck from his horse, ' THE LADY lay at the mercy of the enemy’s uplifted sword. It was but the work of a moment to strike up the weapon of the assailant, and with another blow to. sever the arm of the French ofiicer. Lorraine‘s troopers at the same instant, rushing like a thunder- bolt upon the enemy, scattered them down the hill, and before the young officer could stoop to raise his fellow soldier, the enemy had vanished from around them. “ To whom am I indebted for this timely aid '1" said the wounded man, endeavoring to rise. “ To a friend—Henry De Lorraine. As I have just joined the army even my brother officers are unknown to me.” ' “ But you will not be long unknown to them, for a more gallant charge I never saw made, and even a De Courtenay may consider it an honor to be the friend of a Lorraine." The young ofiicer felt his heart beat as it had not beat yet through all that day's conflict. The lover of his cousin was before him. With that name rushed a thousand memories upon his mind, and for an instant he stood silent and spell-bound before De Courtenay. But recalling, with an eflort, his wandering thoughts, he bowed to the speaker's compliment, and assisting the wounded officer from the field, recalled his troops, and prepared to main- tain the position he had so gallantly recovered. Cnar'raa VI. Fame: The new friend. THE whole camp was ringing with the deeds of Lorraine. The days of Roland were revived. Old and young, officers and soldiery conversed only of the youthful hero who had already won for him- self the title of " the bravest of the brave.” Not only in his first battle, but in every successive en- gagement, Lorraine had achieved wonders. He had already been promoted through several grades; general officers and titled princes courted his so- ciety; and, as if by an enchanter's wand, in less than a year from the opening of his career as a soldier, the name of the unknown page was ringing in every capital of Europe. Oh! how delicious was it for him to know that Isabel heard of his deeds, and that though she might not love, she could not pity him. No, he had saved himself from that. His vow had been fulfilled. He had become renowned. A strange friendship had sprung up between Lorraine and him whom he had rescued. The grateful De Courtenay had sought the intimacy of his preserver in such a way as could not he refused, and though it was, at first, agony for Lorraine to be the confidant of his rival, yet he could not avoid it without insulting his new friend, or exposing his own hopeless love. But the former course be scorned: and to the latter alternative he could not listen. He was forced, therefore, to endure in si- lence that, which, like the vulture of Prometheus, was eating out his vitals. Daily did De Courtenay pour into his ear his tale of love, thinking that as the relative of Isabel, Lorraine would sympathise with his long continued separation, and join in the 147 ISABEL. praises of his mistress; but little did the generous young nobleman know of the agony he was thus inflicting upon his new friend. Meantime the war continued. Siege after siege, and battle after battle marked the conquering career of the allies, and in every brilliant action the detds of the young hero shone forth with unabated lustre. In the hottest of the conflict, heading the assault or leading a charge, Lorraine was ever to be found, seeming to bear a charmed life. Yet the cheek of the young hero grew thinner daily, and amid all his splendid and rapidly increas- ing renown, it was plain that his unquiet spirit was tossing to and fro within him, and wearing out his very existence. His brow grew darker as if with long years of care; his eye burned with a deep, restless, almost wild brilliancy; and his port became prouder and prouder, for he grew more lofty as the struggle with himself became fiercer. Yes! the contest was still waged against his unhappy love,--how hopelessly, let others in the same situation tell. His was not the love of days, or weeks, or months, but of years: his was not an evanescent feeling of admiration, but the deep, fathomless passion of one whose whole soul was consumed by his love. How could he conquer such an emotion? N 0, he might fly from Isabel, but could he fly from himself? His love had become a part of his being: it was his sustenance, his life. It was after a hard contested battle, in which his corps had distinguished itself unusually, and he had turned the tide of war on one wing by his own valor and influence, that his sovereign filled up the measure of his renown, by reviving in his person, an honor long disused, and creating him a knight banneret upon the field of conflict. “ Rise, Sir Henry Lorraine," said the monarch, as, surrounded by a brilliant cortége, he waved his hand for the kneeling knight to arise, H you have this day won a name far more imperishable than the title I have bestowed upon you. \Vere a tithe of the gentlemen of my realm like you, England would have a Bayard or a Roland for every knight‘s fee.” Such a compliment, from the lips of a phlegmatic sovereign, placed the finishing stone on the renown of Lorraine. He was henceforth without a rival. Courted by the titled ; adored by his fellow soldiers; and smiled on by the young and beautiful; what further had this world to bestow upon him? Alas Z all these brought him no happiness. To Lorraine they were but empty shadows, for they could not give him the love of his cousin. “ Ah! how will Isabel rejoice to hear of this," said De Courtenay, the day after the young hero’s knighthood “ you and she were playmates in child. hood, you know, and it will please her all the more that I too love you. I wonder why she says nothing of you in her letters, but then—." De Courtenay paused. Even the happy lover felt that it would not do to say how wholly a mistress for- gets in her missives all but the object of her adoration. Lorraine could not reply. His brow throbbed to bursting, and he turned away. Yet he did not 148 THE LADY betray himself. Never had De Courtenay suspected that his friend loved Isabel; and Lorraine vowed in his inmost heart that he never should. And thus time rolled on, and day by day, and week by week, and month by month, the renown of the young soldier increased, while the blight at his heart grew more venomous and deadly. He loved in vain. Often in the still watches of the night, when the camp lay buried in silence around him, and the holy stars looked down like guardian angels on the world below, he would stand for hours, gazing 0n the hushed landscape around, and wandering, in thought, back to the time when he stood at the side of Isabel, and together they gazed up upon the starry sky, or listened to the low whisper of the night-wind across the firmament, while their hearts held high communion, as if linked in with each other by some mysterious sym- pathy. Alas! those days were gone forever. Alone Lorraine gazed up at the sky, while Isabel perhaps thought of him no more. Cnar'raa. VII. He Comes. “ Your. cousin, young Harry, now Sir Henry Lorraine, knight banneret, is coming to visit us, Isabel,” said Lord Deraine, one morning, as he entered the breakfast room, holding an open letter in his hand “ he has come over with despatches, and says that he shall have a few days of leisure. Here is his letter. It came by a special courier, to whom I gave a reply, inviting Lorraine down here at once. So you may expect the gallant boy to- morrow." “ But pa, how know you he will come ?” said Isabel, with ichoncealed agitation, for she had not yet forgotten their last parting. “Come! why where else would he go, but to those who love him like we do 7 Ah! I wonder if glory has changed him. By the honor of my house but it will make me young again to see the gallant lad, who has made the name of a Lorraine to ring like a watch word through Europe." Isabel knew not scarcely how she felt. She dreaded, and yet wished to meet her cousin. Long did she think over it that night, and wonder if he had conquered his ill-fated passion. And when at length she fell asleep, it was after many a prayer- ful hope that Lorrraine might have learned to look upon her only as a cousin, and have sought among fairer and loftier ones, to whom he might fearlessly aspire, a being more worthy of his for- tunes. Why had Lorraine, after tearing himself away from Isabel, determined to re-visit her? Alas! who can tell the workings of that master passion Love? How often do we resolve to see the face of some dear one no more, and how often do we return again and again to her presence, hoping even against hope, until we feel that the cup of bliss is too surely dashed from our lips forever. It was a. glorious afternoon when he arrived at the gates of the park, and at every step seeing something to remind him of the past, he gradually ISABEL. fell into a reverie, from which he was only aroused by coming in front of the hall, and finding himself welcomed by the noisy tenantry, as well as by a score of old familiar faces in the shape of trusty servitors. Their homely but joyous greetings went to Lorraine's heart, and almost drew tears from his eyes, when he reflected how differently he had passed that threshold the last time. His uncle met him at the ball door, and falling into his arms, blessed him: while Isabel frankly extending her hand, greeted him as she would have done in their old and happy hours. The dinner passed ofi, Isabel withdrew, and Lor- raine was alone with his uncle. “ How you have altered, Henry," said the old earl, " you left us a boy, and now your brow is that of a warrior. Ah ! I always knew you would prove an honor to your house. Another glass of the Bur- gundy. But now we are alone, let us hear of your battles and sieges." It was almost evening when they rose from the table, and Lorraine signified his wish to seek the open air. His uncle pleaded his gout, and the young knight stepped out upon the lawn. Soon, however, as if led by'a mysterious in- fluence, he sought the old terrace, where he had sat at Isabel‘s feet the last day he had spent at the hall. His cousin was there. For a moment both were em- barrassed. A woman on such occasions, is always the first to speak ; and Isabel broke the spell by an allusion to their early days. Long then they con- versed ; for both their hearts were full. But neither spoke of love. It was a golden evening, the very counterpart to the one he had last spent there, and when, for a few minutes both paused, it is not improbable that each reverted to that memorable occasion, and for awhile they gazed without speaking on the landscape. And mournful were Lorraine’s thoughts as he gazed. What was honor, or rank, or wealth to him, since they brought him not Isabel? But was her love then hopelessly lost to him? Alas! had not De Courtenay assured him of her continued affection; and would it not be even dishonorable to win that afi'ection if he could ? Yet might there not be hope? Such feelings, whirling through his mind, almost determined Lorraine, in the excitement of the moment, to fling himself at Isabel’s feet. Sud- denly, however, two horsemen appeared in the distance, winding up the avenue of the park. Isabel and himself started simultaneously, and looked at each other. Could it be that both divined in the foremost of the riders the same indi- vidual. A moment passed, when their ears were aroused by the rapid cluttering of approaching hoofs, and looking down they beheld a couple of horsemen spring from their steeds. The eye of one of the riders happened to fall upon them, and he turned hastily in their direction. Surely it was not—yes! it was—De Courtenay. He dashed up the terrace with eager haste, and Isabel, forgetting, in her glad surprise, everything except that the lover she had not seen for years stood before her, rushed forward to meet him. “ Edward—Edward !” was all the agitated THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST- girl could utter, as she stooped to her half kneel- ing lover. “ Isabel—dearest Isabel, we meet at last," pas- sionately exclaimed De Courtenay, as he looked up, and clasped her in his arms. Oh ! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment. \Vas it for this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup 01 bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spec- tacle, and then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked around he was gone. That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De Courtenay. The latter, learning everything from Isabel for the first time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not listen to him. 149 “No, no, you tempt me over much," sadly said Lorraine “ for can you give me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth is my only mistress. Farewell 1" and pressing his friend's hand, he plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on. De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily transacted his business in London,had hurried down to Deraine hall, and met Lorraine as we have described. None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in the camp, but within a. week fell in an assault, the only man who had suc- ceeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds. And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine. Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel‘s unfortunate cousin? *** THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST. . in J. K. Lm‘ Araby boast of her soft spicy gale, And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale; Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm, Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm! Give me the cold blast of my country again, Careering o’er snow-cover‘d mountain and plain, And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast, With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor-West. I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow, And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow, Where shrubs blossom-laden, bright birds, and sweet trees, \Vith odors and music encumber the breeze ; I languish to catch but a breathing of thee, To hear thy wild winter-notes brilliant and free, To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest, And gather a tone from the bracing Nor—\Vest. Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath, The marsh and its vapors are seal'd on thy path, For spotless and pure as the snow—covered North, Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth. Philadelphia, March, 1841. MITCHELL. Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies, Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies. And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West. Health bounds to thy pathway, joy shouts in tlty course, The virtues of manhood thy breathings enforce ; The pure, and the fair, and the brave, and the free, Are purer, and fairer, and braver, for thee ; As flames sweeping wildly o’er mountain and heath, But burn the more fiercely the colder thy breath, So glow, but more brightly for thee, in the breast, The virtues of freedom—soul-stirring Nor-West. Forever, forever, be thine, purest wind, The lakes and the streams of my country to bind; And oh, though afar I am fated to roam, Still kindle the hearths, and the hearts of my home! While blows from the Polar skies holy and pure, Thy trumpet of freedom, the land shall endure, As snow in thy pathway, and stars on thy crest, Unsullied and beautiful—glorious Nor-West. 13* OUR BILL. BY MRS. LAMBERT. “I am gone sir, and anon I’ll be with you again.” Some years since I chanced to stop, during one of my summer rambles, in a pretty village, pic- turesquely situated in the county of F--—d. I arrived about sun-set, and the quiet loveliness which appeared every where around, won me to the spot. A row of neat white houses, with pretty gardens in front, arose on each side of the way, for the dis- tance of nearly halfa mile. At this point the road branched off in different directions, and exactly on the centre of division stood the village church; a plain, unpretending edifice, whose slender spire rose high above the full tops of venerable elms and dark pendant willows that surrounded its peaceful walls. A row of fine trees planted regularly at the road side, gave the appearance of an avenue to the village street, which viewed from its entrance, has an uncommonly pleasing effect, the eye ranging through the grass-bounded road, and the umbra- geous arch which overshadows it, till the conse- crated building terminates the vista. The country immediately adjoining the village is divided into numerous enclosures, bearing marks of good cultivation; while pretty farm-houses are scat- tered in every direction, with woods, streams, rocks and groves, beautifying the landscape. A chain of hills, which might without the charge of an extra- ordinary degree of presumption, aspire to the name of mountains, bounds the view on the south-east— their undulating outline beautifully marked against the clear horizon. Through an opening of the range, a glimpse is caught of the deep blue waters of the sound—a sail just distinguished—diminished by distance to a mere speck, gives frequent interest, and adds to the magic of the scene. Pleasing, however, as was the village, and abounding in objects most inviting to a lover of simple life, I determined not to make it my place of abode. Enquiring my way to a farm-house, of which I had some previous knowledge, I directed my steps thither. It was situated about a mile from the village, at the foot of a gentle slope, and adjoining a grove vocal in spring-time with the notes of almost innumerable birds. The master of it was a plain farmer, but one of Heaven’s nobility, an honest man. He lived like one of the Patriarchs of old, surrounded by his descendants to the third generation. His still Tempest. athletic form was unbent by age, although his venerable locks were whitened by the snows of seventy winters. I was received with all the kindness I could wish. Every thing was done to make me com- fortable, and cause me,,as the phrase goes, to feel at home, and I did so. The farm-house was a large, old building, abounding in long, low rooms, the ceilings of which were crossed by heavy beams, 21 century ago considered no defect in architectural embel- lishment—narrow windows, glazed with exceed- ingly small panes, carefully leaded—a fire-place built across one corner of the room, over the mantel-piece of which appeared a wooden clock, flanked on each side by a china figure, intending to represent, as I supposed, Flora and Pomona. The former of these heathen beaun'es balanced her well filled basket with sufiicient gravity on a head none of the smallest—but her companion from the carelessness with which she held her cornucopia, suflered its treasures to escape with an indifference truly wonderful. A pair of pink- colored candles, rising from sockets garnished with curiously cut paper, finished the decorations of the fire-place. My hostess was a little, fat, short, good-humored woman, and with her youngest daughter, the only one remaining unmarried, and a. daughter-in-law, whose husband’was absent in a distant part of the country, constituted those members of the family, with whom I had most frequent and social com- munication. There were, also, two or three large dogs, of prepossessing physiognomy, and urbane gentlemanly manners. with whom I soon found a sort of companionship. But of all the oddities, animate or inanimate, with which I became acquainted during my visit to Redbury, I saw none that interested me more than an urchin who ofliciated in the family as a sort of boy of all work. Short, stout, broad-shouldered as an infant Her- cules, with a round, good-humored face, laughing grey eyes, and elf-locks tanned to a dead flaxey whiteness, by continual exposure to the sun and wind—“ Our Bill," for so he was constantly and familiarly denominated, was to be found every OUR. BILL. where, and equal to every imposed duty. He chopped wood, made the fires, fetched water, brought the cows, and helped the maids to milk them; went of all the errands, and did all the chores. When the farmer came in wearied frbm the field, "- Our Bill” ran to the cellar and drew for his refreshment a mug of hard cider. If an extra hand was wanted in hay-time or harvest, it was only to send to the house for “Our Bill." If a neighbor was at a loss for a messenger in any emergency—the first thought was to request of neighbor Dawkins the loan of “Bill." In short, he was in demand for every thing, and I began to consider him ubiquitous. The readiness with which he complied with every requisition, his unvarying good-humor and prompt- ness to oblige, soon drew my attention and gained my approbation. The first marked kindness which I received from him I well remember. I was sitting in the apart- ment allotted to my use, and taking my breakfast. The morning was dark, and it rained violently. I looked toward the windows with a sort of hope- lessness of feeling, for I expected that letters were lying in the post-office in the village, from my friends in the city, and I knew not how to procure them. To be sure I might send “ Our Bill,” but I had not the heart to do so. While meditating thus, a. gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and who should appear but " Our Bill.” His garments were soaked and drip- ping with rain, which fell in rapid and discolored drops from numerous ragged points and edges. He held his tattered, crownless hat in one hand, while he extended to me in the other no less than three letters—three letters from dear friends in town—how dear, let friendship in absence deter- mine. I looked up at the windows involuntarily, as I broke the seal of one missive. “ \Vhy William, (I never could bear to call him Bill,) you have been to the post-office—and through all the storm—I hope you did not go entirely on my account?” “ Yes, but I did though.” “Why, my lad, I never would have sent you through such a tempest of wind and rain.” “I know that. But I heard you say last night that you thought there were letters for you in the village, so I determined you should have ’em.” " You are a kind boy, Will. Are you not cold? You had better go quickly and change your clothes." “Change my clothes, oh no—I don’t mind a wet jacket. I ’11 make a fire up for you though, if you please,” and he looked at my vacant hearth. "Do so,” said I, and while he was engagedI perused my letters. Their contents were satisfac- tory and pleasing, and I sat ruminating on the past, with no painful anticipations about the future, while the boy went on with his self-imposed employment. “ There,” exclaimed he, as a cheerful crackling flame blazed up the chimney, “ I think you ‘11 do, now.” “ So do I, Willy, and here is something for your pains." I handed him a small silver piece. He 151 took it with a rustic bow, and looked at it with delight. His face, cheerful before, now grew bright with pleasure. Down he sat, sans cerémanie, upon the hearth, and diving his hand into some unimagi- nable recess about his person, brought to light a dingy-looking rag, which he untied. In it I beheld a few pieces of copper coin. He added to them the silver which I had given him, retied his little bag, thanked me again, and was about to leave the room. My voice arrested him. ‘ “ Why, Willy, you are quite rich; what are you going to do with so much money 1'" The boy actually blushed and hung his head. “ I know,” he replied. “ I suppose you do,” said I, my man, “ and may I not know too '1" He was silent. “ It will go to buy tops and marbles, I suppose," I added. “ No it won't,” he answered, with quickness. “ Perhaps you are saving it till you get enough to purchase a new hat, or a pair of shoes. If so, I think, you are doing very right." No answer, and at this moment Mrs. Dawkins calling him, he left the room. This economy was a trait I little suspected in my young acquaintance. Most boys of his age expend the few pence which they casually acquire, in the purchase of apples, or nuts, or gingerbread, but I never saw “ Our Bill” indulge in any luxuries of this sort. I, therefore, could only return to my first supposition, that he was hoarding up the means of buying a Sunday jacket, trowsers, shoes or hat. The chief things that I disapproved of, about the boy, were the indifference which he evinced as to his appearance, and his love of mischief. It is true he had not much time to devote to personal neat- ness; yet numerous as were his avocations, there was not a solitary scheme of mischief carried into effect within a mile of the village, in which Bill did not bear a part. If mammy Jennings’s orchard was to be thinned of its superfluous number of golden pippins—or cross-grained old Squire Grum- mand’s fine walnut tree laid under contribution—or the Deacon‘s melon-patch to be examined by moon- light, I am sorry to say that “ Our Bill" was sure to be an assistant, if not officiating as president of the board of directors. In short, he was a mis chievous, but good-natured and obliging boy, that might by a little care exercised by some kind- hearted individual, be rendered a good and useful member of the community. But if neglected and suffered to grow up in idleness, or desultory em. ployment, which is next akin to it, he stood a fair chance of falling into a career of dissipation, pro- fligacy and vice. I took an early opportunity of enquiring more particularly about this boy of Mrs. Dawkins: who gave me the following account. His parents, who were natives of the village, and poor, had married early in life. They were industrious—Abe man particularly so—and they were virtuous and honest. For some time after their marriage the world went hardly with them. An increase of family brought an increase of cares and want, with no additional means wherewith to answer them. James Lee (that was his name) became dejected—and Nancy unfortunately lost not her cheerfulness only, but her 152 good temper: and although James worked hard from day to day, and gave her every penny of his earnings, to lay up or expend in supplying the wants of the family, as she chose; yet she was still peevish and dissatisfied. Harrassed by his wife’s growing ill-temper, and threatened by all the evils attendant upon increasing poverty, James began to seek in company at the village tavern a temporary relief from care. This only made matters worse; Nancy instead of striving to make his home pleasant, and soothing his uneasiness, by bidding him hope for the best, always met him with tears and upbraidings. Thus matters went on for some time, when one day as Mrs. Lee was about heating her oven for a baking of bread, she found that there was no oven wood cut. Her husband always prepared the wood for her in the nicest manner; but he had somehow or other forgotten to do so at this time. Instead of going quietly out to him where he sat at work in the little shop, opposite their house, (he was a shoemaker by trade) she began by angrily accusing him of negligence, and want of consideration for her comfort—with sundry reflections on the manner in which he had too frequently passed his hours of late, to the great detriment of both purse and credit. He heard all she had to say with exemplary pa- tience; and when she had finished arose from his bench, and walked to the door. “ Are you going to get the oven-wood 7" she asked. “ Yes, Anne," he replied meekly, and walked away. Mrs. Lee returned to her kitchen, and remained waiting for the wood till a good hour had elapsed. Out of all patience, she at last sent her daughter, a fine, stout lass, of ten years, to hurry her father, bidding her tell him her bread would be entirely ruined by waiting so long. The girl went, but searched for her father in vain, returning to the house only to give an ac- count of her ill success. The displeasure of her mother was again excited, and she sallied forth herself, fully determined on giving James a piece of her mind. But James was no where to be seen. The wood lay uncut. His shop was still open— the tools which he had been recently employing, lay on a bench beside that on which he had been sitting. In short, every thing remained just as he had left it one short hour before; but from that time to this, a period of seven years, James Lee has never been heard of. “ This is a surprising story,” said I, when the good dame had concluded, ‘I what do people sup- pose became of Lee ?" “ There 's no telling," answered Mrs. Dawkins, " some say one thing and some another. Whether he left the country-or whether he made away with himself, there ’s nobody knows—for my own part I think he was harrassed out of his life by the odd temper of his good woman—but there ’5 no know- ing—well, this here boy, that you ’ve been asking about is her son. She has but two children left— Nancy, who is about seventeen, and ‘Our Bill.‘ My husband took the boy, to keep him out of evil courses, and if he behaves himself, Mr. Dawkins will do well by him.“ OUR. BILL. “That is certainly very kind of your husband, and I hope the lad will reward him by industry and good conduct." H I hope so, too," replied my hostess, “ but Bill is rather too much inclined to mischief—yet he is a good boy, too, in many respects, and is very fond of his mother, whom he goes to see regularly.” “ What are her means of support 'I" I asked. “ Well—she has to work hard enough since the loss of her husband; and many a time I have seen her standing in the doorway, looking over at the little shop in which he used to sit at work, with her eyes brimful of tears. Ah, I guess it goes to her heart to think how roughly she used to speak to poor James. She takes in spinning and plain work, and sometimes goes out a nursing; and her daughter does a little at millinery, for she has a pretty taste about such matters; and so they make out a living." “ Is the daughter industrious?" I asked. “ As industrious a girl as you would wish to see, and as handsome. She has a lover too; indeed a couple of them; but there her mother and she are at odds ; for the one that Nancy likes is not favored by Mrs. Lee." “ That is unfortunate; and what kind of a person is the young man preferred by Nancy ".1" “ Why, he is a likely lad—the blacksmith of our village. He has not much before hand to be sure, but is honest, good, and true.” “ And the other 7" “ Oh, he is better off—quite rich. Keeps a store in the village, and makes a great dash. But for my own part I think Nancy‘s choice is the best; for Josiah Goodwin is steady as a clock, while folks do say, that young Sturges, the shop-keeper, likes a small spree now and then." “ If that is the case," said I, “ it is to be hoped that Nancy will remain firm in her determination to have nothing to do with him." “ She has a sad time of it at any rate," replied my informant. " Her mother keeps her close at home, and has ordered her never to see or speak to young Goodwin; who is so troubled about it, that he has closed his shop and left the village.” “ Really," said I, “ I am sorry for this poor girl, and I should like to pay a visit to Mrs. Lee.” “ That you may do this evening, if you please,” said Mrs. Dawkins, “ my daughter is going to her house to carry some work.” The circumstances of Mrs. Lee’s case as re- spected her husband, greatly interested me; my curiosity was awakened, and I agreed to accom- pany Lizzy Dawkins. At the hour appointed we set out together. After a pleasant walk through winding roads, and shady lanes, we arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Lee. It was an humble abode, unmarked by any exte- rior improvement. One large sycamore grew in front, and threw a portion of its branches across the moss-grown roof. A rustic bench was placed at the foot of the tree. This had been done by James, in the earlier days of wedded love. The door of the house stood partly open, and Lizzy, taking the privilege of an old acquaintance, entered without knocking. I followed. We walked OUR. BILL. into the kitchen, which large, clean and comfortable, served as a reception room. I must acknowledge that my first glance was directed toward the oven. Nancy greeted us with a kindly welcome; but the first object that drew my attention was “Our Bill,” standing by the side of his mother, and emptying the contents of his dingy-looking purse into her lap. In seeing us enter he started, and looked as much confused as if he had been caught in some not of delinquency. A look from me gave him courage. I saw at once for what purpose the money had been saved, and from that moment determined that while I lived Bill should never want a friend. ‘ After Lizzy had delivered the work which she had brought for her neighbor, the conversation fell upon different matters. Nancy, however, bore but a small part therein; she seemed absent and sad. A young female friend of hers came in, and she made an effort to appear more cheerful. It was now the season when whortleberries were in their prime; and Bill was exceedingly anxious that a party should be formed for gathering them in the neighboring wood. Nancy’s young friend joined warmly in the project. Lizzy Dawkins was pleased with the arrangement. I agreed to make one of the number. Nancy evinced small interest in the matter, though she agreed to go with us if her mother was willing: and as the good dame was relieved from her apprehensions on the score 0f Goodwin, since she had learned that he had left the village, she gave her assent. The following day was fixed upon for our little excursion; and as the weather proved fine, we accordingly went. The wood was not far distant from the house of Mrs. Lee. It was wild, shady, and beautiful: the resort of the squirrel and the rabbit—gay with in- nunterable wild-flowers, and vocal with the sweet music of its feathered denizens. Numerous open- ings amid the thickets disclosed irregular knolls, covered with the shrubby bushes which now hung full of the purple berry of which we came in search, and whose abundance in many past years had given to this rural spot the name of Whortleberry, or in village nomenclature, Huckleberry wood. Wesoon met with two or three other parties on the same errand with ourselves: some acquaintances of Lizzy and Nancy were among them: we united our forces, filled our baskets with berries, and chatted and laughed the hours away. It was about noon, when, tired and rather hun- gry, we concluded to seek for a shady spot where we might rest, and partake of the refreshment with which we had taken the precaution to provide our- selves. Bill, who had acted the part of master of the ceremonies during the whole of the day, now preceded us, boasting aloud of his superior skill in discovering a cool and pleasant spot for the purpose we desired. After a few turns among the bushes and underwood, we suddenly emerged upon the borders of a broad and rapid brook, which was murmuring its way most delightfully among the reeds and wild flowers that graced its margin. And here we were ata stand. To arrive at the spot designated by our young conductor, and represented by him as the best in the wood, it was necessary 153 that we should cross the stream; but how to do so was the question. Bill suggested the placing a few large stones in the bed of the river, by means of which we might easily step across. This was ac- cordingly done; and Bill, taking his sister by the hand, preceded the rest of the party, who paused while they marked the progress of the adventurers across their unsteady footway. As soon as they touched the opposite margin, a loud shout from Bill electrified us. “ Arattle-snake! a rattle-snake! run—run for your lives!" and forgetful of the cour- age which I had hitherto secn him assume on almost every occasion, Bill dragged his terrified sis- ter up the rough bank, and disappeared with her in the thick groves beyond. The cry had afl'righted all. Each one ran in a different direction from his fellow, and each thought the rattle-snake close at his heels. The panic could scarcely have been greater had a boa-con- strictor appeared wreathing its voluminous folds among the branches of the beech, walnut, and oak, that'rustled above our heads. It was sorrowful to see the labors of the morning scattered in a moment, for many of the well-filled baskets, overturned by their respective owners in the precipitation of their flight, poured their purple treasure among moss, lichens, and fem-blossoms. Meanwhile, I looked in vain for the reptile which had caused this alarm, and finding myself left entirely alone, I concluded to follow the foot- steps of the valorous William and his gentle sister. Crossing the stream, and clambering the bank on the opposite side, I found myself in a charming grove of tall young trees of rapid growth. All was still, save the whistle of the robin, or the solitary call of the cat-bird. I wandered along, almost forgetful of the cause which brought me hither, when at the entrance of a thicket of young hazels, seated at the end of a fallen tree, and lei- surely employed in stripping the bark from a sapling branch, which he seemed desirous of forming into something resembling a. walking stick, I discovered “ Our Bill." Surprised at the quiet in which I beheld him, contrasted as it was with his late trepidation and alarm, I immediately accosted him with enquiries after his sister. “She is n’t far, I guess.“ “ Do you know where she is 1” “Yes.” “ I wish to see her.” “ Well—stop a bit." “ I want to know if she is not hurt '2" “ Hurt 'l—what should hurt her 1'” “ The snake, perhaps.” The boy grinned archly. “ Bill," said I, “ what has become of that snake, think you 't" “ I ’m sure I don't know." " Do you think there really was any there '2” “ I ’m sartain I cannot tell." “ Well,” said I, advancing, “ I shall continue my search till I find Nancy.” The boy started up, and putting his fingers to his mouth, blew a shrill whistle. I looked at him, in order to discover, if I could, the end and aim of this OUR. BILL. darkened by some opaque body, and on looking up’ we recognised the head of Betty Nares. Directly the fortune-teller entered, and took a seat near the fire-place. And now Bill came in. on seeing Betty, “I’m glad you are here. Now mother do just let her tell Nancy’s fortune. She told a power of things to Lucy Harroby and Kitty Dixon, and all of ’em came true—now do, mother.” “ Don’t be a simpleton, Bill. I have no faith in such stuff.” I looked at Nancy-she smiled faintly but said nothing. “ You don’t believe me," said the sybil—“ you won't believe me I suppose, if I tell you that you yourself are soon to be married 7" I must confess that I thought this a bold and daring assertion'of Betty, and calculated to strike at the root of all her hopes of success: as Mrs. Lee was known to be scrupulously correct and reserved in her department, most particularly since the mysterious departure of her husband. As I expected, Betty received a look of disdain. “ You need not look so scoruful, Mrs. Lee," said Betty, “ what I tell you is true, and you can’t get aside of it. And I'll tell you more. The man you want your daughter to marry, is going to meet with a great deal of trouble in his worldly matters,—-and the one you don’t wish her to have is likely to be a rich man—and more—the day you give your con- sent that Nancy shall marry Goodwin, a stranger from across the water will come here, and give her a dowry that shall set them both well a going in the world.” Mrs. Lee in great displeasure asked Betty if she really supposed “ that she had lost her senses, that she should for one minute be induced to credit such idle trash." Betty however, kept her ground, and repeated her opinions with a tenacity that surprised me. Bill still continued to entreat. Nancy hid her time in her hands, and burst into tears. Mrs. Lee scolded, and Betty solemnly shaking her head, declared she “ had her knowledge from one who would not lie." Feeling my presence, in the existing circum- stances, rather an incumhrance, I rose to take leave. This I did, just as Bill was blowing a coal in order to light a candle, and Betty was beginning to shuffle her cards. Some particular business of my own, prevented me for a few days from inquiring into the civil and domestic relations of the House of Lee. I saw however, that my friend Bill was still in action. Indeed he seemed more busy than ever. How the boy sustained such a constant course of riding and running, of chopping and lugging, of cattle-driving and hog-feeding, with numerous other et ceteras, all generally terminating—of late—in an excursion to " Huckle-berry" wood, I could scarcely imagine. Wishing one morning to speak to my hostess, I went to the kitchen; secure of finding her there,-- that being the seat of empire, with a good New- England house-wife. For once, however, I was disappointed; but there sat Bill. Returned from some nameless excursion, he was eating a late breakfast. It was rather picturesque. His naked “ Well,” he exclaimed 155 feet, stained by the soil through which he had lately plodded, were raised upon the cross piece of his chair—his knees appearing through two very un- necessary apertures in his nether garment—his ragged hat lying on the floor at his feet, and two large house-dogs seated on the ground—one on each side, watching with eager interest each morsel that he conveyed to his lips. I have said that I was somewhat anxious on the score of Bill’s health; but when I saw the devotion with which he applied himself to his hashed pork and potatoes, and the complacency with which from time to time he eyed a smoking dish of pumpkin-pudding whichstood close at his elbow, waiting his acceptance, I comforted myself with the belief that the means and appliances with which he strengthened his inward man, would abundantly enable him to sustain the labors which heaven had allotted to his share. We had long been the best of friends, and per. fectly understood each other. He looked up at me with his laughing grey eyes. - “ Our Nance is going to be married." “ You don’t say so—Bill, are you in earnest '2" Bill nodded, for by this time his mouth was again full, and he could not speak. He took a draught of cider lrom the great brown jug on the table. “ Yes, it's true enoug ." “ And to whom is she to be married?” “ Siah Goodwin." " Bless me, what could have brought about such a change ?” “ Anan T” H How has it all happened, Bill '2" “ Why Betty Nares told Mother it was to be; so how could she hinder it 1'" “Ah, very true. Well, when is the wedding to take place 7" “ To-morrow evening—won’t you come?” “ Certainly." “Do,—we shall have a main sight of pumpkin pies; mother says it will be like a training day.” Was it possible that the artful and ignorant Betty had succeeded in imposing upon the plain good sense of Mrs. Lee. I was sure there must be more in it than at first sight appeared. However, I determined to be at the wedding. On enquiry, I found that the Dawkinses were invited, and also that they were as much surprised at the turn afi'airs had taken as myself. The next evening we all repaired to the house of Mrs. Lee. On entering her little parlor, we found a few of the neighbors assembled. Nancy sat near a window, and beside her one whom I supposed to be the bridegroom. I thought that l recognised in him the same young man whotn I had seen with her in Huckle-berry wood. My doubts, if I had any remaining, would soon have been dissipated by her brother, who walking up to me, and looking ex- pressiver in my face, and putting two of his fingers to his mouth, produced in a subdued tone it sound resembling the hissing of a snake. The whole truth flashed upon me at once. The exterior of Bill himself was greatly improved, dressed as he was for the occasion, in a good suit of home-spun cloth, his feet covered with a decent 156 A pair of leather shoes, and his flaxen hair combed smoothly over his forehead, cut short and even all round, with the exception of two pendant locks, left as a partial covering to his ears. Every thing was now in readiness, and we waited only for the clergyman who had been sent for to perform the marriage ceremony. A knock came to the door. Bill flew to open it. —“ Here he is." “That's he"—was whispered around—“ No, not yet.”— A fidgetty restlessness t00k possession of the party. Steps were heard outside. The door again opened, and Bill appeared preceding a stranger. He was dressed like a plain countryman, of good-look- ing face and appearance, and he bore in his arms a rather unusual burthen, supposing him to be a traveller. He advanced into the middle of the room. Mrs. Lee rose from her seat and stared at him wildly. The stranger extended his hand to her smiling. “ Nancy,” said he, “I ’vc brought in the oven-wood." The poor woman gave one shriek and fell on the floor. Down went the wood on the hearth, and the stranger flew to her assistance. Slowly she regained her senses, and when she did so, she threw herself in the arms of the new comer and wept aloud. We all crowded around, eager for an ex- planation. It was soon given. James Lee, dis- tressed by poverty, and worn by the fretful temper of his wife, had, on the memorable morning of his disappearance—on the impulse of the moment, re- solved to quit his home and seek his fortune in a foreign elime. For this act, his only apology was the bitterness of despair. He sought the nearest port, and embarked as a common sailor on board a vessel about sailing to the West-Indies. Changing his name that he might not be traced, he made himself useful, and became a favorite with his cap- tain : was generally esteemed, and by degrees enabled to traflic a little on his own account. He had made many voyages and been unusually suc- New York, March, 1841. -1\ _% JV SLIGHTED WOMAN. cessful. He had acquired a snug competence with which he now returned, for the purpose of enjoying it in the bosom of his family. As he approached his home, the recollection of the manner in which he had left it suddenly occurred to him, and when Bill opened the door, the thought struck him that he would go to the wood-pile,fill his arms with wood, and thus bring to his wife’s mind, for the joke’s sake, the remembrance of their parting scene, seven years before. When he had concluded, and we had offered our congratulations on this happy event, a shrill voice was heard to exclaim, “ Did n’t I tell you so—did n’t I say you were going to be married Miss Lee—has n‘t everything I said come to pass—did n’t I tell you '1"— “ Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Lee, miling, “ you told me, as you tell others of things to happen which you take good care to find out before-hand.” Betty looked rather blank when she found that no credit was allowed her for her skill in prescience, more especially as “ Our Bill" in the pride and fullness of his heart unfolded the secret of his numerous expe- ditions to the wood. Here at Goodwin’s farm which was in the immediate neighborhood, Lee had remained for a few days till the harmless plot which he laid in conjunction with the young man was ripe for development, and his wife had given her con- sent to his daughter’s marriage with “ Siah." It is scarcely necessary to say that Bill had met and recognised his father—been made privy to his and Goodwin’s scheme, and in short, been active agent in the whole affair. Several years have passed since that period. William Lee has grown to man’s estate. He is married and has a snug little home of his own. He is a carpenter by trade, and fills a respectable station in the community of which he is a member. For my own part, I love to think over the past, for many a pleasing idea is connected with the re- miniscences of “Huckle-berry” wood, and “Our Bill." A SLIGHTED WOMAN. BY THE AUTHOR OF Ann Helen, not neglectful she Of her proud sex’s dignity, If, in the mazes of the dance, Perchance she met her loved of all, You ’d think that nothing met her glance Between her and the wall, Her eye around is thrown so free, Her laugh rings out so merrily: How soon a slighted woman learns To hide that pang, however deep, Though in her tortured heart it burns, Her bosom-thoughts seem all asleep : You 'd think that peace was resting there, “nowaan rtncxnav.” With her light shawl upon her breast, That exercise and healthy air, And day-dreams that be wondrous» fair, With hopes that sweetest fruitage hear Had caused the slight unrest : Know you that her young heart bleeds— That in this laughing mood. The Pelican of Passion feeds Her even hungry brood— The two extremes approach we know And therefore often laughs our woe ; Hers tells, that laugh which rung so loud, Of withered hopes within their shroud. UNEQUALLY YOKED. BY REV. J. “ War don’t you hurry, woman? Sure it is no wonder that the child sleeps in your arms. And yourself will be asleep next, if you walk at this creeping rate.” “ Be patient, William. You know that the mountain is steep; the child is heavy; and it ’s but little strength I have, any way." This was part of a dialogue I chanced to hear, while passing the parties, who were clambering up one of the most rugged roads in the Catskill moun- tains; a road so steep indeed, that my horse pufi'ed at every step, and the saddle creaked beneath me as I grasped the pummel. The man was some twelve or fifteen feet in advance of the woman, and at the sound of my horse’s feet, paused till I passed, when he turned the hasty glance of his eye from me, in a heavy frown upon her whom he upbraided. A light breath of wind touching the hood, together with the effort of the woman to step aside from the road till I passed, laid open the face of the sleeping child, and gave evidence, in the fullness of its face, of the weight of its frame, and of health, derived almost at the expense of the one upon whose bosom it reposed. Possessing an enormous and hardy frame, the man trode the mountain path almost with the step of an elephant, and appeared to require nothing but a palanquin upon his huge shoulders to enable him to carry both the mother and the babe. The woman was of small and delicate form. Her face was round and very fair, over which was cast the mildness of a bright but modest eye. Although her age was about thirty, she appeared at least fifteen years younger than her husband. A bend in the road, and the rapid walk of my horse, soon led me so far in advance, that I ceased farther to hear a dialogue which, as far as it was heard, intimated the unfeeling character of the one, and satisfied me that the other had ample opportu- nity to manifest her piety in the perfect working of her patience. In the progress of another mile of the ascending road, I came to a pass, where, in a close of about half an acre of level land, there stood a little hut, immediately on the side of the road. The building was formed of large unhewn logs, interlaid with clay. The door, swinging upon hinges made of the soles of worn-out shoes, being partially open, dis- closed the scanty aud mutilated furniture within. There was only one window, consisting of a slender sash, designed for four small panes of glass, but in which only two remained. KENNADAY. Notwithstanding the poverty indicated in the appearance of every thing presented to my view, there was a general neatness with which I was forcibly struck. A thrifty honey-suckle climbed up the little hut, and the garden was much enlivened by a variety of lovely flowers. I know not how correct the criterion may be found by others, but my observations have long since confirmed me in the accuracy of the inference that, however humble or elegant a country dwelling-house may be, wherever there is a choice collection of flowers in the garden , there is usually taste and cleanliness within the dwelling. The approach of a little boy and girl to the door of this humble hut, with coarse but well mended apparel, and the sedate and polite manner in which they expressed their obeisance as I passed, satisfied me that the mistress of this cot possessed feelings worthy of a better home. The manners of the children were the more perceptible, as they could not have been acquired at school, in as much as in this section of the mountains, schools are seldom heard of. I knew of but one school-house within a distance of three miles from these children, and that was open only during three months of the year, and when those who attended must wade through highland snows. Another mile brought me to my place of destint» tion, the glass-works, consisting of a low, spacious, sombre frame building, standing in a field, every where studded with the most formidable stumps of the hemlock, a tree the most common in these mountains, and the most majestic in its growth. With a trunk measuring from five to eight feet in diameter, and rising more than a hundred feet high, this tree seems the fitting plumage of the mountain it adorns. Scattered at various distances from the glass factory were a few buildings, which, from their dilapidated appearance, evidenced that their inmates would never sufi'er persecution for belonging to a suspected aristocracy. Perhaps, however, I ought to except one building which stood in palace-like contrast with the rest, and adjoined the “factory store.” This was the mansion of my friend, Dr. , physician, agent of the glass works, justice of the peace, keeper of the store, and frequently mem- ber of the Legislature. Here, with as much authority as is sometimes possessed by a continental prince, the Doctor resided, enjoying the character of a " people’s-man." Strange as it might appear, yet it is certain that the glass- blowers and wood choppers seldom remove from under his " agency," without having a balance 14 158 against them on the Doctor’s book, either for rent, medical attendance,justice, groceries or gin. Ho, it is true, got rich, yet no one ventured to question his integrity, or to doubt his protection of the poor. It was not until the following day that I was able to gratify my curiosity by going into the factory. The blower, at the furnace nearest to which lstood, soon gave his instrument to another, and kindly tendered his services to accompany me through the works, and to give me the information respecting the process of glass-blowing, of which I was in quest. We had passed only one or two men before I perceived, at one of the furnaces, the man whom I passed in ascending the mountain. “ Who is that man ?" said I, to my guide. " That is Bill Hunter,” said he, " and a great hear he is.” “ Then you know him well '!” “ 1' faith I do," said the man, whose broad dia- lect had shown before this that he was an English- man. "I have known him this many a year. A fine woman is she, his wife, but a dog’s life it is, she has with him." " He drinks, I suspect.” “ Yes, he does ; but he ’s abad man when sober; and it was a dark day for her when she left her father’s house for such a dolt as Hunter." “ Then you know something of their history, I presume. Did you know her father '1" “ What, John Shaw of Spittlefields! indeed I knew him well, and it’s all good I know of him. Sure, a better man there never lived." “ My curiosity is quite awake my friend,” said I, " and you will greatly gratify me by giving me a little of their history." “Oh! but it is a sorry history for her, poor woman,” said he. “Do you see, then, her father was a wealthy manufacturer, and much thought on. March, 1841. 0.". t- y _»_/_1. A PICTURE. When Margaret was about fourteen years of age, he took this same Hunter into his factory and store to be a kind of porter or runner. For the purpose of aiding in family errands, he boarded in Mr. Shaw’s house. At the end of a year, the father discovered that Margaret treated Hunter's addresses with favor, and in disgust and chagrin dismissed him from his employ; not because he was poor, but that he was so ould. \Ve, who knew him, thought it was strange that the poor wench could think any thing of such a surly, selfish fellow. But then he was good-looking, and as slender as ye. It was not long before the whole town was in a stir, when it was said that Shaw's Margaret had gone to the States with Hunter. Sure enough, it was true; for it was found out that under pretended names they had sailed from Liverpool for Philadelphia. The vessel, however, went into Wilmington, in the state of Delaware, where they were married and went into the country, and found employment in a factory. He was ever a low fellow, and a fool, was Mr. Shaw, for admitting him under his roof. years since, he came to this place poor enough. For Margaret’s sake, poor girl, whom I knew when the whole town was proud of her, I gave him an insight into this business. He scratches a scanty living, having five children, and lives in the hut that you passed down the mountain a piece. He is but a brute to her, who shares a hard life on it, poor thing; and must ever repent leaving a father’s house for one so unworthy of her.” ‘Vith this simple narrative I was much interested, and not the less so because it was to me an addi- tional evidence of what I had often thought to be the case, that in the humbler walks of life, and in some of the scenes of poverty and suffering, there are these often who spend years of pain in weeping over the inadvertence of the hour in which their affections were misplaced. 4/: a. t ¢~~.\%__ A PICTURE. BY HRS. AND strangers gazed and wondered at the sight. Round that lone being glowed a hallowed light; Upon her pale, thin face a. heaven-born smile Played like a sunbeam on some lonely isle. Yet plaintive were her tones in speech or song, Like the low moaning winds the trees among, And you could see her tender'heart was riven, March, 1841. S. B. DANA- And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven. 0ft, when the god of day had sunk to rest, And sunlight lingered in the rosy west, Still would she wander forth, with noiseless tread. And, by a secret influence spirit-led, Seek the same spot to which her steps would stray With those she loved—but now, oh! where are they? About three l SELF DEVOTION. A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. BY MRS. E. C. EMBURY. “ Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise. And what they do or sufl‘er men record; But the long sacrifice of woman’s days Passes without a thought—without a word; And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfilled— For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, And the strong feelings of the heart be stifled,— Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, And leaves no memory and no trace behind!" “Do you believe, cousin Grace, that the world is as disinterested as it was in the days of the ‘ preuz chevaliers, sans peur et sans reproche 7' “ I do, Frank ; and even though you quote the great Edmund Burke, you will not convince me that the days of chivalry are gone! The days of knight-errantry are past away, and well is it for society that they are so, but there is as much of the true chivalric spirit now ex isting aswas [0 be found in the time of Richard of the Lion Heart." “ Do you really believe this, Grace ".1" “Let the retaliate by another question, cousin Frank; do you believe that all the knights and squires of olden time were inspired purely by a noble desire to win fame and redress wrongs? Did not avarice, ambition, selfish gratification, and love of wild excitement mingle their elements then, even as they do now, in the mass of human feeling 1" " Undoubtedly the grosser passions were often commingled with the better qualities of man’s nature; selfishness existed, but was not then so widely diffused." “There we differ, Frank; the selfishness of modern times certainly shows itself in less fearful shapes.” “ Because society has been compelled to make laws to protect itself against those who would sacrifice all things to their own will; ‘might no longer makes right,’ and therefore the selfishness of human nature is shown less in high-handed spoliations than in secret machinations.” “ Well, Frank, that there is enough, aye, and to spare of selfishness on earth I do not mean to dispute; but I still adhere to my first assertion that there is no lack of the true chivalric spirit.” JlIrs. Norton. “ And pray how does it exhibit its qualities in this very dull and prosaic world '1” “ Disintercstedness, self-devotion, purity of inten- tion, integrity of principle, delicacy of sentiment, a high-toned sense of honor, and indomitable courage —these are the essential qualities of a chivalnc character; and surely, Frank, there is no want of arenas in which to exercise these virtues.” “ You will find few knights ready to enter the lists if such are the requisites, cousin Grace." “I hope you are mistaken in your estimate of men, Frank; I have a better opinion of your sex than to adopt your ideas. But if it be as you say, if selfishness be so active a principle among men, then have the virtues taken up their abode in the hearts of women.” “ Do they possess the chivalric spirit, Grace 7— courage and all 'I” “ You need not laugh, I can prove what I say.“ “ No, no, Grace, 1 am willing to allow your sex all superiority in goodness and purity of feeling, but the virtues of women are of a passive nature,— they have fortitude to suffer, patience to endure, but rarely energy to act. Men make sacrifices—- women sufl‘er them.” “ How little you know of the sex when you make such an assertion, Frank. A woman’s sa- crifices are of daily and hourly occurrence; she lives but to minister to others, and to forget herself. If her courage is of a more passive nature it is because her sphere of action is very properly limited. She is not called to stem the tide of battle, or to face death in warrior’s array; but is it nothing to look calmly upon the king of terrors in the chamber of pestilence—t0 wait for 160 SELF DEVOTION. his fatal blow, with placid fortitude, when assailed I you do not agree in opinion with those who are for by sudden peril—to gaze, unmoved, upon the welt- ering wave—or to perish with unquailing courage amid flames and tortures? Yet all this has been done by women. Awaken but a woman’s feelings, arouse the hidden strength of her affections, and earth holds not a peril which she will not brave.” “You are eloquent, cousin Grace, but you scarcely make out your own case; according to your own evidence woman must have a personal motive for action; her strength of character must be called forth by some individual afi'ection, or to use a less gentle term, by some selfish impulse." “ According to your way of viewing character, then, Frank, the noblest impulses of our nature arise from selfishness.” “I should like to hear you draw a parallel be- tween the sexes, cousin Grace; you seem to be so impartial—t0 concede so much goodness to man’s fallen nature, while_you exalt so highly the weaker sex, that I am a little curious to know how you would distinguish them." “ You would probably only dispute my positions, and make a jest of my distinctions, Frank." “ I will promise to do neither, Grace." “ Well, then listen to the opinions of one who is content with the dispensations of Providence, and who believes that the finger of God himself has marked out the line which separates the im- pulses, the habits, the character of the two sexes :- Man has vigor—woman refinement: man has the reasoning faculty best'developed—woman the per- ceptive : man has the power of abstraction—woman rarely possesses it: man is the creature of calcula- tion—woman of impulse: man is capable of deep research, he proceeds slowly and cautiously, mea- suring every distance, and counting every step of his progress—woman bounds along with rapid foot, observing the most prominent objects in her path, and from them forms conclusions often erroneous, but always ingenious. The intellectual faculty in man is usually concentrated—in woman it is dif- fused: men of genius commonly devote themselves to some one favorite pursuit—women of genius are remarkable for their versatility. Man has the more correct judgment—woman the more correct feeL inga. He has a knowledge of right which he often forgets—she a consciousness of it which never forsakes her, even in the midst of crime: man possesses the stronger passions—woman the stronger afl'ections : man has boldness—woman fortitude: man can perform heroic deeds—woman can endure the extreme of suffering: man has the more physical daring—woman the more moral courage: man controls others by the force of his character—woman influences by the gentleness of hers. In a word, my dear Frank, the relative position of the sexes is fixed beyond all change; their respective duties are well defined. Man has been given the weapons of moral and mental war- fare, that he may go out into the world, and do battle with and for his fellows—while on woman is bestowed that skill in moral and mental culture which enables her to improve the field of duty at home." “ Very clearly defined, cousin Grace; so then enlarging the boundaries of woman‘s domain, and would fain make her a gladiator in the arena, in- stead of a spectator in the amphitheatre of action." “ That women have some wrongs to be redress- ed is an undoubted fact, but I am no friend to this new warfare for the ‘ rights of women ;’ let the sex only do their duty at home to parents, brothers, husbands, or friends, and they will have little cause to repine that the forum, the pulpit, or the poll is closed against them. But I have not forgotten your inuendoes respecting the selfishness of women, Frank, and I should like to tell you a story which will convince you of how much self-devotion a woman may be capable, even when the strongest passions of her nature are to be subdued. “ Fanny Wilbank was one of those patient, long suffering creatures. who seem sent into the world to fulfil the command, ‘ Bear ye one another's bur- dens,‘ for from her very childhood she had borne the burdens of the whole family. Her father, one of those good-hearted, thoughtless prodigals, who, in their readiness to help other people, are apt to forget their own interests, had been all his life unfortunate. Nothing seemed to succeed in his hands—the most promising business was sure to fail if he undertook it, and as his family increased his means diminished, until they were reduced to the utmost straits to preserve that respectability of station in which they were born and bred. Fanny was the eldest of the family, and of course upon her devolved the duty of assisting her sickly mother in the care of the children, and the management of their household. Here was a wide field for the exercise of self-denial and patience. A weary lot is that of hopeless poverty, when it relies on charity alone for food and warmth and raiment; but wearier still is the lot ol those, who, amid privation and want, still struggle to keep themselves from the deep abyss of beggary, and strive with decent pride still to retain their foothold in a world which too often confounds misfortune with disgrace. It was amid cares, and troubles, and anxieties of every kind that Fanny Wilbank grew up to womanhood. To say that she was beautiful would convey but little idea of the gentleness, the delicacy, the love- liness of her countenance. I might describe her soft black eyes, her full bright lips, the jetty blackness of her luxuriant tresses, the grace of her slender form, and the elastic spring of her bounding step, but it would need the painter’s art to image the tender sweetness of her expression. Her face was such as one might fancy for a Madonna—pale, pensive and full of high-sealed thought; but Fanny knew little of her beauty and cared less. Had she possessed the talisman of wealth she might have been the artist’s model and the poet’s theme; but the spell of beauty alone is powerless to unlock the treasures of earth, and Fanny was too poor to behold her own charms in the magic mirror of flattery. Indeed she never seemed to think of herself; she managed for every body, ministered to the comfort of every body, and took her share of enjoyment in beholding the gratification of others. But it must not be sup- posed that her beauty and goodness were unknown SELF DEVOTION. and unappreciated. Several unexceptionable ofi'ersl of marriage were made to her—offers, which if , accepted, would have placed her far beyond the reach of want and labor—but Fanny was not to be influenced by sordid motives in so momentous a matter, and resisting all the temptations of a life of ease, still preserved her quiet cheert‘ulness to illumine the home of her childhood. “ Her hour of severer trial, however, came at last. Among the few companions of her childhood was a youth of humble fortunes but of noble character, whose name I shall conceal under that of William Grey. Their regard for each other had grown up so gradually in their hearts, probably neither was aware of its strength, until the time when William was to go out into the world and strive amid his fellows to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. The grief which each felt at this separation, revealed the nature of their feelings, and Fanny wondered at herself when she found how closely her love for a stranger had entwined itself with the affections which she had hitherto devoted to the claims of kindred. But they plighted faith to each other, and looking forward to a future of mutual love and quiet happiness, \Villiam obeyed the call of duty, while the gentle Fanny continued to pursue her routine of heavy cares with a cheerful and hopeful spirit. “ After an absence of two years, William full of eager anticipation returned to claim the fulfilment of her pledge, and to hear her to a humble home in another part of the country. Fanny’s heart mis- gave her sadly, when she looked on her pale mother and thought of the burden which would fall upon her when she was gone. She half repented of her promise to William, dearly as she loved him, for she had so long been accustomed to think of the comfort of others, in preference to her own, that self gratification seemed to her almost a sin. But her scruples were soon put to rest, for her parents, unwilling to make any sacrifices on their part for their self-denying child, positively refused to listen to her lover’s suit. Nay, they even accused Fanny of selfishness, and made out a charge of black ingratitude against her, for wishing to leave them. With the usual impatience of man’s temper, William was deeply incensed at such treatment, and endeav- ored to pursuade Fanny to a clandestine marriage. Her answer to his proposal was one which might be remembered with profit by those who rush heed- lessly to the altar, even when their path lies over the crushed hearts of those who watched their helpless infancy. " ‘ How could I hope to perform my duties to you, \Villiam,’ said she, ‘if I came to you with the curse of a broken commandment clinging to me? Think you a disobedient child could prove a good . wife”.I No, dearly as you new love me, you would be the first to doubt me, were I to give you such a proof of my selfish disregard to the ties of blood. We are both young yet, let us then wait until the future shall bring us better prospects.’ “ ‘ God knows, Fanny, I would serve for you even as Jacob did for Rachel, could I but hope to see you my own, but I know not how time is to remove the 161 “ ‘Oh, Mary will soon be old enough to fill my place, and then I can be spared from home,' said she. “‘ Alas if I am to wait till your place can be supplied by another, 1 shall but live an hope to die in despair,’ said William despondingly ; ‘ no one can ever be the same, thoughtful, patient, afi'ectionate, ministering angel that you have been to all around you.’ And thus they again parted, but which think you suffered most keenly from this disappointment '! Was it he whose love was but the episode in the striving tale of life—who listened to the voice of affection, but as soft music played between the acts of the great tragi-comedy of existence? No! the shaft of pain sunk deepest in the heart of her who remained in the seclusion of home, shut up within the narrow circle of duties which daily, hourly reminded her of the almost hopeless nature of her feelings. “ Time sped on and brought its usual changes. The boys grew old enough to be provided with situations beyond the parental roof, and Fanny began to look forward once more to a union with her lover. But in the midst of her brightening hopes, her mother died, leaving to Fanny as her last bequest, the charge of watching over the youth of her only sister. This sacred duty was one which Fanny might easily have fulfilled without the sacri fice of a single desire of her own heart, had not Mary’s failing health rendered it a task of unceasing anxiety. Au accident received in infancy had slowly and insidioust undermined the once vigorous constitution of the child, and'soon after the mother was laid within the tomb, an incurable disease of the spine confined Mary entirely to her bed. It was then, with a heart bleeding over the severed ties of kindred, that Fanny first taught herself to reflect upon the necessity of a final sacrifice of her hopes of happiness. Her father was fast sinking under the infirmities of age, and Mary was now helplessly dependent on her for every comfort; how then could she indulge the vain dream of being able to study her own welfare. There was a bitter struggle in the heart of the poor girl ere she could bring herself to write a letter of renunciation to \Villiam. But she swerved not her duty, however severe might be its requisitions, and while the tears fell like rain over the thoughts of her blighted hopes, not one drop was allowed to blister the page which bore him her final farewell. But Fanny was sadly mistaken when she fancied that the severest part of the conflict was past. The letter only served to bring William in person to combat the resolution she had formed, and s was now to endure the redoubled anguish of beholding her lover’s sorrow. But in vain he sought to alter her decision. She knew that instead of being a help- meet, she could now be only a hindrance to one who was obliged to labor for his daily bread, and her unselfish love taught her that it was for her ‘Alone to suffer and alone to strive.’ H‘My fate is fixed William,’ said the hopeless girl; I I cannot perform the duties of a poor man’s obstacles which divide us,” was his reply. wife, without neglecting my afflicted sister; her 14* 162 sufferings would mar your daily comfort, and her necessities demand my undivided attention. God knows how tenderly I have loved you, and how gratefully I feel your faithfulness, in thus abiding constant through years of absence and disappoint- ment, but that must be at an end now, William ;— our long engagement must be forgotten,—you are free—and may heaven grant you a happier destiny than to be linked with one who seems born only for sorrow.’ “ Poor Fanny ! how bitterly she wept as she uttered these words of self-immolation ! But she knew she was right, and even William, when the first burst of grief had subsided, and he was able to reflect calmly upon all the circumstances, acknowledged within himself, that Fanny had judged wisely for both. He could appreciate the honest pride which forbade her to fill a husband’s home with her own helpless relatives, and he could well understand the disinter- ested affection which taught her to make her own heart the victim rather than heap heavier burdens upon one with whom the world had already dealt hardly. Again they parted, but no hope of reunion now cheered their last farewell ;-—henceforth they were to meet as friends, but never more to exchange the sweet tones of lovers’ vows. How much less hero- ism is required to perform noble deeds in the sight, and beneath the applause of thousands, than thus to sacrifice love, and hope, and happiness, in silence and secrecy on the altar of duty! Yet the warrior receives his meed of glory, while the woman who calmly surrenders the ‘ life of life’ without the stim- ulus of fame or the hope of guerdon;—she who patiently lives on, *in helpless, hopeless, brokenness of heart,’ ministering meekly to others, while' a wasting grief is eating into her very soul—goes down to the grave unnoticed and unknown_—per- haps regarded as a cold and eccentric being by those who cannot fathom the pure depths of such a mind. Fanny’s cheek grew pale and hollow, but she gave no other evidence of secret sorrow, for she well knew that Mary’s keen eye would watch for traces of her heart’s struggle, and she would not pain her ssfl'ering sister by a knowledge of the bitter price at which her comfort had been purchased. At length she heard of William’s marriage, and this severed the last frail link that bound their hearts together. From that time his name was never mentioned, and resolutely forbidding her thoughts to dwell upon the past, Fanny Milbank compelled her- self to cheerfulness. But a shadow had gone over her bright face, and her voice learned a new tone of melanchol pathos—she spoke like one who often weeps. “ The death of her father soon after left her alone with her helpless sister, and having a small apart- ment, Fanny now commenced the task of obtaining a livelihood for both by the labors of her needle. The constant attention which Mary required, ren- dered this very difficult, for many an hour which should have been employed in earning their daily bread, was spent in soothing the pangs of the inflicted invalid. It was at that period that I first met with this heroine of humble life, for what I have hitherto been telling you I learned long afterward. My mother had occasion to employ a sempstress, SELF DEVOTION- and Fanny Milbank having been recommended to her, I was sent to make some enquiry of her previous to giving her the work. I was a giddy school-girl at the time, but I shall never forget the impression made upon me by the neatness of the apartment, the snowy whiteness of the bed-linen, and above all, by the extreme beauty of both the females. Mary's disease did not in the least im- pair the bloom of her lovely countenance, and as she sate propped up in bed by pillows, she looked in far better health than her pale sister. But I soon found that her face was the only part of her frame which had escaped the distorting touch of pain, for her body was shrunken to the size of that of a child, and her limbs were sadly misshapen. My business with them was soon settled, but the interest which they had awakened in my bosom did not so quickly subside. My mother became one of their warmest patrons, and having heard their history from one of their early friends, I need scarcely add that we felt increased respect and regard for the self devoted F anny Milbank.” “And did she meet with no reward for all her virtues, cousin Grace 1'" “Alas! Frank, it is only in novels I fear, that we find virtue always rewarded and vice signally punished. Such things are rarely recompensed on earth, it is only in Heaven that we are told ‘all tears shall be wiped away.’ But I have not yet finished my story. Medical skill was procured for Mary, which, though it could not cure a disease ingrafted in her whole system, yet afforded some alleviation of her severest sufl'erings. Constant em- ployment was also secured to Fanny, so that as far as pecuniary matters went, their condition was much improved; but no human hand could bring back health to the one, or restore the blighted blossoms of hope in the bosom of the other. Some few years later I married, and accompanied my husband to Europe, and my parents having about the same time removed to the south, I lost sight of Fanny Wilbank. When, however, after some years absence I returned to my native city, one of my first wishes was to learn something of her present condition. But the friends who had promised to employ her, had neglected to do so until it was too late; all trace of her had vanished, and I was left to conjecture her fate. I was one day passing a handsome house in street, when I heard a voice from an upper window exclaim * Mrs. ! I am sure it is Mrs. !’ I looked up in surprise and beheld Fanny Milbank. The next moment the hall door opened, and Fanny hurrying down the steps, grasped my band with the warmth of earnest affection. I followed her into a neatly furnished room, and mechanically seating myself, wondered what it all meant. Fanny divined my thoughts, for she smiled, blushed, and seemed about to tell me some news, when a little chubby boy, of some three summers, twaddled into the room and saluted her by the appellation of ‘mother.’ This solved the whole mystery. mCome into the next room, where you will find Mary,’ said Fanny, ‘and I will tell you all about it. For you really did not know that I was married?’ A WINTER “ l No indeed,’ was my reply, ‘pray how long have you been a wife 1’ “ * Almost a year.’ “ * Almost a year ?' I exclaimed in stupid wonder! ‘ and that child 1’ “ ‘ Is my husband’s youngest boy.’ “ *Then you married to take care of another‘s children.’ “ ‘ Yes, I could not refuse him,—fortune had prospered him, so that he could afford to take care of poor Mary, and I consented, though I was almost ashamed to become a bride at my age.’ “ ‘ At your age ! why you look younger and pret- tier than ever, Fanny, in that tasteful little cap.’ “ ‘ Do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. , I know it was foolish to marry for love at forty-five, but William was so lonely, and his poor children were so desolate.’ “ t Then it was William Grey you married?’ " ‘ To be sure ;—did you think it could be any one else?’ “" Ah 1’ said Mary smiling, “ W'illiam would not have won her even now, if it had not been for his motherless children. F army has been so long accus- tomed to sacrifice her own inclinations, that she can- not be persuaded to any self-indulgence unless some duty be closely connected with it.’ “ Fanny Milbank still lives; the beauty of her noble countenance has faded beneath the touch of time, and many a thread of silver is mingled with her dark locks, yet is she the centre of a circle of loving and beloved friends, still the same, patient, tender, self-forgetting being, that she was in the day of her early adversity." “ So she was at last rewarded, cousin Grace, not- withstanding your assertion to the contrary.” 163 SCENE. “ And do you deem her after fortunes a fitting recompense for the trials of her youth, Frank 'I The bloom of youth, the freshness of feeling, the glow of hope, the buoyancy ol health,-all things that give a charm to life, faded one by one from her view, even as the stars vanish in the slowly-gather- ing tempest cloud,—patience, long sufl'ering, meek- ness, and resignation had taken the place of bright anticipation in her bereaved heart,—time had laid his cold touch upon her fair brow, aye, and upon her warm heart too, and then, at the last she was rewarded—how 'l—why forsooth, by wedding the object of her early love, after her life had tfallen into the sear and yellow leaf,’—and thus obtaining the enviable privilege of educating the children of her predecessor." “ What became of poor Mary, cousin?" “ Do you not remember, Frank, the sick lady on whose bed you loved to clamber, when you were a merry little urchin, who used to cover your balls s0 neatly, and paint so many pretty devices for your kites 'l" " To be sure I do ;—I remember too how bitterly I cried when they told me she was dead, and I saw them bring in the small coffin for her shrunken form. You don’t mean to say that was Mary Wilbank '2" “ It was, cousin Frank, and in the story of Fanny Wilbank, I have been relating to you the early life of one whom you have ever loved with filial tender- ness—I mean your excellent step-mother." “She is the only mother I have ever known, cousin Grace," and you can tell me nothing good of her which I cannot readily believe; so if you take her for an example, I have no more to say against the existence of disinterestedness in this selfish world. It is only a pity there are so few like her." Memo-— A WINTER SCENE. BY E. Uncnoumsn the sun from his glittering throne Looked radiantly down where the tempest had gone! For in darkness it came with the tokens of wrath, But fled at the dawn on its ice-covered path. And straight in the sunbeams the forest displayed A host in the armor of battle arrayed; There the “ helmet of brass," and the shield glistened clear, And the bright flashing steel of the sword and the spear. The garden, where Flora in summer is green, At the glance of the sun was all dazzling with sheen; And never a princess outvied, with her gems, The jewels that hung there on numberless stems! The lawn trees which stand in the glory alone, Each sparkled with diamonds, like kings, on a throne, And ne’er when o’erspread with their green foliage shade, Were they in such beauty or splendor arrayed! CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. And silver and gold, as in Solomon’s reign, Were plenty as stones by the wayside again, And bright did the spire and the roof with them glow, While diadems shone on the tall mountain brow. I gazed on the scene with unearthly delight, And thought, while its radiance enraptured my sight, Of that city, which one did in visions behold, Whose gates were of pearl, and its streets paved with old. Again Iglooked forth, while the sunlight yet shone, But the scene of enchantment I sought for was gone! The sun, which had gilded each shrub with its ray, Was melting the landscape of glory away! Thus my hopes have dissolved, which once glistened so bright In the sun of youth's mom, to my fanciful sight; Their hrilliancy passed off in tears,-—oh! how soon! As the sleet-jewels melt in the sunbeams of noon. THE DEFAULTER. BY JOHN T- Ou trouverez vous an In the beautiful season .of youth, when life is just budding forth in all the dewy freshness of ardent hope; when the heart is buoyant, and the energies alive, and panting after objects around which to shed the virtuous influence of their asso_ ciation, oh! then it is that we feel, like the harp that is delicately attuned, the full force of every impression :--of what moment, therefore, are those early connections and restraints which are volun- tarily assumed to fit us for our companionship with the world, or in other words to fortn the character by which we are to be known and appreciated among our fellow men; but that character when formed, like the vestal fire of the ancients, demands the constant vigilance of ottr noblest facttlties to keep alive and perpetuate. George Morris was in his twenty-fourth year, wlten partly by the intercession of rich relatives, and in a great measure by the possession of per- sonal endowments of no ordinary kind, he was called upon to assume an office of public trust. I knew him well. Gay without frivolity—proud in the consciousness of correct principle, and gifted with enviable powers of pleasing, his career, indeed, seemed to offer the rich rewards, if not of honorable fame, at least of high respectability. He loved, and after a short courtship, was wedded. Never were two hearts more willingly allied. The whole ardor of his soul was devoted to the fair being whom he had chosen for his own, and in the retirement of his home did he acknowledge his earthly happiness. Did reflection dwell on the noise and bustle of the world without, it was only to assure him of the comforts of his peaceful fire- side. Thus did time glide ou with silken wing, dispensing the calm and rational pleasures of do- mestic life, which Morris of all others was so formed to appreciate. He began his career, which it was foretold would be so honorable to him, in the capacity of one of the chief officers of an insti- tution of public monetary trust. Here, with prin- ciples of integrity, deep rooted as the rock, he persevered in industrious habits, and by continued vigilance deservedly won the esteem of the com- munity. His probity had been tested, and the man of business implicitly confided in him. Society courted him. Living in a populous city, as years progressed, be occupied an advanced position MAULL. homme sans defauts? Télémaquc. among his fellow men—honorable alike to himself and to a growing family: no cares had with him an abiding place, for his children, whom he dearly loved, were gladdening the father's heart, and yielding him bright hopes for the future. All was happiness—all love and tranquillity. “he then would venture to disturb this domestic Eden? What baneful influence could bring desolation here? Who could wring the tear of anguish from that young and doating mother—or the helping cry from that unprotected child—who convert, as with magic wand, the happy homestead into the refuge of want and aflliction'l The husband! the father himself! Mystery of mysteries! yet did Morris work to himself this very ruin. Lured by the expensive fashions of the day, the splendid equipnge, and the gay coterie of wealth, and desir- ons to equal, if not eclipse the brilliance which he saw in the circles wherein he was called to move, he had given the rein to his appetite and ambition, until he was forced to do an act—an act from which he once would have shrunk aghast, witlt horror and dismay. He defrauded, and was de- tected—he fled: but could he avoid himself? Could he escape the guilty conscience—the bitter remorse? It was in vain. Go where he would, fancy would revert to that blighted, ruined home; and the thought of that one withering act—it was insupportable—it was madness. His repu- tation was irrecoverably gone, and he roamed abroad far front his native land—a wandering outcast. Of what avail were now to him the common blessings of nature? the light to him was as the darkness—the very air was heavy, and laden as with the vapors of a dungeon—the world itself was one vast prison-house. Did he sleep—frightful phantoms would haunt his couch, and drive away repose ; supplicating hands of beg- gared orphans and stricken widows would rise in airy forms, while strange, unearthly voices would cry aloud, and pierce the air in wail and lamenta- tion, then die away as if in mock and derision. Afar from country, relatives and friends, lived the Defaulter. Bitter was the cup which that man drained to the very dregs. Providence had set its sure seal of condemnation on his destiny, and al- though the laws of man were impotent, the great law of the Omniscicnt failed not. There was no COMPARISONS. retreat from that presence, which hath so solemnly declared “thou shalt not steal." At length news was brought to him from afar— it told him that the wife of his bosom was dead —his children dependant upon the charity of stran- gers. It was upon the receipt of this intelligence that I met Morris, who was dwelling in a retired part of one of the chief cities upon the Continent. I dared not think upon what might be the probable result of my interview. Conflicting emotions were agitating my breast, but I had fully resolved on the meeting, and on my arrival accordingly, sought out his residence. It was about eight o’clock, of a summer’s night, that, in an abstracted mood, I sauntered leisurely toward the house. Having pre- sented myself, I was admitted to a small chamber, neatly fumished, where I found him alone. I knew not how to begin, how to address myself to my early friend—so altered. He was lying on a couch, evidently in the last stage of a fever. You felt at once he was a dying man. His presence bewildered me; the hollow and glassy eye rivetted ‘ my gaze, until recollecting myself, in a subdued tone I spoke of the country I had left—my object in travelling—my desire to obtain tidings of him- , self; and then ventured to recall his memory to ‘ the many happy days we had spent in each others society. ‘ “Gone, gone !" said he, groaning aloud, and seeming to awaken from a listless reverie. In a moment he continued. “Will not one human March. 1841. 165 creature compassionate George Morris '!-a stran- ger in a strange land! My Julia—my wife—the mother of my little ones, they tell me is dead; and I, who loved her so, poor thing, they say was her destroyer. Oh, God ! have mercy on thy creature, I feel thy indignation, and am smitten in the dust. Come death, come the grave—welcome your em- braces! But I cannot—cannot endure the iron that is now thrusting itself in my soul.” There is something grand and terrible in the moral subjugation of man. “ L ,” he faintly articulated, after a pause, during which he wept—yes, wept for the first and last time, “ I feel that I am dying—thank God! for his mercy; forgive, my friend, the weakness of these tears-they are of contrition—of—of peni- tence.” Exhausted by this effort, he sank into my arms. “L ,” continued he, reviving, and raising his voice—“ do you not see her—there L-——, there she is, she ’s beckoning to me—she looks the same as on that bridal night—she smiles, too, upon me—and look, L , look, she forgives me—I come! we were sundered once, but now they cannot disunite us.” A struggle ensued, but it was short; a moment more, and he was dead. The flickering flame of the taper had gone out; the moonlight rested upon the pale features of the corpse; and the soul of the Defaulter had sped to its eternal reckoning. COMPARISONS. BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. A leaf upon the stream, When the brook is rushing by In its glorious summer dream,— Such am I.— A feather in the air, When the autumn breeze is high, Driven here and driven there,— Such am I.— A wild flower in the glade, Where the quiet Zephyrs sigh, Most happy in the shade.— Such am I.— March. 1841. As the aspen among trees, Where the sleeping waters lie. Stirred by every passing breeze,—- Such am I.-- But the leaf will find a shore, The feather cease to fly, And both be seen no more,— So will I.— The flower soon will fade, And the aspen's leaves be dry. Both forgotten in the glade,-— So am I.— THE MURDERSIN THE RUE BY EDGAR. A. Ir is not improbable that a few farther steps in phrenological science will lead to a belief in the existence, if not to the actual discovery and loca- tion of an organ of analysis. If this power (which may be described, although not defined, as the capacity for. resolving thought into its elements) be not, in fact, an essential portion of what late philo- sophers term ideality, then there are indeed many good reasons for supposing it a primitive faculty. That it may be a constituent of ideality is here sug- gested in opposition to the vulgar dictum (founded, however, upon the assumptions of grave author- ity,) that the calculating and discriminating powers (causality and contparison) are at variance with the imaginative—that the three, in short, can hardly coexist. But, although thus opposed to received opinion, the idea will not appear ill- founded when we observe that the processes of invention or creation are strictly akin with the processes of resolution—the former being nearly, if not absolutely, the latter conversed. It cannot be doubted that the mental features discoursed of as the analytical are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their efi'ects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics— exhibiting in his solutions of each and all a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehen- sion pristernatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. The faculty in question is possibly much invigo- rated by mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrogade operations, has been called, as if par excellence, analysis. Yet to cal- culate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is greatly misunder- stood. I am not new writing a treatise,but simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by obser- vations very much at random—I will, therefore, MORGUE. POE- take occasion to assert that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully taxed by the unostentatious game of droughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have difl'erent and bizarre motions, with various and variable values, that which is only complex is mistaken (a. not unusual error) for that which is profound. The attention is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an oversight is committed, re- sulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where the moves are unique and have but little variation, the probabilities of inad- vertence are diminished, and the mere attention being left comparatively nnetnployed, what advan- tages are obtained by either party are obtained by superior acumen. To be less abstract. Let us suppose a game of droughts, where the pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some recherché movement, the result of some strong exertion of the intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into miscalculation or hurry into error. Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what are termed the calculating powers; and men of the highest order of intellect have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a similar nature so greatly task- ing the faculty of analysis. The best chessplayer in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess—but proficiency in Whist implies capacity for success in all those more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a comprehension of all the sources (whatever be their character) from which legitimate advantage may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and lie fre- quently among recesses of thought altogether inac- cessible to the ordinary understanding. To observe THE MURDERS attentively is to remember distinctly; and so far the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are suffi- ciently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to proceed by “ the book," are points commonly regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of mere rule where the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in silence, a host of observations and inferences. So perhaps do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information obtained lies not so much in the falsity of the inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of what to observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it care- fully with that of each of his opponents. He con- siders the mode of assorting the cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph or of chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what is played through feint by the air with which it is thrown upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the acciden- tal dropping or turning of a card, with the accom- panying anxiety or carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment, hesi- tation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford to his apparently intuitive perception indications of the true state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of the party had turned out- ward the faces of their own. The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity, for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often utterly incapable of analysis. I have spoken of this latter faculty as that of resolving thought into its elements, and it is only necessary to glance upon this idea to perceive the necessity of the distinction just mentioned. The constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I be- lieve erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a primitive faculty, has been so fre- quently seen in those whose intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy as to have attracted general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater indeed than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than profoundly ana- lytic. - IN THE RUE MORGUE. 167 The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced. Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I there contracted an intimacy with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illus- trious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the quondam energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy of his creditors there still remained in his possession a small renuiant of his patrimony; and upon the income arising from this he managed, by means of a vigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its superfinities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained. Our first meeting was at an obscure libraryin the Rue Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare and very remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. \Ve saw each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little family history which he detailed to me with all the candor which a Frenchman indulges only when self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of his reading—and above all I felt my soul enkindled within me by the wild fervor, and what I could only term the vivid freshness, of his imagination. Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought,I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live together during my stay in the city; and, as my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and furnhising in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque man- sion, long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg St. Germain. Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. \Ve admitted no visiters whomsoever. Indeed the loca- lity of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone. It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it 1') to be enamored of the Night for her own sake; and into this bizarrerie, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims with an utter abandon. The sable divinity would not herself dVvell with us always, but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the mossy shutters of our old building, lighting a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the ghastliest and focblest of rays. By the aid of these 168 THE munnans we then busied our souls in dreams—reading, wrib ing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the streets, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that infinity of mental excite- ment which quiet observation would afford. At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect) a peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager de- light in its exercise, if not exactly in its display; and did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the enunciation. Observ- ing him in these moods I often dwelt meditativer upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin— the creative and the resolvent. Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the Frenchman was but the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in question an example will best convey the idea. We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words— “ He is a very little fellow, that ’s true, and would do better for the Théétre des Variétés." “There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an instant afterward I recol- lected myself, and my astonishment was profound. “Dupin,” said I, gravely, “ this is beyond my comprehension. I do not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of '1" Here I paused, to ascer- tain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. - “ of Chantilly," said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.” This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. Chantilly was a quondam cobler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming stage-mad, had attempted the réle of Xerxes, in Crebillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously pasquinaded for his pains. “Tell me, for God’s sake,“ I exclaimed, “the IN THE RUE MORGUE. method—if method there be—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. “ It was the fruiterer," replied my friend, “ who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of oles was not of suflicient height for Xerxes et id genus mrme.” “ The fruitererl—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever." “The man who ran up against you as we en- tered the street—it may have been fifteen minutes ago." I now remembered that in fact a fruiterer, car- rying upon his head a large basket of apples, had , nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we passed from the Rue G into the thoroughfare where we now stood; but what this had to do with Chan- tilly I could not possibly understand. There was not a particle of charlaténenle about Dupin. “ I will explain," he said, “ and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which I spoke to you until that of the rencontre with the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichol, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the street stones, the fruit- erer." There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, amused themselves in retra- cing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occu- pation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal. What then, must have been my amazement when I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued— “ We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving the Rue C—-—. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thruSt you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or ulky, mut- tered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did—but observation has become with me of late a species of necemity. " You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing with a petulant expression at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw you were still thinking of the stones) until we reached the little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of ex- periment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and, perceiv- ing your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured to yourself the word ‘stereotomicfl You continued the same inaudible murmur, with a knit brow, as is the custom of a man tasking his memory, until I considered that you sought the Greek derivation of the word ‘stercotomyfl I knew THE MURDERSIN that you could not find this without being brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and as, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to you how singu- larly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great nebula in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I now was assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in that bitter tirade upon Chantilly, which ap- peared in yesterday’s ‘ Musée,‘ the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobler‘s change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a very peculiar Latin line upon whose meaning we have often conversed. I mean the line - Perdidit'antiquum litera prima sonum. 1 had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion; and from certain pungen- cies connected with this explanation I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobler’s immolation. So far, you had been stooping in your gait—but now I saw you draw yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your medi- tations to remark that as in fact he was a very little fellow—that Chantilly-he would do better at the Théétre des Van'étiés.” Not long after this we were looking over an evening edition of “ Le Tribunal," when the fol- lowing paragraphs arrested our attention. ‘5 EXTRAORDINARY Mountains—This morning, about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of one Madame L’Es- panaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crow- bar, and eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two gendarmes. By this time the cries had ceased; but as the party rushed up the first flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention were distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased,and every thing remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open) a spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not less with horror than with astonish- ment. _ The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken and thrown about in all directions. THE non monoun. HQ There was only one bedstead; and from this the ‘bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besnieared with blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four Napo- leons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three smaller of metal d’Alger, and two bags, con- taining nearly four thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, al- though many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under the bed (not under the bedstead.) It was open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of little consequence. Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but, an 'unusuul quantity of soot being ob- served in the fire-place, a search was tnade in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head downward, was dragged there- from; it having been thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon examining it many exco- riations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been throttled to death. After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house, without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her throat so entirely out that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell off, and rolled to some distance. The body, as Well as the head, was fear- fully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity. To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew.” The next day’s paper had these additional parti- culars. “ The Tragedy in the Rue Mgue. Many in- dividuals have been examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair." [The word ‘afi'aire’ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys with us,] “ but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material testimony elicited. Pauline Dubaurg, laundress, deposes that she has known both the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms- very affectionate toward each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no fumiture in any part of the building except in the fourth story. Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of selling small quantities of 15 THE MURDERS IN the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four story one, with garrets, (mansardcs). A trap door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between the hearing of the voices in con- tention and the breaking open of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was opened with difficulty. Alfonzo Garcio, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervOus, and was appre- hensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The grufl' voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an Englishman —is sure of this. Does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation. Alberto llIo'ntani, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia. Several witnesses recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps‘ were meant cylindrical sweeping- brushes, such as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every‘flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of Mademoiselle L‘Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could not be got down until four or five or the party united their strength. Paul Dumas, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below the chin, _t0gether with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced apparently by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All the bones of THE RUE MORGUE. 171 the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left tibia much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. \Vhole body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron, a chair, any large heavy and. obtuse weapon, would have produced such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had evi- dently been cut with some very sharp instrument—- probably with a razor. _ Alexandre Etienne, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the bodies. Corroborated the testi- mony, and the opinions, of M. Dumas. Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in Paris—- if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police are entirely at flint—en unusual occurrence in afihirs of 'l'.1s nature. There is not, however, the slr'i-low of a clew apparent.” V The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the premises in question had been care- fully re-searched, and fresh examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed. Dupin seemed singularly interested in the pro- gress of this affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments whatever. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting it. I could merely agree with all Paris in consider- ing it an insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the murderer. “ We must not judge of the means," said Dupin, " by this shell of an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for acumen, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceed- ings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but not unfre- quently these are so illy adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his robe-de-chamb’re—pom' mieuar entendre la musiquc. The results attained by them are not unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser, and a persevering man. But, without edu- cated thought, he erred continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clear- ness, but in so doing he necessarily lost sight of the matter, as a whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always in a well. In fact as regards the more important knowledge I do believe that she is invariably superficial. The \ 172 THE MURDERS IN depth lies in the valleys where we seek her and not upon the mountain tops where she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side- long way by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impres- sions of light than the interior) is to behold the star distinctly-4s to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue pro-~ fundin we perplex and enfeeble thought—and it is possible to make even Venus herselfvanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concen- trated, and too direct. ‘t As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, before we make up an Opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term, so ap- plied, but said nothing] “ and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not ungrate- ful. \Ve will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefet de Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the neces- sary permission.” This permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we reached it, for this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we resided. The house we readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding panel in the window, indicating a loge de concierge. Be- fore going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and their, again turning, passed in the rear of the building—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I could see no possible object. ' Retracing our steps we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, and having shown our creden- tials, were admitted by the agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had as usual been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated in the “ Tribunal." Dupin scrutinized every thing, not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a gendarme accompanying us throughout. Our examination occupied us until dark, when we took our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the office of one of the daily papers. I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that—J: lea me'nagais :—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his humor now to decline all conversation on the sub- THB RUE MORGUE. ject of the murder, until after we had taken a bottle of wine together about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing peculiar at the scene of the atrocity. There was something in his manner of empha- sizing the word “peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. “ No, nothing peculiar," I said, “ nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper.” “ Le Tribunal," he replied, “ has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But we will not revert to the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered inso- luble, for the very reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the outré character of its features. The police are con- founded by the seeming absence of motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled by the seeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust with the head downward up the chimney; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these considerations, with thosg just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if at all, in its search after the true. In investiga- tions such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘ what has occurred which has never occurred before.’ In .fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in exact ratio with its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police.” I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. He continued. l‘I am now awaiting," continued be, looking toward the door of our apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes committed it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading‘tlie entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not arrive ; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use." I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although-by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some .174 THE MURDERS IN was found securely fastened from within. It resis- ted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now entirelysatisfied that egress had not been in/these directions. And, . therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows. “ My own _examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that all appa- rent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. " I proceeded to think thus—a posterio’ri. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have re-fastened the sashes from the inside as they were found fastened, -(the consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter). Yet the sashes were fastened. They must, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some difiiculty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discov- ery, forbore to upraise the sash. “ I now replaced the nail and regarded it atten- tively. A person passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference be_ tween the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board I readin discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly up to the head. “You will say that I was puzzled; but if you think so you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result-and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. ‘There must be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about .the nail.’ I THE RUE MORGUE- touched it; and the head, with about the eighth of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been brOken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust) and had ap- parently been accomplished by the blow of a ham- mer, which had partially imbedded in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the indenta- tion whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a perfect nail was complete. I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with it, remain- ing firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect. " The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassins had escaped through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon their exit (or perhaps purposely closed by them) it had become fastened by the spring ; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary. " The next question is that of the mode of de- scent. Upon this point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there ran a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpenters ferrades—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bourdeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door, (a single, not a folding door) except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis—thus afi'ording an excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open—that is to say they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at these fmades in the line of their breadth, (as they must have done) they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or', at all events, failed to take it into due conside- ration. In fact, having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quar- ter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the win- dow, from the rod, might have been thus efi'ected. By reaching to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet firmly against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we ima- gine the window open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room. THE MURDERS “I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and so difficult a feet. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished :-but, scoondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary—the almost praatematural character of that agility which could have accomplished it. “ You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxta- position, that oery unusual activity of which I have just spoken, with that very peculiar shrill (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose ut- terance no syllabiiication could be detected." At these words a vague and halflformed concep- tion of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse. “ You will see,” he said, “ that I have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert inttncy to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame L’Espmaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life—saw no company —-eeldoni went. out—had little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best—why did he not take all? In a word why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gOld was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the bland- ering idea of motive engendered in the brains of the police, by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coin- cidences ten times as remarkable as this (the deli.- very of the money, and murder committed within three days upon the party receiving it,) happen to each and all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even a momentary notice. Coincidences in general are great stumbling-blooks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing, and care less, of the theory of pro- babilities-that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most IN THE RUE MORGUE. 175 glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed something more than a coincidence. It would have been cor- roborative of this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also ima- gine the perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together. " Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordi- nary assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispole of the mur- dered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney, you will admit that there was some- thing excessively outré—something altogether irre- concileable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, too, what must have been the degree of that strength which could have thrust the body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely suflicient to drag it down! Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most mar- vellous. On the hearth were thick tresses, very thick tresses—of gray human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps a million of hairs at a time. The threat of the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from- the body. The instrument was a mere razor. Here again we have evidence of that vast- ness of strength upon which I would fix your atten- tion. I wish you also to look, and to look steadily, at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor, Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they vtere inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen are very correct. The obtuse in- strument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the po- lice for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all. “ If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of a strength superhuman, an agility astound- ing, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a grotesquerie in horror absolutely alien from human- .ity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men 176 THE MURDERS IN of many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intel- ligible syllabification. What result, then, has en- sued? What impression have I made upon your fancy '1" ' I shuddered as Dupin asked me the question. “ A madman," I said, " has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison de Santé." “ In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such hair as I now hold in my hand. I dis- entangled this little tuft from among the tresses re- maining upon the head of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.” “ Good God," I said, completely unnerved, “ this hair is most unusual—this is no human hair.” “ I have not asserted that it was," said he, " but before we decide upon this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch which I have here traced upon this paper. It is a facsimile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,‘ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another, (by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne,) as ‘a series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.’ “ You will perceive,” continued my friend, spread- ing out the paper upon the table before us, “ you will perceive that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each finger has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful grasp by which it origi- nally imbedded itself Attempt now to place all your fingers, at one and the same time, in the im- pressions as you see them.” I made the attempt in vain. “ We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “ The paper is spread out upon a plane surface ; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again.” I did so; but the difficulty was even more ob- vious than before. “ This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.” “Assuredly it is not,” replied Dupin; “ read now this passage from Cuvier.” It was a minute anatomical and generally descrip- tive account of the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once. “ The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but an Ourang Outang, of the species here mentioned, could have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of yellow hair is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot pos- THE RUE MORGUE. sibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were two voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman." " True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, by the evidence, to this v0ice,—the expression, * man Dieu ." This, under the circumstances, has been justly character- ized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the con- fectioner,) as an expression of remoustrnnce or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the murder. It is possible-indeed it is far more than probable— that he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took place. The Ouraug Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it to this chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it. It is still at large. I will not pur- sue these guesses—for I have no right to call them more than guesses—since the shades of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to make them intelligible t0 the understanding of another than myself. We will call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question be indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertise- ment, which I left last night, upon our return home, at. the office of‘Le Monde,’ (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought for by sai- lors,) will bring him to our residence.” He handed me a paper, and I read thus:— Cnuon'r—In the Bois dc Boulogne, early in the morning of the — inst, (the morning of the mur- der,) a very large, tawny-colored Ourung-Outang of the Bornesc species. The owner, (who is ascer- tained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel,) may have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call at No. -, Rue — Faubourg St. Germain—an troist'eme. “ How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to ‘be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel '1" “I do not know it," said Dupin. “I am not sure of it. Here, however, is a small piece of rib- bon, which has evidently, from its form, and from its greasy appearance, been used in tying the hair in one of those long queue: of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailor can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor be- longing to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in stating what I did in the advertisement. If I am in error he will merely suppose that I have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the trouble to inquire. But if I am right—a great point is gained. Cognizant of the murder, although not guilty, the Frenchman will AN APRIL DAY—T0 defeated him in his own castle. In truth, be is too cunning to be acute. There is no stamen in his wisdom. It is all head and no body—like the pic- tures of the goddess Laverne—or at least all head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good Philadelphia, March, 1841. A -—@e@§eea§sse<>-— ‘ \ THE IEOLIAN HARP. 179 fellow, after all. I like him especially for one mas- ter stroke ofcant, by which he has attained that reputation for ingenuity which hepossesses. I mean the way he has ‘de Mar ce qui est, et d'ezpliquer ce qui n’est pas.’ " AN APRIL DAY." , Tm: spring has come, the low south wind ls breathing sweet,— The showers are patt’ring in the wood, Like fairy feet. Hark! in yon silent grove a bird Pours out its lay,— Such strains, I ween, have not been heard For many a day. Philadelphia, March, 1841. The feath'ry clouds scud o’er the sky, The sun between,— A thousand rain-drops glisten bright, Upon the green. And such is life—an April morn, A changing sky,— To mingled joy and grief we ’re born, And born to die. A. A. I. TO THE ZEOLIAN HARP. SAY magic strain—from whence thy wild note straying ? I Comes it in sadness, or in raptured glee? Art thou a thing of earth, that sweetly playing, Blends in each fitful blast, so tenderly? Or, art than from the star-gem’d vault of Heav'n, Perchance the music of some distant sphere, That faintly echoes on the gales of even, To claim from earth—grier solitary tear? Art thou the revelling of some fairy sprite, Tripping the dewy world fantastically, To keep its tryst beneath the clear moonlight, Awak'ning tones of deepest minstrelsyl ' Or, art thou, breathing from a holier clime, A voice, that calleth tremulously low; To lure the enraptured soul to things divine, Far from deluding joys it meets below 1 Thou com'st with inspiration ’mid thy sighing, A melody, unearthly and unknown; A mingled strain, that on the night-breeze dying, Wakens the heart-strings to thy thrilling tone. Recalling wanderings of the spirit-past, The wayward visions of our fleeting youth; The ling'ring day-dreams that in mem’ry last, Untouch‘d by Time’s realities of truth. Again we roam where forest-shadows blending, Ring with the gladness of our playful hours, Along the murm’ring stream once more we ’re wending. ‘ Lured by the sunny mead, soft winds, and flowers— Or, ofi. renew the link that death hath broken, The cherish'd dead—again recall to view ; Hear ’mid thy varied tones, the fond words spoken, That erst from sorrow’s foun-t deep anguish drew. And fairest visions float through Fancy's fane, Caught from the soul‘s illuminated shrine ; Elysian forms, that purer realms retain, Thoughts of the blest, ethereal, and divine. Earth too is mingling with her mortal hours, The touching softness of her gentle things; And Love—deep-gushing Love—with winged powers, Chimes with the ccstacy each wild note brings. Hast thou not sounds to rouse the soul to madness, To flattering joys—emotions long enshrined; Deep silent melodies of youthful gladness, That spring unbidden to the raptur’d mind 2 This, then thou art—the power of plaintive measure, To call forth passion by the wind-swept wire ; To mingle Hope, with memory’s sad pleasure, This is thy power—Oh! sweet onlian lyre. A. F. H. THE REEFER OF ’76. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR." THE MESS ROOM. IT is scarcely necessary to detail the occurrences of that celebrated cruize. Success appeared to fol- low us wherever we went. After our escape from the man-of-war,—which we subsequently learned to be the Solehay, mounting twenty-eight guns—we ran farther eastward, and soon fell in with several prizes. One morning, however, our look-out de- tected a strange frigate hovering upon the sea- board, nor was it long before we discovered her to be an enemy. We made her out, by the aid of our glasses, to be a light frigate, pierced for sixteen guns on a side. Every rag that would draw was instantly set. With equal alacrity the stranger fol- lowed our example, and a running fight was com- menced, which lasted nearly the whole day; for our daring leader, finding that we could easily outsail the enemy, kept just out of range of her guns, so that, although she maintained a constant fire, every shot fell short. Toward night-fall, how- ever, we gave full rein to our gallant craft, and, to the astonishment and chagrin of the Englishman, left him hull down in a few hours. After hauling: aboard our tacks, we ran up toward Canseau, and for some time inflicted serious damage upon the enemy’s fishermen, around the coast of Nova Scotia. Having finally captured no less than sixteen sail, some of them very valuable, we left the scene of our late exploits, and swept down the coast toward Montauk. It was a cloudless afternoon when we made Block Island, and, as the sun set behind its solitary outline, tinting the sky with a thousand varied dyes, and prolonging the shadow of the coast along the deep, we beheld a small schooner, close-hauled, opening around the northern extremity of the island. In less than a half hour she was close to windward of us. As it was the first friendly craft we had seen for weeks, we were all naturally anxious to learn the state of affairs on land. Paul Jones himself leaped into the rigging and hailed, “ Ahoy ! what craft is that ’2” “ The Mary Ann of Newport,” answered a nasal voice from the low deck of the stranger, ‘~ what vessel air you '2” “ The Providence continental sloop—come to under our lee and send a _boat aboard." “ Ay, ay, sir I" answered the same voice, but in an altered tone, and with the ready alacrity of a true seaman, " round her to, boys; but may be," continued he, again addressing us, “ you hain’t heerd the news yet. I calculate it’ll make the British think we Yankees ain’t to be made slaves of arter all-independence is declared.” “ What !—the Congress declared itself indepen- dent of Great Britain '1” asked Paul Jones, quickly. " Yes! by —,” but the half muttered oath of the seaman died away in a prolonged whistle, as he re- membered how unbecoming an oath would be from a deacon of the church. For an instant there was a profound silence, while we gazed into each other’s faces, with mingled wonder, delight, and pride. The news was not wholly unhoped for, though we had scarcely ventured to expect it. A topman was the first to speak. Forgetting every thing in his enthu- siasm, he shouted, “ Three cheers, my boys, for freedom,—hum 1" And, suiting the action to the word, he broke into a thundering shout, which, taken up by our own crew, was answered back by that of the schooner, until the very heavens seemed to echo the sound. It was a stirring moment. A uni- versal transport appeared to have seized upon our gallant fellows; they threw up their hats, they shook each other’s bands, they laughed, they swore, and the more volatile even danced; while Paul Jones himself, with a flushed cheek and kindling eye, timed the huzzas of his patriotic crew. Before twenty-four hours we were at anchor in Newport, and almost the first craft that I beheld in the harbor, was the saucy little FIRE-FLY. The welcome I received from my shipmates I will not attempt to describe. Over our cold junk and Jamaica, I listened to the narrative of their adven- tures since our parting, and rehearsed in return my own. My arrival was opportune, for the schooner expected to sail in less than a week, and had I been delayed many days longer, I might have found it impossible to have rejoined her during the war. The little time that we remained in port after my arrival, was spent in a constant round of amuse- ments, such only as a set of gay reckless reefers know how to indulge in. Many a gay song was trolled, and many a mirthful tale related by lips that have long since been stilled in death. But what of Beatrice? Had she forgotten me? No—the dear creature had availed herself of one THE REEFER OF of the rare opportunities which then presented themselves occasionally of communicating with the north, to answer a long epistle I had transmitted to her, by a chance vessel, we met a few days after leaving Charleston. Oh! with what simple, yet nervous eloquence did she assure me of her una- bated love, and how sweetly did she chide me for the doubts I had—sinner that I was—whispered respecting it. I kissed the dear missive again and again; I read it over and over a thousand times; I treasured it the more because I knew not when the chances of war would suffer me to hear from her again. I feared not now the influence of her uncle: I felt in my inmost soul that Beatrice was too pure, too self-devoted in her love ever to sacrifice it for luere. And as I felt this it flashed across me that perhaps she might have heard of my being lost overboard from the merchantman; and who knew but that even now she might be mourning me as dead? Happily a brig was now in port about to sail for Charleston. I seized the opportunity, and wrote to inform Beatrice of my safety. In a few days our outfit was completed, and bidding adieu to my friends on board the Provi- dence, we set sail from Newport. The day was bright and glorious, and the sunbeams danced mer- rily upon the waves. A light breeze murmured through the rigging; the gay song of the sailors from the merchantmen in port floated softly past; and the scream of the sea-birds broke shrilly over us, high in the clear blue sky. As the day advanced, however, a thin, guaze-like vapor gradually spread over the horizon, deepening before four bells in the afternoon watch to an im- pervious canopy of black, which stretching from pole to pole, obscured the whole firmament, and threw a premature and sickly gloom over the deep be- neath. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in irregular puffs, and whitening the surface of the sea in patches over the whole of its wide extent ; while occasionally a low, half-smothered murmur, as if arising out of the very heart of the ocean, betokened that the elements of the storm were at work far down in their wild recesses. As the day advanced the sky became even more ominous, until long before nightfall its weird-like grandeur excelled any thing I had ever beheld. By this time, too, the wind had increased almost into a hurricane, and with every thing trimmed down, we were cleaving through the fast whitening billows with an exhili- rating velocity that only a sailor can appreciate. The rain meanwhile was falling fast. As night came on the watch was set, and most of us went below, so that all off duty were soon congregated in our mess-room. - “ A wild night," said the last corner, as he shook the wet from his shaggy jacket, “ and I see you ’re determined to make the most of it, my boys—push us the Jamaica, Parker, and don’t forget the junk in passing. Here ’s to the thirteen united colonies, hurrah!" “ Hurrah! hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah !" rung around the crowded room, as we drank off our bumpers. “Can’t you give us a toast, O‘Shaughnessy 'l" sung out Westbrook. ’76. 181 “Share and what shall it be 2" said he, with humorous simplicity. A general roar of laughter followed. “ Any thing, my hearty," said Westbrook, cramming a piece of junk into his mouth as he spoke. “ Arrah thin, and ye ’11 not refuse to dhrink the memory of our gallant comrade," said he, looking hard at me, “ present this blessed minit, who fought, bled, and died at Fort Moultrie—Misther Parker, I mane, boys." The explosions of laughter which followed this speech, like successive peals of thunder, were enough to lift the deck of the schooner off bodily from overhead. But the most laughable part of all was the amazement of poor O’Shaughnessy, who, unable to understand this new burst of merriment, looked from one to another, in humorous perplexity. As soon, however, as the company could compose itself, the toast was drunk amid a whirlwind of huzzas. I rose to return thanks. “ Hear him—hear him," roared a dozen voices. I began. “Honored as I am, gentlemen, by this token of—of," but here I was interrupted by the entrance of the purser, who, poking his head through the narrow doorway, said, “ Gentlemen, the captain must be informed of this riot if it continues." The purser was a stifl, starch, precise old scoun» drel, with a squint in his eye, a nasal twang, and an itching after money beyond even that of Shylock. To make a dollar he would descend to the meanest shifts. But this would not have irritated the mess so much, even though he had at one time or an- other fleeced every member of it, had it not been his constant practice to inform on such of the tricks inseparable to a set of youngsters as came under his notice. He was, in short, a skulking spy. Added to this he was continually affecting a strict- ness of morals which was more than suspected to be hypocritical. “ And who made you keeper of the skipper’s conscience i—eh ! old plunderer," said Westbrook, as he shied a biscuit at the purser’s head. “ Really, gentlemen, really—I—I must—” “Come in, or you ’ll catch cold in the draught," sung out our reckless comrade, “ your teeth chatter so now you can’t talk. Haul him in there, O‘Shaughnessy." ’ Quick as the word the unlucky interloper was dragged in, the door shut, and he stood turning from one to another of our group in speechless amazement. We were all ready for any mischief. The rattling of the cordage overhead, the thunder of the surge, and the deafening whistle of the hur- ricane we knew would drown all the uproar we might occasion, and afford us impunity,f0r any offence. Besides it was no part of his duty to be intruding on our mess, and threatening us With punishment. We had a long account to settle with our extortioner. ' “ Hope you find yourself at home—take a s0- ciable glass, that’s a good fellow—glad to see you amongst us," sung out as many voices as biscuit after biscuit was sent at the pursei’s head, while 16 182 Westbrook mixing a stiff tumbler of salt and water proliered it to our victim to drink. " Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you— the utmost penalty of--of the regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me God.“ “ A penalty ! a penalty! the worthy man is pro- fane: how shall we punish such immorality 1'" “(Job him,” said one. " Keel-haul him,” said another. e Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third. . “ Give him the salt and water," chimed in West- brook, and the salt and water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the loath- ing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to ad- minister the draught. “ Gentlemen—I—I—protcst—a—gainst — you shall suffer for this—you shall—" “ Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy," said O‘Shaugh~ nessy, giving the purser a shake. “ Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—1 warn you,” said the parser raising his voice. But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand, he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man, and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence. “ It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sewer,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon his heart, “ to hear a man of your character use such language as you have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided young reprobates," here there was a general laugh, “ example, example, my dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done : the penalty alone remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I proceed to execute your sentence." - " Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e— u—uh.” But in vain the parser kicked, and struggled, and splattered. The mess was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and bemoaning his melancholy duty, -—as he called it—in the same breath, poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of laughter. ‘ “ D—-—n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser, almost choked with rage. “ Open the door and let him run," laughed West- brook. The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed until the tears ran out of their eyes. “ A song—give us a song, Westbrook !" shouted the one at the foot of the table, as soon as the mer- riment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again and again, had finally died away. “ What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ ah ! our own mess-room song, Parker has n’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly dry." Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hem- med twice, and sang in a fine manly tenor, the following stanzas: THE REEFER OF- ’76. “Oh! what is so gay as a reefer’s life! With his junk and Jamaica by him, He cares not a fig for the morning’s strife. He seeks but the foe to defy him; He fights for his honor and country's laws, He fights for the mother that bore him,— And the hireling slave ofa tyrant’s cause Will quail, like a coward, before him. The deep may unfetter its surges dread, The heavens their thunders awaken, The tempest howl as it sweeps overhead,— He smiles at all danger_unshaken ; With an unblenched eye, and a daring form He fearlessly gazes before him, ‘ T hough he fall in battle, or sink in the storm, His country, he knows, will weep o'er him. In her sun-lit vallies are daughter’s fair 'I‘o greet us from battle returning, With their song and smile to banish each care By the hearth-fire cheerily burning. Oh! who would not fight for beings like these, For mothers, for grandsires hoary? Like a bosom we ’ll sweep the foe from the seas, Or die, in the strife, full of glory." “ Bravo ! three times three l” and the triple sound rolled stunningly from our throats. “ Hark ! was n’t that the boatswain’s whistle 'l" said l, and for a moment we paused in our applause to listen. But the tumult of the storm drowned everything in its fierce uproar. ' “ Again, boys—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah !" and the cheers were renewed with redoubled vigor. “ Gentlemen, all hands on deck," said the quar- er-master, opening the door at this moment. “Ay! ay' sir," was the simultanedus response of every member of the mess, and in less than a minute our late-noisy apartment was as quiet as the tomb, and we had each taken his post on deck. Such is discipline. The spectacle that met our vision as we reached the deck, drove at once, all the excitementofour po- tations off; and we were as calm and collected in a second after leaving the gang-way, as if we had kept above during the whole evening. Never can I forget that moment. The rain was pouring down in torrents, not perpendicularly, however, but slant- wise, as it was driven before the hurricane. Now it beat fiercely into our faces, and now was whirled hither and thither in wild commotion. Around, all was dark as pitch. We could not see a dozen fathoms in any direction, except where the white crests of the surges flashed through the gloom. These could, however, be detected close under our lee glancing through the darkness, while the dull continued roar in that quarter, betokened our im- mediate vicinity to breakers. They were in fact, close aboard. Had they not been detected the instant they were, we should have run on to them the next minute, and perished to a soul. Happily we had just room to wear. This had been done before we were summoned on deck. We had now close-hauled every thing, and were endeavoring, as our only hope, to claw off the shore. THE REEFER OF The next fifteen minutes were spent in that agonising suspense, far more terrible than death itself, which men experience when the king of ter- ror smiles grimly in their faces, and yet witholds the blow. As we gazed out, through the driving rain, upon the dimly seen breakers on our starboard beam, and heard their wild monotonous roar as of bounds yelling for their prey, a sense of inexpressi- ble awe stole upon our minds, which, though totally devoid of fear, was yet appalling. Who knew but that, before another hour, aye ! before a quarter of that time, our mangled bodies might be floating at the mercy of the surge? Every moment deepened . our anxiety, for though our little craft breasted the waves with gallant determination, sending the spray as high as her mast head at every plunge, yet there was no perceptible increase in our distance from the shore. Fierce, and fiercer, meanwhile, grew the tempest. The surge roared under our lee; the wind howled by like the wailings of the damned; and the occasional lightnings, which now began to illuminate the scene, lit up the whole firmament a moment with their ghastly glare, and then left it shrouded in darkness deeper than that of the day of doom. At intervals the thunder bellowed overhead or went crackling in prolonged echoes down the sky. The schooner groaned and quivered in every timber. Now we rose to the heavens; now wal- lowed in the abyss. The men, grasping each a rope, looked ominously at the scene around, or east hurried glances aloft as if fearful that our masts would not stand the strain. “ Hark 1" said Westbrook, who stood beside me, “ was not that a guniI—there again '2" As he spoke the sullen roar of a cannon boomed across the deep, and for several successive minutes, in the intervals of the thunder, followed the same awful sound. We looked at each other. “ They are signals of distress,” I ejaculated, “ God have mercy on the sufferers! for man can afford them no help.” I had scarcely ceased speaking when a succes sion of rapid, vivid flashes of lightning, illumined the stormy prospect for severallminutes, as with the light of day; and for the first time we caught a glimpse of the rocky coast, on our lee, against which the surge was breaking in a hurricane of foam. But fearful as was the spectacle of our own danger, it was surpassed by the sight which met our eager gaze. About a cable’s length ahead, and a few points on our lee bow, was a tall and gallant bark, dismantled and broached to, upon a reef of jagged rocks, now buried in foam. Her weather quarter lay high upon the ledge, and was crowded with unfortunate human beings, men, women and children, over whom the surges broke momentarily in cata- racts. I hear now their wild despairing cries, although years have passed since then. I see their outstretched hands as they call on heaven for mercy. I feel again the cold chill, freezing up my very blood, which then rushed across my heart, as I thought of their inevitable doom, and knew not but that in a few moments I should share its bitterness with them. I was startled by a deep voice at my side. It was that of an old warrant officer. The tears were streaming down his weather-beaten cheeks, ’76. 183 and his tones were husky and full of emotion as he said, “ It’s a sad spectacle that for a father, Mr. Parker." “ It is, Hawser—but why do you shed tears ?-- cheerfup, man—it ’s not all over with us yet,” said I. “ Ah ! sir, its not fear that makes me so, but I was thinking what my little ones, and their poor mother‘would do for bread to eat, should I be taken away from them. You are not a father, Mr. Parker." “ God forgive me, Hawser, for my suspicion. I honor your emotions,” said I, pressing his horny hand, and turning away to conceal my own feel- ings. But as I did so, I felt something hot fall upon my finger. It was the old man’s tear. . “ We must give her another reef, I fear," said the captain, as he saw how fearfully the vessel strained, “ no, no,” he added, as he glanced again at the rocky coast, “it will never do. Keep her to it,” he thundered, raising his voice, “ keep her to it, quarter-master.” “ Ay, ay, sir." we were now almost abreast of the ill-fated wreck. Driving rapidly along, the dark waters sink- ing in foam beneath our lee as we breasted the opposing surge, our fate promised soon to be the same with that of the wretches on the reef. The crisis was at hand. We were in dangerous proxim~ ity to the dismantled ship; and the least falling off would roll us in upon her. It was even doubtful whether we could weather the reef, should we still hold our owp. At this moment a ray of hope ap~ peared. We perceived that the shore shelved in just beyond the wreck, and that, if we could escape the ledge, our safety would be ensured. The cap- tain took in at a glance this new situation of affairs, which, by holding out hope, redoubledbvery motive to action. " How bears she 7” he anxiously inquired. The man answered promptly. ' “ Hard tip—press her down more," he shouted, and then muttered, between his teeth “or we are lost.” “ She is almost shaking.” " How does she bear 1'” “ A point more in the wind’s eye." “ Harder yet, harder.” “Ay, ay, sir." “ How now ?" “ Another point, sir.” The crisis had now come. Bending almost to the horizon, under the enormous press of her can- vass, the schooner groaned and struggled against the seas, and for one moment of intense agony, during which we held our breaths painfully, and even forgot the cries of the sufferers upon our lee, we thought that all was over; but, although the schooner staggered under the successive shocks, she did not yield, and as the last billow sank away, whitening beneath her lee, and we rose gallantly upon its crest, the rocky reef shot aw'ay astern, and we were safe. As the wreck vanished in the gloom behind, the cries of her despairing passen- gers came mingled with the roar of the tempest, in awful distinctness, to our ears. THE OUTLAW LOVER. BY J. CHAPTER I. Com. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? Camus. IT was a summer afternoon, and the sunlight, glimmering through the branches of the old oak trees, fell with a rich glow upon the green sward beneath, lighting up the dark vistas of the forest, and disclosing long avenues of stately trees, through which the deer trotted in the distance, presenting altogether a picture of woodland scenery such as the eye rarely beholds, when two females might have been seen sauntering idly along, listening to the gay echoes of their own voices as they conver- sed in those light-hearted tones, which only youth and innocence employ. The foremost of the two, by the stateliness of her mien, and the richness of her dress, appeared to be of higher rank than her companion; and as she \urried occasionally to con- verse with her attendant, she dieclosed one of the most beautiful countenances that poet ever dreamed of, or painter pictured. A noble contour; a snowy forehead; a finely chiselled mouth; and a pair of dark lustrous eyes that shone like a cloudless night into the gazer’s soul, made up a face of surpassing loveliness. - And as she conversed, each successive thought would flash up into her countenance, mak- ing it, as it were, the mirror of the pure soul be- neath, and giving it an expression, such as the pen ' would find it impossible to describe. 5* Ruth! Ruth l" said this fair vision, suddenly pausing, “hear you nothing—surely that was the cry of dogs—~can we have wandered so far from the lodge 'l” The color faded from the attendant‘s cheek as her mistress ceased speaking, and the deep bay of approaching hounds floated down the avenues of the forest. “ Let us fly—fly, dear lady," said the terrified girl, “ or the stag will be upon us.":- The words had scarcely left her mouth before a crashing was heard in a neighboring thicket, and before the females could move more than a few steps from their position, a huge antlered stag, dripping with blood and foam, burst out of the copse, and made toward them. The attendant shrieked, and clasping her mistress’ robe, stood unable. to move. Had the maiden been equally paralysed, their destruction would have been un- H. avoidable. But in that moment of peril, though DANA. the cheek of the lady Margaret became a trifle paler than usual, her presence of mind did not desert her. Seizing her attendant‘s arm energeti- cally, she dragged her toward a huge oak behind them, whose giant trunk would afford a momentary barrier against the infuriated animal. Had the lady Margaret been alone and unencumbered, she would have succeeded in her endeavor, but her nearly senseless companion so retarded her progress that the stag had almost overtaken them while yet several paces from the tree. Another instant and their fate would be sealed. But at that crisis she heard a whizzing by her ear, and an arrow; sped by an unseen hand, pierced the heart of the stag, who leaping madly forward with a last effort, fell dead at her feet. At the same moment a light and active form, arrayed in a dress of Lincoln green, sprang out from a neighboring copse, and lifting his cap to the ladies, begged to enquire after their afli-ight, in a tone so courtly for one of his apparent station, that Margaret involuntarily looked closer at the stranger. He was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with an open and generous countenance, eu- livened by one of those merry blue eyes which were characteristic in those days, of the pure Saxon blood of their possessor. A jaunty cap, with a long white Yeather drooping over it, was set upon the stranger's head ; while a green coat, made somewhat after the fashion of a hunting frock oi the present day, and crossed by a wide belt from which depended a bugle, set off his graceful form. Altogether the intruder was as gallant a looking forester as ever trod the greensward. " The hounds are in full cry," continued the stranger, without shrinking at the scrutiny of the lady, “ and will soon be upon us. Will you suffer me tov be your protector from this scene 'I” The lady Margaret bowed, and pointing to her attendant, who had now fainted, thanked their pre- server for his offer, and signified her willingness to accept it. The youth made no answer, but seizing the prostrate maiden in his arms, he pointed to the copse from which he had emerged, and hastily fol- lowed Margaret into it. The branches, where they passed in their retreat, hsd scarcely ceased vibra- ting, when the hounds dashed into the space they had left, and in a moment after a gay train of hunters followed with horn and halloo. Meantime the young stranger, bearing the form of Ruth in his arms, hastily traversed the forest, by THE OUTLAW LOVER. paths that others could scarcely have detected, until he reached the margin of an open glade, at whose extremity stood a low-roofed lodge, such as was then used for the residence of a keeper of the forest. Here the stranger hesitated a moment, but finally perceiving that no one was in sight, he pres- sed across the glade, and only paused when he had deposited his now reviving burden on a cot in the lodge. The next moment he turned to depart. “ May—may we know to whom we are indebted for this timely aid 1" faltered the lady Margaret, crimsoning as she spoke, with an agitation of man- ner unusual to the high_bred heiress. The youth hesitated a moment. looked wistfully at the maiden, and seemed on the point of answer- ing, when footsteps were heard approaching. Has- tily bowing to Margaret, he ejaculated, “ We may meet again, farewell !” and vanished from the portal. His form disappeared in the forest as the keeper entered and saluted the lady Margaret and his daughter. CHAPTER 11. Gel. Soft ! comes he not here? As you like it. Tm: Earl of Mountfort’s only daughter, the lady Margaret, was at once an heiress and a beauty. Early deprived of a mother’s care; buried in the seclusion of her father’s various castles; and know- ing nothing of the great world without, she had attained the age of eighteen, without sufi'ering any diminution of that enthusiasm which is so beautiful in early youth,but which a few year’s collision with mankind wears off. From her earliest childhood Ruth Herewood, the forester’s daughter, had been her bosom companion; for in that day, when young females of noble rank could rarely associate together, their handmaidens were often their sole confidants. Ruth, moreover, was a foster sister to the lady Margaret, and the tie, therefore, which bound them together was one not lightly thought of, nor easily severed. It was no unusual thing for the young heiress, at least once a year, to spend a fortnight or even more at the Lodge of Mr. Herewood, who held the office of a keeper in one of the king’s forests. At such times she was unattended, except by a few faithful servants. It was during one of these visits that her life had been preserved in the manner we have related. With those explanations let us return to our story. A significant sign from her mistress put Ruth upon her guard, and as the stranger had disap- peared before her father’s entrance, Mr. Here- wood remained in ignorance of the danger from which the females had escaped. The motives which prompted Margaret to this concealment we shall not attempt to divine. Perhaps it was only a passing whim; but 1f so it was changed into a settled resolution, when, on the following morning Ruth's father acquainted them with the fact that a stag had been found shot in the forest by the royal hunting party, and that so daring a breach of the forest laws would assuredly be punished with the ut- most penalty that rigorous code afi'orded. Alarmed 185 and perplexed, Margaret‘determined to conceal all knowledge of the stranger, lest, by her means, he might be detected; for she feared that her rescuer was one of those outlaws who were known to in- fest the forest, and that though he might find im- munity for that particular ofi'ence, he could not escape being convicted of others as heinous. Yet Margaret could not forget her preserver. In her waking or leeping dreams his manly form was ever before her, looking as it did when he sprang from the copse to her rescue; and as often as the vision recurred to her memory she owned to herself that she had never seen any one of such rare manly beauty. She strolled oftener than ever into the forest, and Ruth noticed—for are not all women quick to notice such things 'l—that whenever her theme of conversation was their unknown preserver, her mistress listened to her with more than common interest. Several days had now elapsed since their escape from the stag, when, one afternoon, Margaret and Ruth, found themselves in that portion of the forest where their fright had occurred. As it was some distance from the lodge, they felt fatigued by their walk, and sitting down on a shady knoll, naturally fell into a conversation on the stranger who had so opportuner come to their aid. But a few minutes had thus passed when a light step was heard ap- proaching, and as the females hastily arose, the stranger stood before them. “ Be not alarmed, fair lady," said he, lifting his cap, and addressing Margaret, “I said when we parted the other day that we might meet again. I redeem my word. 'But if my presence afi'rights you I retire.” The maiden blushed deeply at this address, so unlike that of one in the speaker’s sphere of life. Her bosom was agitated, meanwhile, with contend- ing emotions, which produced a momentary embar. rassment and confusion in her countenance, only serving to heighten her beauty in the stranger’s eyes. At length she spoke. “ But, sir stranger, do you not run a risk by this? Believe me I would not have you come to ill, but I know that danger besets your footsteps. Then,” she added, more earnestly than the next moment she thought maidenly, “ fly from the forest." The stranger smiled as he answered. “ ou think that the outlaw’s life is hazardous; but I have only to sound this,” and he lightly touched his bugle, “ and a score of stout arms are around me.” There was something so fascinating in the stran. ger’s manner that, despite her better judgment, Mar- garet felt chained to the spot. Nor did Ruth show any greater disposition to depart. Before five rni- nutes had elapsed, Margaret found herself conver- sing with the gallant outlaw as freely as if she had known him for months. If, for a moment, she would think such conduct improper, the next reflection would be had he not saved her life? Besides was not Ruth at hand'.I Is it a wonder, therefore, that the grateful girl sufi'ered the stranger to linger by her side for nearly an hour, or that after they had parted, she thought of him oftener / 16" 186 than she would have been willing a week before to admit she could ever think of any one except her father? Is it a wonder that she often strolled into the forest with Ruth, and that she never returned without having seen the outlaw? In a word is it any wonder that she loved? CHAPTER III. Never met, or never parted, They had ne‘er been broken-hearted. Burns. TnEnE is nothing in this care-worn world so sweet and innocent as a young girl's first love. Then—when the heart is fresh, when every thought is pure, when the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of the son], when as we are nearer to our childhood we are nearer to heaven—then it is that we love with an intensity such as we never love with again. And thus Margaret loved. She knew it not until it was impossible for her to drive away her passion. It had crept on her, slowly but surely, and oh 1 how sweetly, until it became a part of her being, and the day in which she did not see her lover, passed tediously and mournfully to her. Yet though loving as few love, even in the fer- vor of a first passion, Margaret was still ignorant of her lover’s name. Often would she be tortured by fears lest he might have already forfeited his life in the career of an outlaw, but as often would she quiet her alarm by reflecting how impossible that a mere freebooter should be so courteous and even refined. ' In all this there was va mystery which did but feed the love of her highly imaginative mind, and though, day after day, would she resolve to question her lover so closely respecting himself that he could not evade her inquiries, yet, day after day, would she be diverted from, and forget it. Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, and the period limited for her stay at the lodge had passed, when a messenger arrived from her father, to con- duct her to one of his castles in the vicinity of London. Who can tell her feelings at receiving this summons ?—a summons which would tear her from her lover, perhaps forever. But it opened to her more fully than ever the state of ‘her heart, con- vinced her of her imprudence in suflering herself to love an unknown stranger, and determined her to learn that very day from her lover‘s lips his name and station in life. Ah! pitiable indeed were her feelings as she reflected on her folly. But a flood of tears afforded her partial relief, and calling for Ruth to accompany her she set forth into the 'forest. . ‘What a glorious old place was that royal hunting ground. For miles before you stretched a succes- ‘sion of hills and dales, covered with venerable and gigantic trees, or spreading out into rich meadows; while herds of deer might be seen trotting far off through the vistas of the forest, and here and there a cottage peeping out from beneath the verdant fo- liage. In some places the dark overshadowing trees completely obscured the light of day, and in others, the sunbeams struggling between the leaves gilded the greensward beneath. Such was the scene through which Margaret took her way, until THE OUTLAW LOVER” she reached the open glade, where, of late, she had met her lover. Searcer had she emerged from the surrounding woods before he sprang to her side, and in a moment she was in his arms. “ We meet again, dearest," said he, kissing the fair cheek that blushed crimson at his caress. “And I fear, for the last time," said Margaret, “ my father has sent for me, and to-morrow I leave this place. Oh! when,” and she looked into his eyes with all a woman’s tenderness, “ shall we meet again ?" “ Going !—and so soon !” muttered her lover, abstractedly, “why dearest, why did you not tell me of this before 7" " It was but this morning that I heard of it. Alas ! that we should part so soon." “But how know you, sweet one, that we must part ?" said her lover half smilingly. It recalled to Margaret’s mind her determination to learn her lover’s history. "Why," said she, “ are you not a mere,” and her voice faltered, “a mere soldier of fortune, per- haps—,” and again she faltered and looked down, “ an outlaw? Can you follow me? Oh 1 would you could,” and the unhappy maiden burst into tears. “ And why not, dear Margaret? Have not good men and true, at times, been driven to the greenwood for a temporary livelihood. Know you not how the good Earl of Huntingdon long kept wassail under the trees of old Sherwood with his ‘merrie men?’ " “Oh! then say you are like him—say you are not an outlaw! Did you but know how my heart reproves me for all this--how I weep to think that my father will never forgive me—and how my only consolation is in your love—did you know all this, you would keep me in suspense no longer 1" Her lover was deeply moved by her passionate entreaties, and pressing her to his bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, and soothed her agitation by those words of kind endearment which are so eloquent when coming front one we love. He seemed too about to speak; but if so, he was pre- vented by a sudden haying of bounds, mingled"with loud and approaching shouts, and directly a couple of dogs, followed by three keepers dashed out of the neighboring copse. Margaret, terrified and agita- ted, hastily followed whither her lover pointed, and retreated into the shadow of a cluster of oaks, fol- lowed by Ruth. She had scarcely done so unper- ceived, when the keepers rushed upon her lover, shouting, “ Down with him—the outlaw—down with him." Frightened almost out of consciousness, she could only see that her lover attempted what resistance he could, and that after a short but fierce contest he was overpowered, almost unarmed as he was, and borne to the ground. With all a woman’s devotion she rushed forward to his protection. But she had scarcely made a step, befbre she staggered and fainted. Ruth, too, was so alarmed as to be of little service; yet while, with trembling hands, she assisted to recover her mistress, so fearful was she of being discovered, that she would scarcely sufi'er herself to breathe. " Oh! Ruth,” were the first audible words of ‘— r;- THE OUTLAW LOVER. her mistress " what have they done with him? Are they gone'.I Why did you not try to save him ?" “Alas! dear lady, it would have been in vain,” said Ruth, mingling her tears with those of her mistress, “ what could I, or both of us have done, for one who had broken the forest laws '1" CHAPTER IV. I’ll call thee, Hamlet. Shakspeare. Htmaran away early on the ensuing morning, ‘ Margaret had no opportunity of learning the fate of 4‘ her lover. She only knew that all delusion was at an end, and that—alas! for her future happiness— she had bestowed her affections on an outlaw, one who might soon suffer the penalty of his transgres- sions. On her arrival at Mountfort castle, she learned that her father had determined to celebrate the ap- proaching anniversary of her birth, by a tournament to be given to all comers at his castle. The pre- paration for this festivity, though it partially diverted her mind, could not drive away her melancholy. Often would she steal away with Ruth, to find a mournful pleasure in conversing of the happy days they had spent at her father’s lodge. Such conver- sations would generally end in a flood of tears, in which the tender-hearted hand-maiden would share. Yet never, not even for one moment, did Margaret sufi'er herself to dream of again meeting her lover, for well she knew that such a thing would call down upon her the. eternal displeasure of her parent. Let it be recollected that in that age the distinctions of rank were almost as impassable as the grave. Nevertheless, the worm had fastened itself upon her heart, and like thousands before and since, the heir- ess found how fearful it was to love without hope. Meantime the preparations for the tournament proceeded, and on the morning of the expected day, crowds thronged to the plain in front of the castle, on which the lists had been erected. The unrivalled beauty of the heiress in whose honor the festivities ' were to be given, had drawn together the chivalry of the realm, and a series of courses was expected to be run such as had not been heard of for years. But especially every tongue was loud in the praise of the young Earl of Hastings, who, had just re- turned from the Holy land, where he had been since boyhood, with the reputation of the best lance of the army. There were many, however, of the com- petitors who sneered at his pretensions, and promised ~ themselves to unhorse him at the first shock. “ Margaret," said her father, on the morning of the tournament, “ you will see lord Hastings in the lists to-day, and I wish you to mark him well, for having heard of you by report, he has solicited your hand. Such an alliance would raise higher than ever our noble house. I did not hesitate. But now never blush, sweet one,-—you maidens are ever thus,—what! in tears. Go to your bower, child, and get ready for the pageant. Many a proud dame will envy your lot to-day.” ' Little did the inflexible, though affectionate father know of the agony he was inflicting on that young heart. Margaret saw that her doom was sealed, 187 and she knew her parent too well even to expostu- late. She went to her chamber, but it was to weep. All hope was over. She had nourished the roman- tic idea of continuing faithful to her unhappy lover by refusing every alliance, never dreaming that her father would interfere. Short-sighted girl! Already had he chosen for her, and she knew that the de- crees of fate were less inflexible than her parent. At length, however, she aroused herself and pro- ceeded to the lists, in all the pomp of the heiress of her father’s vast possessions. How few knew the heavy heart which throbbed in agony beneath that jewelled boddice. The lists were gorgeously fitted up. A gallery in their centre, opposite to where the > shock of the combatants would take place was ap- propriated to Margaret, who was to preside as queen of the festivities. Around were her father’s count- less guests, numbering half the nobility of the realm, their wives and daughters flashing with jewels, and all envying the fortunate being, who, at that moment, would willingly have exchanged her rank and splen- dor for the peasant’s garb, if it came attended by happiness. The tournament began. Several courses had been l'tlll with' various success, when a herald rode into the lists and proclaimed that three courses yet remained, all of which Sir Robert De Laney, a renowned knight, would engage in with any three combatants, until overpowered or victorious. Several knights instantly presented themselves. The lot fell upon three, the Earl of Warren, Sir Edward Sidney, and lord Hasting. At once the challenger presented himself for the first antagonist. But the the skill of his opponent was in vain. Lord Warren was hurled bleeding to the ground. The Earl of Hastings now rode into the lists, and at his appearance a buzz of admiration ran around the spectators. His mien, his horsemanship, his comparative youth, and the renown he had brought with him from the east, enlisted the popular wish in his favor. Nor did he disappoint it. At the first shock he splintered his lance against his antagonist’s front, while De Laney’s shaft just grazed by him The older knight reeled in the saddle, and scarcely saved himself fromvfalling. A shout of general applause rewarded the young Earl’s skill. But there yet remained an equally renowned competitor with whom to contend. By the laws of the tournament, Sir Edward Sidney had a right to contest with the conqueror for the honors of the day, a privilege of which he instantly signified his intention of availing himself. With equal readiness the young Earl prepared for the contest. The corn- batants took their places, and after a breathless hush of an instant the signal was given, and they vanished from their stations. The shock of their meeting was like that of an earthquake. The knight directing his lance full at his adversary’s breast, aimed to hear him by main force to the ground, but at the very instant of meeting, the young Earl bent in the saddle to evade the blow, and altering the direction of his own lance as he did so, he bore it full upon the breast of his antago- nist, triking him with such force as to hurl him from the saddle like a stone from a sling. The discomfited knight fell heavily to the earth, and was 188 borne off by his squires; while the victor swept onward amid the acclamations of the spectators. The heralds now proclaimed lord Hastings the conqueror of the day, and led him toward the lady Margaret to receive the prize. Who can tell her feelings as she beheld the gal- lant train approaching? She saw before her, her destined lover, and however she might have admired his gallant exploits had her heart been disengaged, could she—loving another as she did—look upon him with aught but aversion? But though her emo- tion nearly overpowered her, she composed herself sufiicieritly to go through with her approaching duty. As the victor knelt at her feet, what sudden feeling was it which shot through her bosom? Why did her cheek crimson, her breath come quick, her heart flutter wildly? And why, as the helmet was removed from lord Hastings, did she drop the crown with which she was to reward him, and with a half suppressed scream, faint away? Why! but that in the victor of the tourney she recognised her own outlaw lover. The joy of the reviving maiden when she found her preserver bending over her, and conjuring her to speak to him once more and forgive his strata- OLD MEMORIES- gem, we shall not attempt to describe. Suflice it to say that the day of the tourney which opened as the darkest, set as the brightest, in her life. The young Earl happening to see his mistress accidently had imbibed the romantic idea of wooing her as an unknown and untitled stranger. For this purpose he had secretly followed her down to the lodge, and attired in an outlaw’s dress, had hovered around her path, waiting for a fitting opportunity to introduce himself. The manner in which he was at length favored by circumstances, as well as his subsequent success in his suit, the reader has seen. But his pretended character was not without its evils. He was seen, suspected, and captured by the forest keepers in the way we have described. He only escaped by revealing his rank. After his re- covery from the Wound he had received on that occasion, he had arrived at lord Mountfort’s castle, determining to contest the prize in the approaching tourney, and then reveal himself to his mistress. It was but a few weeks after the fete, when the young Earl of Hastings led to the altar the fair daughter of the house of Mountfort, who never for- got, in her titled husband, the unknown OUTLAW LOVER. . 4 ____,v_ — .w OLD MEMORIES. BY MRS. How swiftly do old memories float about our riper hours! They’re like the fragrant breath that fills the vase of perish’d flowers; They bear an unextinguish‘d ray. a light that never dies, A horrow’d radiance gilding earth with lustre from the skies. The joys that gather round us now, with all their rainbow beams, ' Are bright, but evanescent, as the shadows in our dreams; They pass before us like the leaves swept by the autumn’s blast, Alas! too fragile for the earth—too beautiful to last. \Ve see the human flowers cut down, the kindred ones of home, Whose garden was the loving heart, where storm clouds seldom Icome, Making within that temple fair, a wilderness of woes, A desert drear of that which once could “blossom as the Rose." C. H. W. ESLING. We see the clasping chains unloose, and sever link by link, Till hope turns shudderingly away, from sorrow’s fearful brink, The band of sweet relationship, of close unwoven ties, Is broken here—to reunite forever in the skies. But memory with her guardian care, hath linger'd o’er each scene, To paint them on the heart again when long years intervene. When life’s bright summer days have gone, and all their beauty fled, It brings us back the halcyon hours, that perish'd with the dead. Oh ! soft as music’s dying fall, from some loved voice's tone, Thine influence, mild and gentle power, across my mind is thrown; Upon the harp strings of my heart, thine angel spirits A Playt While fond old memories light its gloom, with many a moonlit ray. i . THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. BY 1- R058 BROWNE. CONTINUED FROM PAGE 104. PART III. “ THAT man," says Theophrastus, “ is justly called a lover. of filthy lucre, to whom the relish and value of a gain are enhanced by the baseness of the means that have been employed in its acqui» sition." I had failed in my designs; but my brutal triurnph over the cause of this failure was almost equal in effect to success. I did not relent; I felt no remorse; I would have acted the same part again: parental affection was irrevocably dead. I enjoyed a kind of secret satisfaction at the awful result of my violence. A long and lingering illness, augmented by the horrors of our parting interview, had brought Valeria to the verge of the grave. She had given birth to a son. Payerty had sternly as- serted its supremacy over the happiness of the young couple. Though since the rupture between us had taken place, I had never visited or enquired about her, there were many interlopers sufficiently officious to convey to me news of her approaching dissolu- tion. These hints I would have disregarded, but for the sinister reports which from this time forth were so liberally circulated to my disadvantage. A note hastily placed in my hands one evening by a muffled figure, in whom, notwithstanding the at- tempted disguise, I fancied I recognised the manly form and contour of Da Vinci, confirmed me in my determination to witness the results of my violence. It was‘ traced in a tremulous hand, and read as follows :— “ Father !-—for Christian meekness and humanity, still compel me to call you by the endearing name— will you not soften your heart toward one. who, by all the laws of nature and of man, should be its solace and its idol; and whose last wish is that death should separate us in amity and mutual affection? Will you not, now at least, when she, who was once the de- light of your old age, and the comforter of your bereaved heart, is on the bed of death,—will you not hearken to her dying wish, and grant the boon she so eagerly desires'l 0, have some mercy, my father -my benefactor! Hasten to the death-bed of your wretched—wretched daughter! May God forgive you, is the prayer of your erring VALERIA." Two motives induced me to comply with the request contained in this note. First, I was anx- ious to avoid the contumely of those who watched my actions; and secondly, I felt a fiendish desire to behold the consummation of my revenge. Throwing a hasty disguise over my person I sallied out, and rapidly pushed my way through the thoroughfares of Venice, to a remote part of the city called Fran- cesco della Vigna. Here, in an obscure lane, and surrounded by filth and poverty, I traced my way to the wretched tenement of Da Vinci and Valeria. A kind of involuntary sickness came over me as I ascended the stairs leading to the miserable loft in which they .lodged. It proceeded not from re- morse ; it was not prompted by humanity; it was instinct conquering nature. With some hesitation I entered the apartment of the dying woman. A spectacle, which to any one but myself, would have appeared heart-rending, caused me to shudder for the immensity of my guilt. The haggard and wasted form of Valeria was stretched on the bare floor. Her half-famished infant lay upon her breast. She breathed with difficulty. Her eyes were sunken, her complexion pallid and unearthly. Her features betrayed evi- dences of the most intense agony, both mental and physical. . But the most shocking part of the scene was the ghastly semblance of Da Vinci, as he sat by the bed-side of his dying wife. His hands were crossed —his knees drawn together; his elbows rested on a‘broken table; his hair fell in long and matted looks from his head; his skin was ashy and squalid ; and in place of the manly beauty which every linea. ment of_ his countenance had once betrayed, his features were now haggard and care-worn, and his once mellow and intellectual eye, was fixed with an unmeaning stare on the wretch before him. Three days had scarcely elapsed since I had recognised him in the strength and beauty of manhood, but, oh, how changed! how fallen! how wretched’! On drawing near this afflicted group, I was startled and alarmed at the change that came over the countenance of Da Vinci. At first the bereaved man fixed upon me a stupid and sullen gaze; but on recognising the author of his misery, his eyes flashed with maniacal ferocity; his lips became pale and compressed; the large veins on his temples swelled, and throbbed violently; and be exhibited the most alarming symptoms of mad- ness. I endeavored to draw back; but I was too late. His deadly purpose was fixed. With a wild, 190 THE shrieking laugh he sprang upon me. In an iristant his nails were buried in my neck. I struggled with desperate energy. Incontinence and debauchery had sapped my vital principle, and age had laid his searing hand on my frame; but I cbntended for life, and I wfl powerful. On the other hand, Da Vinci, nerved by the delirium which had taken pos- session of him, was irresistible. “ Fiend l" he shouted—“ die !—die !—die !” “ You will murder me I" I groaned, already suf- focating under his vice-like grasp, " have mercy, for God’s sake!” “ You showed her none 1" he answered hoarsely. “ I repent—I shall make amends." “ Too late—she is dying.” “ Oh, God, stop !—you strangle me ! fit to die." “So much the better. Die—villain, die l" and with a desperate exertion he bore me to the floor. I essayed in vain to release myself from his deadly grasp. A moment more, and death would have rescued me,’ but the Almighty ordained that I should live to reap the fruits of my crimes. In- voluntarily, as the agonies of dissolution came upon me, my hand sought one of those small daggers, with which an Italian is never unprovided. I drew it from my bosom. I raised it to strike. Da Vinci saw his danger; but he was too late. With irre- sistible strength I plunged it in his side. He uttered no groan; he rolled from my person a dead man. I stooped over the bleeding corpse in mute horror. The eyes were fixed upon me with a glassy gaze. It was a fearful spectacle—one which was well calculated to strike awe into the bosom of a mur- derer. I turned a searching eye toward the prostrate form of my daughter. It was inanimate. No sign of life or recognition illumined her ghastly countenance. She had evidently swooned. As if in mockery of the dreadful tragedy which had just transpired, the infant boy slumbered peacefully by her side. The reproach was more than I could bear. Guilt—guilt was whispered in my ear by a thousand voices. I rushed from the blood-stained spot. I hurried to my desolate home: Here new miseries awaited me. I bolted the doors; but they afi'orded me no security. I drank deeply—but ine- briation came not. I endeavored to sleep; but my horrors were increased. This fearful state drove me to desperation. I tried to pray: the Almighty heard me not. My heart was too black—too guilty. Night had come. My sufferings were too intense for human endurance. The lonely and ruinous garret in which I lay, augmented the dreadful vividness with which I created the most revolting phantasmas in every recess and corner; and the hollow moaning of the wind against the roof filled my soul with ominous and harrowing sensations. A strange—an indefinable desire to return to the scene of death, took possession of my mind. It became too absorbing—too interminable to be resisted. The moon had by this time ascended her throne in all her queenliness and majesty. I rushed rapidly through the empty streets to the quay for the night-gondoliers; and aided by the moonlight, soon succeeded in reaching San Fran- I am not CONFESSIONS OF A MISER. cesco della Vigna. Hastily dismissing the gondo- lier, I won my way to the abode of the dead. An ominous silence reigned around it. I shuddered— I turned pale; but I did not hesitate. Up the tottering stairs I rushed; the door of the death- room was open ; and my eyes at once fell upon a picture which is indelibly engraved on my memory. Valeria had, on recovering her senses, crept to the body of her husband. She held the slumbering babe in one arm, while with the other she raised the head of the dead man and reclined it on her bosom. She knew he was dead—that he would never wake again; she saw the life-blood oozing from his heart; but her devotion was superior to the evidence of her senses; her constancy to the sword of death. She chafed his temples; die fondly smoothed his hair; she kissed again and again his icy lips; and she fervently prayed for the salvation of the dead. A pale, unearthly glow was thrown over the group by occasional glances of the moon-beams; and everything conspired to strike me with awe and remorse. But I was not susceptible of the better feelings of humanity. I possessed no refined sensibility. Whatever I felt was common to the lowest of God’s creation. “ Why," I cried in a hollow voice, “ why must this be? Why must my peace be blasted by such scenes as these? I murdered him—is it not enough that he should die? I seek nothing from him after death. Why—why do you persecute me, Omnipo- tent God 1" “ See !” shrieked a piercing voice, “see what you have done !" For a moment I could not answer. The anguish of the accuser deprived me of speech. But at length I starnmered out, “ I did but defend my life.” “ You drove him mad." “ He ruined, deceived, beggarcd me.” “ It is a calumny!” said Valeria, with flashing eyes, seeming for an instant to forget her grief in indignation at the charge, “ he honored you 2" “ I forgive him.” " He is dead." I was silent. The last words were said in a voice of such exquisite anguish that they went to my heart—stony as it was. If ever a pang of re morse vibrated in my soul it was then. Valeria regarded tne with an expression more of sorrow than of anger. She clasped the infant to her arms as if it were now her only solace; and burst into a flood of tears. “ F ather,” she murmured, when her agitation had in some measure subsided ; “ the hand of death is upon me. God in his infinite goodness has given you the means of atonement for your crimes. A few hours and I shall be no more. Take my child —you are rich—rich in worldly things—take him, and have him brought up as he should be. I rely on you—I beseech you—I command you! You cannot be so utterly callous to humanity, as to refuse; let him not die in this miserable place. 0, be kind to him—be more merciful to him than you were to my poor, dead husband!” Exhausted and heart-broken, the young mother sank upon the corpse of the murdered man. Her L‘A 44 0H! “GENTLE LOVE. _’—'-v——_._f— SUNG BY MR. WILSON, IN AUBER’S OPERA OF LE'STOQ, ARRANGED BY T. COOKE. Geo. W. Hewitt 6; Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia. Aud‘antlno. - tit o’er us on GENTLE LOVE. - 195 I _.__ __ _ Ig__l _ _ 73 1% §_, ~l__ 'lm ~ 9 no 1-0 (D i O I I der ness dif - fuse, A ma - gic _-—I- 5— q——-— _-—-— -_-—-—-—— ——_ v _. -j) __ an- ' "'"" ’, ' | i P. f}, q 13$: , f.- IFTFI a é : a —l- —-- \" v w ,-___-|_~_-_-._ {YM’J “t i a r a . . , all have felt A and“ I fpel We to “'(I'Vl‘li . 7 \ . r“ E: ‘ U _>ii_sintf. '- 0' _._.__-_—__—- —‘ i“: ,‘ r ‘ - _"Fi"m1m.li ‘ 0~*'~ ' ‘ . a*_ r I, . 'l I. . ' — w, {thm “l, - ‘ -l 0.; >4 ‘ m . were "a," -‘ l ‘k a 0 I. 0 .~,Y.‘i -' i - > V p" ,_ w is» trfr ‘ v w. a ,_ _‘%m,3gg a? “on: ma: - 1 .nnrusstsmam amazes PC". at *I- - +"v ‘iwm " I . . a‘ ' w -\, ‘\. I; . '52' . . '.‘V.~-,\u ' w, H 4 7 ~ . i V- '7 ‘ H‘ ' msam_.n;%n . _ . in ; v was . ‘ J ‘ .‘ ! _ . - 4"."f . >’ J I ',\)-'-‘ r M‘ ~ _‘ : ~ _ \,_'._.‘_:;‘ 5 I P“ ‘ it! v.,o ' ' i ‘ , mm _ a”, __ ____,___ . fl%_ 6 in NH il'l___ __'_]§_§I:JEI:31§ZDUTI‘I 1 - ' ll€#:11:ii3iiiiijE __2_;l;__Q__ i LJJX ,__;__P_,__m_§ n__ -— __-—~_. _ _ P'— :21- feel, how e'er they struggle to - - —-_-—-_-_ 1 all have felt - an " ‘ ——___—- __——-___.__-__._-_-___—-_n_ — __ _T._____l______________-__._k_____._ __ ' — _ -_ __o——_—-——_s__ aw Or as the dew upon the flowrets sleeping, I Which tho’ the day dissolve its pearly weeping, Over the leaves a distillation rains, Still in their heart reviving them remains. I I SPORTS AND PASTIMES. PARTRIDGE SHOOTING. Coucwnan. UNLESS there be continual rain, or it be the depth of winter, birds will visit their basking place some time in the course of the day, whether the sun shine or not. The basking-place is generally, but not in- variably, on the sunny side of the hedge. Birds may be most easily approached in fine weather. All kinds of birds lie better in small enclosures than in large ones, that is, when the cover in each is alike. It need scarcely be added, that the more bushy the brambles, or the higher the grass the more closely will lie the game. A person who knows how to walk up to a bird will obtain more shots than one who does not, especially in windy weather. Birds will not only allow the shooter to approach nearer to them when he faces the wind, but they present on rising, a fairer mark. When the legs of a bird fired at fall, it is almost a certain proof that it is struck in a vital part. A bird so struck should be narrowly watched, when, in most instances, it will be een, after flying about a hundred yards if a grouse, or fifty yards if a partridge. to tower or spire in the air, and fall down dead. When only one leg falls, the bird should be watched, but in the latter case, it generally happens that the leg or thigh only has been struck. Any bird that flinches, on being fired at, or whose feathers are in the least dis- ordered, should be marked down, and followed. Grouse more frequently fly away wounded than par- tridges. Grouse are often recovered several hundred yards from the gun. Until November or December, young grouse, black- game, partridges, and pheasant,may be distinguished from old ones by the lower beak not being strong enough to bear the weight of their bodies. The lower beak of an old partridge is strong enough to sustain the weight of a brace of birds; but a young bird cannot be raised by the lower beak without the lower beak bending under the weight. The number of birds in a covey varies much, per- haps the average may be from ten to fifieen. In some years, when the coveys are larger after a fine hatching season, it is not uncommon to see upward of twenty birds in a covey; and sometimes after a wet season, ten birds may be deemed a fair covey. Birds are most numerous after a dry summer. When there are thunder-storms about midsummer, great numbers of young birds are drowned. The young birds have many enemies besides the elements, such as cats, young dogs, hawks, foxes, and vermin of dif- ferent descriptions. When the eggs are taken, or the young birds destroyed soon after leaving the shell, there will be a. second hatch. Sportsmen often meet with second batches in September, when the old birds rise screaming, and generally alight within fifty yards, as if to induce the young birds to follow. In that case the fair sportsman will not fire at the old birds, but will call in his dogs and leave the ground. At such times he should look well after the young dogs, as, when they see the birds nmuing, they are apt to snatch up such of them as cannot get ' out of the way. The very young birds are called cheepers, from their uttering a scream as they rise. Full grown birds never scream as they rise, except when the young ones are helpless, nor do young birds after they are large enough for the table. There are shooters who acquire an unsportsman- like habit of firing at a covey immediately as it rises, before the birds are fairly on the wing, and, thus without aiming at any individual bird, bring down two or three. And sometimes they will make a foul shot by flanking a covey; the birds being on the wing, come upon them suddenly, and make a simul- taneous wheel; they take them on the turn, when, for a moment—and but for a moment—half the covey are in a line, and floor them rank and file. These are tricks allied to poaching, and almost as reprehensible as shooting at birds on the ground, which is nothing less than high treason., The cock partridge is distinguished from the hen by the brown feathers which form a crescent, or horse-shoe, as it is sometimes called, on the breast. The pointer is decidedly the best dog for partridge shooting. The dog should fall when the gun is fired, and re- main down until he is told to seek, when he should point the dead bird. A pointer that drops to shot, becomes an excellent retriever. The dog should be taught to obey the eye and the hand, rather than the voice. A dog that will do so is invaluable, in open grounds, when birds are wild. Whenever speaking to a dog, whether encourag- ingly or reprovingly, the sportsman should endeavor to look what he means. and the dog will understand him. The dog will understand the look, if he does not the words. The sportsman should never, with a smile on his countenance, punish a dog; nor com- mend him when he has done well, but with an appa- rent hearty good will: the dog will then take an interest in obeying him. REVIEW OF H Night and Morning.“ A Novel. 'By the author of Pelham, Rienzi, Eugene Aram, &C. 2 vols. Re-published by I-Ruper (j- Brothers, New York. The Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort, of Beaufort Court, England, a proud and misanthropical old bachelor. with arental of twenty thousand pounds, has two neph'ews, Philip and Robert Beaufort. The former, who is the elder of the two, and heir-appa- rent to the uncle's estate, is thoughtless and generous, w'nh unsteady principles. The latter is a crafty man- of-the~ orld, whose only honesty consists in appear- ing honest—a scrupulous decorist. Philip, in love with Catharine Morton, the daughter of a tradesmen, and in fear of his aristocratic uncle's displeasure, is married clandestinely, in a remote village of Wales, by a quondam college friend, to whom he had pre- sented a living—the Rev. Caleb Price. The better to keep the secret, a very old \Velshman, certain soon to die, and \Villiam Smith, Philip’s servant, are the sole witnesses of the ceremony. This performed, Smith is hired to bury himself in Australia until called for, while the deaf man dies as expected. Some time having elapsed, Philip, dreading accident to the re- gister, writes to Caleb for an attested copy of the record. Caleb is too ill to make it, but employs a neighboring curate, Morgan Jones, to make and attest it, and despatches it, just before dying, to Philip, who, fearing his wife’s impatience of the concealment. re- quired, deposites the document, without her know- ledge, in a secret drawer of a bureau. The register itself is afterwards accidentally destroyed. Catharine has soon two children—first Philip, the hero of the novel, and then Sydney. For their sakes she bravely endures the stigma upon her character. She continues to live openly with her husband as his mistress, hear- ing her maiden name of Morton ; and the uncle, whose nerves would have been shocked at a mis-al- liance, and who would have disinherited its perpetra- tor, winks at what he considers the venial vice. The old gentleman lives on for sixteen years, and yet no disclosure is made. At last he dies, bequeathing his property to his eldest nephew, as was anticipated. The latter prepares forthwith to own Catharine as his wife; relates to his brother the facts of the clan- destine marriage; speaks of the secreted document, without designating the place of deposit; is disbe- lieved by that person entirely; mounts his horse to make arrangements for a second wedding, and for proving the first; is thrown, breaks his neck, and ex- pires without uttering a word. Catharine, ignorant of the secre'tfidrawer (although aware that a record 1 NEW BOOKS. had been secreted), failing to find William Smith, and trusting her cause to an unskilful lawyer, is unable to prove her marriage, but in the cfl'ort to do so makes an enemy of Robert Beaufort, who takes possession of the estate as heir at law. Thus the strict precau- tions taken by the father to preserve his secret during the uncle’s life, frustrate the wife in her attempts to develope it after his death, and the sons are still con- sidered illegitimate. This is the pivot of the story. Its incidents are made up of the struggles of the young men with their fate, but‘ chiefly of the endea- vors of the elder, Philip, to demonstrate the marriage and redeem the good name of his mother. This he finally accomplishes, (after her death, and afler a host of vicissitudes experienced in his own person) by the accidental return of William Smith, and by the dis- covery of an additional witness in Morgan Jones, who made the extract from the register, and to whom the rightful heir is guided by this long-sought docu- ment itself, obtained from the hands of Robert Beau- fort, (who had found it in the bureau,) through the instrumentality of one Fanny, the heroine, and in the end the wife of the hero. We do not give this as the plot of “Night and Morning," but as the ground-work of the plot; which latter, woven from the incidents above mentioned. is in itself exceedingly complex. The ground work, as will be seen, is of no very original character—it is even absurdly common-place. We are not asserting too much when we say that every second novel since the flood has turned upon some series of hopeless efforts, either to establish legitimacy, or to prove a will. or to get possession of a great sum of money most unjustly withheld, or to find out a ragamuffin of ' a father, who had been much better left unfound. But, saying nothing of the basis upon which this story has been erected, the story itself is, in many respects, worthy its contriver. The word “ plot," as commonly accepted, conveys but an indefinite meaning. Most persons think of it as of simple complexity,- and into this error even so fine a critic as Augustus William Schlegel has obvi- ously fallen, when he confounds its idea with that of the mere intrigue in which the Spanish dramas of Cervantes and Calderon abound. But the greatest involution of incident will not result in plot; which, properly defined, is that in which no part can be dis- placed wt'lhout min to the whole. It may be described as a building so dependently contracted, that to change the position of a single brick is to overthrow the entire fabric. In this definition and description. we of course refer only to that infinite perfection REVIEW OF Blas, in the Pilgrim’s Progress, or in Robinson Cru- soe. Thus it is not an essential in story-telling at all; although, well-maniged, within proper limits, it is a thing to be desired. At best it is but a secondary and rigidly artistical merit, for which no merit of a higher class—no merit founded in nature—should be sacri- ficed. But in the book before us much is sacrificed for its sake, and every thing is rendered subservient to its purposes. So excessive is, here, the involution of circumstances, that it has been found impossible to dwell for more than a brief period upon any parti- cular one. The writer seems in a perpetual flurry to accomplish what, in autorical parlance, is called “bringing up one’s time." He flounders in the vain attempt to keep all his multitudinous incidents at one and the same moment before the eye. His ability has been sadly taxed in the effort—but more sadly the time and temper of the reader. No sooner do we begin to take some slight degree of interest in some cursorily-sketched event, than we are hurried OH to some other, for which a new feeling is to be built up, only to be tumbled down, forthwith, as before. And thus, since there is no sufficiently continuous scene in the whole novel, it results that there is not a strongly effective one. Time not being given us in which to become absorbed, we are only permitted to admire, while we are not the less chilled, tantalised, wearied, and displeased. Nature, with natural inter- est, has been given up a bond-maiden to an elaborate, but still to a misconceivcd, perverted, and most un- satisfactory Art. Very little reflection might have sufliced to convince Mr. Bulwer that'narratives, even one fourth so long as the one now lying upon our table, are essentially inadapted to that nice and complex adjustment of in- cident at which he has made this desperate attempt. In the wire-drawn romances which have been so long fashionable, (God only knows how or why) the plea- sure we derive (if ahy) is a composite one, and made up of the respective sums of the various pleasurable sentiments experienced in perusal. Without exces- sive and fatiguing exertion, inconsistent with legiti- mate interest, the mind cannot comprehend at one time, and in one survey, the numerous individual items which go to establish the whole. Thus the high ideal sense of the unique is sure to be wanting:— for, however absolute in itself be the unity of the novel, it must inevitably fail of appreciation. We speak now of that species of unity which is alone worth the attention, of the critic—the unity or totality qf cflecL But we could never bring ourselves to attach any idea of merit to were length in the abstract. A long story does not appear to us necessarily twice as good as one only half so long. The ordinary talk about “continuous and sustained effort" is pure twaddle and nothing more. Perseverance is one thing and genius is another—whatever Bufi'on or Hogarth may assert to the contrary—and notwithstanding that, in many passages of the dogmatical literature of old Rome, such phrases as “ diligenti'a maima," “ dili- gentia mimbilis," can be construed only as “great talent" or “wonderful ability.” Now if the author of “ Ernest Maltravers," implicitly following authority like les moutons de Panurge, will persist in writing NEW BOOKS. 199 long romances because long romances have been written before—if, in short, he cannot be satisfied with the brief tale (a species of composition which admits of the highest development of artistical power in alliance with the wildest vigor of imagination)—he must then content himself, perforce, with a more simply and more rigidly narrative form. And here, could he see these comments upon a work which, (estimating it, as is the wont of all ar- tists of his calibre, by the labor which it has cost him,) he considers his chef d’wuvre, he would assure us, with asmilé, that it is precisely because the book is not narrative, and is dramatic, that he holds it in so loftyan esteem. Now in regard to its being dramatic, we should reply that, so far as the radical and inera- dicable deficiencies of the drama go—it is. This con- tinual and vexatious shifting of scene, with a view of bringing up events to the time being, originated at a period when books were not; and in fact, had the drama not preceded books, it might never have suc- ceeded them—we might, and probably should, never have had a drama at all. By the frequent “ bringing up” of his events the dramatist strove to supply, as well as he could, the want of the combining, arrang- ing, and especially of the commenting power, now in possession of the narrative author. No doubt it was a deep but vague sense of this want which brought into birth the Greek chorus—a thing altogether apart from the drama itself—never upon the stage—and representing, lor.personifying, the expression of the sympathy of the audience in the matters transacted In brief, while the drama of colloquy, vivacious and breathing of life, is well adopted into narration, the drama of action and passion will always prove, when employed beyond due limits, a source of embarrass- ment to the narrator, and it can afford him, at best, 'nothing which he does not already possess in full force. We have spoken upon this head much at length; for we remember that, in some preface to one of his previous novels, (some preface in which he endeavored to pre-reason and pre-coax us into admi- ration of what was to follow—a bad practice,) Mr. Bulwer was at great pains to insist upon the peculiar merits of what he even then termed the dramatic conduct of his story. The simple truth was that, then as now, he had merely concentrated into his book all the necessary evils of the stage. Giving up his attention to the one point upon which we have commented, our novelist has failed to do himself justice in others. The overstrained effort at perfection of plot has seduced him into absurd sacri- fices of verisimilitude, as regards the connexion of his dramatis persome each with each, and each with the main events. However incidental be the ap- pearance of any personage upon the stage, this per- sonage is sure to be linked in, will I nill I, with the matters in hand. Philip, on the stage-coach, for ex- ample, converses with but one individual. William Gawtrey; yet this man’s fate (not subsequently but previously) is interwoven into that of Philip himself, through the latter's relationship to Lilburne. The hero goes to his mother‘s grave, and there comes in contact with this Gawtrey’s father. He meets Fanny, and Fanny happens to be also involved in his destiny (:1 pet word, conveying a pet idea of the author‘s) 200 REVIEW OF through her relationship to Lilburne. The witness in the case of his mother’s marriage is missing,‘and this individual turns up at last in the brother of that very Charles De Burgh Smith with whom so perfectly accidental an intimacy has already been established. The wronged heir proceeds at random to look for a lawyer, and stumbles at once upon the precise one who had figured before in the story, and who knows all about previous investigations. Setting out in search of Liancourt, the first person he sees is that gentleman himself. Entering a horse-bazaar in a remote portion of the country, the steed up for sale at the exact moment of his entrance is recognised as the pet of his better days. Now our quarrel with these coincidences is not that they sometimes, but that they everlatingly occur, and that nothing occurs besides. We find no fault with Philip for chancing, at the identically proper moment, upon the identical men, women, and horses necessary for his own ends and the ends of the story—but we do think it excessively hard that he should never happen upon anything else. In delineation of character, our artist has done little worth notice. His highest merit in this respect is, with a solitary exception, the negative one of not. having subjected himself to dispraise. Catharine and Camilla are—pretty well in their way. Philip is very much like all other heroes—perhaps a little more stifl‘, a little more obstinate, and a little more desper- ately unlucky than the generality of his class, Syd- ney is drawn with truth. Plaskwith, Plimmins, and the Mortons, just sufficiently caricatured, are very good outline copies from the shaded originals of Dickens. Of Gawtrey—father and son,—of De Burgh Smith, of Robert Beaufort and of Lilbume, what is it possible to say, except that they belong to that extensive firm of Gawtrey, Smith, Beaufort, Lilbume and company, which has figured in every novel since the days of Charles Grandison, and which is‘ doomed to the same eternal con-figuration till romance-writing shall be no more? For Fanny the author distinctly avows a partiality; and he does not err in his preference. We have observed, in some previous review, that original char- acters, so called, can only be critically praised as such, either when presenting qualities known in real ‘ life, but never before depicted (a combination nearly impossible) or when presenting qualities which, although unknown, or even known to be hypothetical, are so skilfully adapted to the circumstances around them, that our sense of fitness is not offended, and we find ourselves seeking a reason why those things might not have been which we are still satisfied are not. Fanny appertains to this latter class of original- ity—which in itself belongs to the loftier regions of the Ideal. Her first movements in the story. before her conception (which we have already characterized as an after-thought) had assumed distinct shape in the brain of the author, are altogether ineffective and frivolous. They consist of the unmeaning afl‘ectation and rhodomontade with which it is customary to invest the lunatic in common-place fiction. But the subsequent effects of love upon her mental develop- ment are finely imagined and richly painted; and, although reason teaches us their impossibility, yet it NEW BOOKS. is sufiicient for the purposes of the artist that fancy delights in believing them possible. Mr. Bulwer has been often and justly charged with defects of style; but the charges have been sadly de- ficient in specification, and for the niost part have confounded the idea of mere language with that of style itself, althOugh the former is no more the latter, than an oak is a forest, or than a word is a thought. Without pausing to define what a little reflection will enable any reader to define for himself, we may say that the chief constituent of a good style (a constitu- ent which, in the case of Washington Irving, has been mistaken for the thing constituted) is what artists have agreed to denominate tons. The writer who, varying this as occasion may require, well adapts it to the fluctuations of his narrative, accomplishes an important object in style. Mr. Bulwer's tone is always correct; and so great is the virtue of this qual- ity that he can carcely be termed, upon the whole, a bad stylist. His mere English is grossly defective—turgid, in- volved, and ungrammatical. There is scarcely a page of “ Night and Morning" upon which a school- boy could not detect at least half a dozen instances of faulty construction. Sentences such as this are continually occurring—“ And at last silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and the tears yet wet upon their lashes, fell asleep." Here, strictly speaking, it is the eyes which “ fell asleep,” and which were “silent if not convinced." The pronoun, “he,” is wanting for the verb “ fell.” The whole would read better thus—“ And at last, silent, if not convinced, he closed his eyes, and fell asleep with the tears yet on the lashes." It will be seen that, besides other modifications, we have changed “ upon” into “ on,” and omitted "wet" as superfluous when applied to tear; who ever heard of a dry one? The sentence in question, which occurs at page 83, vol. 1, was the first which arrested our attention on opening the book at random; but its errors are sufficiently illus- trative of the character of those faults of phraseology in which the work abounds, and which have arisen, not so much through carelessness, as from a peculiar bias in the mind of the writer, leading him, per force, into involution, whether here in style, or elsewhere in plot. The beauty of simplicity is not that which can be appreciated by Mr. Bulwer; and whatever may be the true merits of his intelligence, the merit of lumin- ous and precise thought is evidently not one of the number. At page 194, vol. 1, we have this—“ I am not what you seem to suppose—exactly a swindler, cer- tainly not a robber." Here, to make himself intelligi- ble, the speaker should have repeated the words “I am not,” before “exactly.” As it stands, the sen- tence does not imply that “I am not exactly a swindlcr, &c.” but (if anything) that the person ad- dressed, imagined me to he certainly not a robber but exactly a swindler—an implication which it was not intended to convey. Such awkardness in a practised writer would be inconceivable, did .we not refer in memory to that moral bias of which we have just spoken. Our readers will of course examine the English of “ Night and Morning” for themselves. From the evidence of one or two sentences we cannot REVIEW OF expect them to form a judgment in the premises. Dreading indeed the suspicion of unfairness, we had pencilled item after item for comment—but we have abandoned the task in despair. It would be an end- less labor to proceed with examples. In fact it is folly to particularize where the blunders would be the rule, and the grammar the exception. Sir Lytton ha one desperate mannerism 'of which we would be glad to see him well rid—a fashion of ' beginning short sentences, after very long ones, with the phrase “ So there,” or something equivalent, and this too,_when there is no sequence in the matter to warrant the use of the word “So.” Thus, at page 136, vol. I,—“So there they sat on the cold stone, these two orphans ;” at page 179,—“ So there by the calm banks of the placid lake, the youngest born of Catharine passed his tranquil days,"-—and just below, on the same page,—“ So thus was he severed from both his protectors, Arthur and Philip ;" and at page 241, vol. 11,—“ So there sat the old man," &C. &c.— zmd in innumerable other instances throughout the work. Among the nia'iseries of his style we may mention the coxcombical use of little French sentences, with- out the shadow of an excuse for their employment. At page 22, vol. 2, in the scene at the counterfeiter’s cellar, what can be more nonsensical than Gawtrey's “ C’est juste; buvez done, cher ami,"—-“ C'est juste; buvez done, vieuzc rénard,”—and “ Ce n‘est pas wai ,- buvez done Monsieur Favart?" Why should these platitudes be alone given in French, when it is obvi- ous that the entire conversation was carried on in that tongue? And, again, when, at page 49, Fanny ex- claims—Méchant, every one die to Fanny!”—why could not this heroine have as well confined herself to one language! At page 38, the climax of absurdity, in this respect, is fairly capped; and it is diflicult to keep one‘s countenance, when we read of a Parisian cobler breathing his last in a garret, and screaming out “.Je m’étoufe—Air !” Whenever a startling incident is recorded, our novelist seems to make it a point of conscience that somebody should “fall insensiblc." Thus at page 172, vol. 1,—“‘ My brother, my brother, they have taken thee from me,’ cried Philip, and he fell insensi- ble,”-—and at page 38, vol. 2, “ ‘ I was unkind to him ,at the last,’ and with these words she fell upon the corpse insensible," 8w. &c. There is a great deal too much of this. An occasional swoon is a thing of no consequence, but“ even Stamboul must have an end,” and Mr. Bulwer should make an end of his syncopes. Again. That gentlemen and ladies, when called upon to give alms, or to defray some trifling incidental expense, are in the invariable habit of giving the whole contents of their purses without examination, and, moreover, of “ throwing" the purse into the bargain, is an idea most erroneously entertained. At page 55, vol. 1, we are told that Philip, “ as he spoke, slid his purse into the woman’s hand.” At page 110, “ a hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollec- tion, and he flung his purse into the nearest hand outstretched to receive it." At page 87, “Lilburne tossed his purse into the hands of his valet, whose face seems to lose its anxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold." It is true that the “anxious em- NEW BOOKS, 201 barrassment" of any valet out of a novel, would have been rather increased than diminished by having a purse of gold tossed at his head—but what we wish our readers to observe, is that magnificent contempt of filthy lucrc with which the characters of Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer “fling,” “ slide,” “toss,” and tumble whole purses of money about! But the predominant and most important failing of the author of “Devereux,” in point of style, is an ab- solute mania for metaphor—metaphor always running into allegory. Pure allegory is at all times an abomi- nation—a remnant of antique barbarism—appealing only to our faculties of comparison, without even a remote interest for our reason, or for our fancy. Metaphor, its softened image, has indisputable force when sparingly and skilfully employed. Vigorous writers use it rarely indeed. Mr. Bulwer is all meta- phor or all allegory—mixed metaphor and unsustained allegory—and nothing if neither. He cannot express a dozen consecutive sentences in an honest and manly manner. He is the king-coxcomb of figures-of-speech. His rage for personification is really ludicrous. The simplest noun becomes animate in his hands. Never, by any accident, does he write even so ordinary a word as time, or temper, or talent, without the capital '1‘. Seldom, indeed, is he content with the dignity and mysticism thus imposed ;—for the most part it is Tum, TEMPER and TALENT. Nor does the com- mon-place character of anything which he wishes to personify exclude it" from the prosopopeia. At page 256, volume 1, we have some profound rigmarole, se- riously urged, about piemen crying “ all hot! all hot !" “in the ear of Infant and Ragged Hunger,” thus written; and, at page 207, there is something positive- ly transcendental all about LAW—a very little thing in itself, in some cases—but which Mr. Bulwer, in his book, has thought proper to make quite as big as we have printed it above. Who cannot fancy him, in the former instance, saying to himself, as he gnaws the top of his quill, “ that is a fine thought 1" and ex- claiming in the latter, as he puts his finger to the side of his nose, “ ah, how very fine an idea that is !" This absurdity, indeed, is chiefly observable in those philosophical discussions with which. he is in the wicked habit of interspersing his fictions, and springs only from a rabid anxiety to look wise—to appear profound—even when wisdom is quite out of - place, and profundity the quintessence of folly. A “still small voice” has whispered in his ear that, as to the real matter of fact, he is shallow—a whisper which he does not intend to believe, and which, by dint of loud talking in parables, he hopes to prevent from reaching the ears of the public. Now, in truth, the public, great-gander as it is, is content to swallow his romance without much examination, but cannot help turning up its nose at his logic. “ The men of sense,” says Helvetius, “those idols of the unthinking, are very inferior to the men of passions. It is the strong passions which, rescuing us from Sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and earnest attention necessary to great intellectual efl'orts"—Understanding the word “efforts” in its legitimate force, and not confounding it altogether with achievements, we may well apply to Mr. Bulwer the philosopher's remark, thence deducing the secret REVIEW OF formed of the facts, Hugo hastened to show the certi- ficate of his birth to the reporter, M. Raynouard; but it was too late—the premium had been awarded. Of Lafl'itte many remarkable incidents are narrated evincing the noble liberality of his disposition. In the notice of Berryer it is said that, a letter being addressed by the Dutchess of Berry to the legiti- mists of Paris, to inform them of her arrival, it was accompanied by a long note in cypher, the key of which she had forgotten to give. “ The penetrating mind of Berryer," says our biographer, “soon dis- covei'ed it. It was this phrase substituted for the twenty-four letters of the alphabet—Le gouvernement provisoire." All this is very well as an anecdote; but we cannot understand the extraordinary penetration required in the matter. The phrase “ Le gouvernemenl pro- visoire" is French, and the note in cypher was ad- dressed to Frenchmen. The difliculty of decyphering may well be supposed much greater had the key been in a foreign tongue; yet any one who will take the trouble may address us a note, in the same manner as here proposed, and the key-phrase may be either in French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin or Greek, (or in any of the dialects of these languages), and we pledge ourselves for the solution of the riddle. The experiment may afford our readers some amuse- ment—let them try it. But we are rambling from our theme. The genius of Ange is finely painted, and the character of his quackery put in a true light. The straight-forward, plainly-written critical comments upon this philoso- pher, as well as upon George Sand, and that absurd antithesis-hunter, Victor Hugo, please as far more than that mere cant and rhapsody in which the biographer involves himself when speaking of Chi- teaubriand and Lamar-tine. We have observed that all great authors who fall occasionally into the sins of ranting and raving, meet with critics who think the only way to elu'cidate, is to out-rant and out-rave them. A beautiful confusion of thought of course ensues, which it is truly refreshing to contemplate. The account of George Sand (Madame Dudevant) is full of piquancy and spirit. The writer. by dint of a little chicanery, obtained access, it seems, to her boudoir, with an opportunity of sketching her in dishubille. He found her in" a gentleman‘s frock coat, smoking a cigar. Speaking of the equivocal costume affected by this lady, Mr. Walsh, in a foot-note. comments upon a nice distinction made once by a soldier on duty at the Chamber of Deputies. Madame D., habited in male attire, was making her way into the gallery, when the man, presenting his musket before her. cried out “ Monsieur, les domes ne passent pas par ici!" But we regret that our space will notallow us to cull even a few of the good things with which the book abounds. The whole volume is exceedingly piqunnt, and replete with that racy wit which is so peculiarly French as to make us believe it a consequence of the toumure of the language itself. But if a Frenchman is invariably witty, he is not the less everlastineg bombastic; and these memoirs are decidedly French. What can we do but smile when we hear any one talk about Chateaubriand’s Essay upon English Poetry, 203 with his Translation of .Milton! as a task which he alone was qualified to execute !—or when we read page after page in which Lamartine is discoursed of as “a noble child, with flaxen locks,” “disporting upon the banks of the Seine," “ picking up Grecian lyres dropped by the mild Chenier," “ enriching them with Christian chords," and “ ravishing the world with new melodies !" What can we do but laugh out- right at such phrases as the “ sympathetic swan-like cries," and the “ singular lyric precocity of the crystal soul"—of such an ass as the author of Bug-Jargal? So far as mere translation goes, the volume now before us is, in some respects, not very well done. Too little care has been taken in rendering the French idioms by English equivalents; and, because a French writer, through the impulses of his vivacity, cannot avoid telling. in the present tense, a story of the past, it does not follow that such a misusage of language is consonant with the graver genius of the Saxon. Mr. Walsh is always too literal, although sufficiently correct. He should not employ, however, even in translation, such queer words as “ to legitimate," meaning “to legitimatize,” or “to fulmine," meaning “ to fulminate." At page 211, the force of the compound “ l'homme- calembourg" is not conveyed by .the words “the pun- ster,” even when we italicize the. The walking-pun, perhaps, i an analogous phrase which mightbe more properly employed. There is some odd mistake at page 274, where the translator speaks of measuring the diameter of the earth by measuring its rays. We presume the word in the original is rayona; if so we can only translate it by the Latin radii. No doubt a radius, literally, is a ray; but science has its own terms, and will employ them. We should like to see either Mr. Walsh or Monsieur Arago (or both together) trying to measure a ray of the earth. a The mechanical execution of the book is good, saving a thousand outrageous typographical blunders, and that lithograph ot' Thiers. We have no doubt in the world that this gentleman (who ran away during the three days and hid himself in the woods of Mont- morency), is a somewhat dirty, insignificant little fellow, and o be it; but we will never be brought to believe that any individual in Christendom ever did or could look halfas saucy, or as greasy, as does “ Mon- sieur Mirabcau-mouche" in that picture. NEW BOOKS. “ Heads of the People: or Portraits of the English." Drawn by Kenny Meadows. With Original Essays by Distinguished Writers. Carey r}- Hart. The design of this book is among the number of those which are obviously good—and the book itself is, upon the whole, an amusing one. It might have been better, no doubt. With designs by Cruikshanks, and letter-press by the best of the English literati, how glorious a work might have been concocted “upon this hint!" Not that some of the names here found are not among the best—but we should have had the Dii majorum gentium exclusively~0ne paper from each. These papers, too, should have been written 204 with some uniformity of manner, or of plan, and have confined themselves to racy and truthful delin- eation of that charater which is peculiarly British, while the engravings should have been careful embodiments of the text. A it is, the publication has something of a hap-hazard, and, if the truth must be told, of' a catchpenny air, which makes very much against it, notwithstanding _the exceeding merit of several of the essays, and of three or four of the designs. The preface seems to have been written by some one who had a proper sense of what the volume should be, but affords no indication of what it really is. There are twenty-six “Heads” in all. Some of them are pure caricatures without merit—“ The Cred- itor,” for example, and “ The Debtor,” (injudiciously placed as frontispieees), The “ Diner-Out," The “ Sentimental Singer,” “The Man of Many Goes” and “The Printer’s Devil." Others are equally caricatures, but of so vivid and truth-preserving an exaggeration, that we admire without scruplez—we allude to “The Lion of the Party," “The Waiter," “The Linen-Draper’s Assistant” and “The Stock- Broker." Some are full of natural truth—for instance “The Young Lord,” “ The Dress-Maker,” “ The Young Squire," “ The Basket Woman,” “ Captain Rook" and “Mr. Pigeon.” “ The Last Go” i the best thing in the volume—combining the extreme of the ludicrous with absolute fidelity. “The Fashionable Authoress," “ The Cockney” and “ The Family Governess" are tame and unmeaning. The rest have no particular merit or demerit. About the whole there is a great deal of bad drawing, which we know not whether to attribute to the designer or engraver. The same variety of value is observable inthe text. In general the articles are not very creditable-,al- though one or two are of surpassing excellence.. The longest called “ Tavern Heads" (illustrated by seven or eight sketches) is a rambling, disjointed narrative in imitation of Dickens, and written probably by the author of a clever production entitled “ Pickwick Abroad,” never yet republished, we believe, in this country. The paper called “ Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon,” and superscribed with the name of William Thackeray, is one of the finest specimens of easily- mingled humor and wit we have ever had the pleasure of perusing. REVIEW OF “ The Flying Dutchman." By the author of Gentle- man Jack. 2 vols. Carey if Hart. The legend of the Flying Dutchman has long since been worn out,and its attempted resuscitation by this author has, as he should have known, proved an entire failure. Indeed we have rarely read a less creditable novel than this. The characters are strange ; the incidents unnatural; and the descriptions of the mighty deep surpassed by nine out of ten of our ordinary sea-writers. The tyranny which form- erly existed, and indeed still exists in a measure, in the British navy is, however, sketched with a bold pencil; but with this single redeeming trait, the pub- lic, mac]; less the critics, will scarcely be satisfied. The desert-ion of Ramsay on the Island; his miracu- N E W B O O K S . lous meeting with the very one he wished to meet; Angela; the whole farcical story, of the deception practised in the appearance of the Flying Dutchman's frigate; the singular preservation of Capt. Livingston from drowningrwhen cast overboard unseen at night; and the clap-trap of the trial scene, when the afore- said captain and the corporal appear so unexpectedly, furnish a series of improbabilities only tovbe endured by a novel-reader of sufficient veracity to gorge, shark-like, any and everything,. no matter what. “ Patchwork." By Capt.,Basil Hall. 2 vols. Lea t} Blanchard‘. ‘ Captain Hall is one of the most agreeable of writers. We like him for the same reason that we like a good drawing-room conversationist—there is such a pleasure in listening to his elegant nothings. Not that the captain is unable to be profound. He has, on the contrary, some reputation for science. But in his hands even the most trifling personal ad- ventures become interesting from the very piquancy with which they are told. The present work is made up of a series of desul- tory sketches of travels, in every quarter of the globe, and extending through a period of nearly thirty years. You almost forget yourself as you read, and fancy that you are listening to an oral narrative from Capt, Hall in person. In the most charming manner possi- ble you are transported from the glaciers of the Alps to the waters of' the Pacific, and then whisked back again to old Europe, and hurried to Vesuvius, Malta, and Etna in pleasing succession. The descriptions of these various-places, mingled with scientific obser- vations, and narratives of personal adventures, form altogether one of the pleasantest books for after- dinner perusal, especially on a sunny April day, when, reposed at length upon a sofa, beside an open case- ment, with the birds carrolling without, and the balmy spring breathing across us, we forget, for a while, the dull business of life. “ Georgia Illustrate l" 'W. 4- W1. C.. Richards, Penfield, Ga.- This is a praiseworthy work, and reflects high credit on all concerned in it. The views are selected with taster and give us a high opinion of the scenery of Georgia. They are accompanied by a letter-press description. from the pen oi) the _ editor, W. C. Richards. The engravings are executed in excellent style by Messrs. Rawdon, Wright, Hatch and Smillie. Such works cannot be too extensively patronisedl They encourage the arts ; foster a love for the beauti- ful; and acquaint the public with some of the loveli- est gems of our native scenery. Was it not a disgrace to our country that both “ Hinton's Topography" and the still later “ American Scenery," emanated wholly from England—the capital embarked, the sketchers and engravers employed, aud even the place of publi- cation bcing English? 204 with some finifi have confined t1 eation of that c while the engr; embodiments of has omething of be told, ofa catc against it, not‘v several of the e designs. The pr some one who ha should be,.but afi'c There are twc them are pure cal itor,” for exampl placed as fronti “ Sentimental Six and “The Print caricatures, but c exaggeration, that allude to “The l “The Linen-Dra: Broker." Somea “The Young Lc Young Squire," ' Rook” and “Mr. ] thing in the volun ludicrous with ab: Authoress," “ T} Governess” are ta. no particular me: there is a great de not whether to att The same variel In general the in though one or two longest called “ T: or eight sketches) in imitation of Dit author of a clevt Abroad," never y1 country. The pa; Pigeon,” and super Thackeray, is one mingled humor and of perusing. “ The Flying Dute man Jack. The legend of' th been worn out, and author has, as he entire failure. Ind creditable novel t strange; the incidei of the mighty deep our ordinary sea-w erly existed, and in the British navy is pencil; but with thi lic, much less the The desertitm of R was wewom eomimn 11 “KS: ‘Cocoleimsw 1L inumi, .5' 7%!” fhflM/r/un'lan ll’fzrbl' 0/j l‘llJ/u’llll/i/ //L mums om @1 h...» ll - - ”_ c I ; J l I a I I n a o \I II . I I -_ . ' i 1 s l l I . E.» a ' O 1 l u ' a 1 n - ‘ I a I u ' a, ‘ . l I v n 0’ v ' I \- a _ p I I i .n . \. § , | I-i \ . . ‘ I ‘ I ’ I ‘ ' I n - ‘ ‘ m p \ 1 Q ' ‘ ' I | .a v“ v ' \ i - I ‘ a. ‘ a ~. A 5 4 I MrauadbyrfSal-MLV ‘ 7 ‘ v J ' / / , / , \ . 4, 1’ / fl _ '71,}, ,1 / . J I, I, / / / o / [1],; ,) ‘ , l .’ . ’.//x //~/w//2//:aw__J/m , V I 7 k 4' t 1 I", \ - ' ’ u w l ) n 1 I p "7 I ‘ ".1/ ’ .' *I..~~/;'.';///,//.>‘ N/Iu/lw/I 010m. (/1, (/x/m/ui/ //./,//I , I ’, ///.,‘,"// GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. VOL. XVIII. M A Y, 1841. THE MOTHER’S PRIDE. BY MRS. C. H. WI ESLING- How beauteous is childhood—how blessed, how calm, An eye full of sunshine—a bosom all balm— A free gushing heart of snfetter‘d delight. Like a fount of pure water, untroubled, and bright. Such—such is the morning of innocent youth, When hope’s every promise seems gilded with truth. When flowers lay scatter’d in heaps 'neath our feet, And each passing gale brings its odorous sweet. How fair to that baby—in half-dreamy rest Reclining its head on a fond mother's breast, Looks the whole outward world to those soft smiling eyes! , How cloudless its visions—how brilliant its skies! How clear the blue heaven, whose bright borrow’d gleams Are reflected far, far o'er the sun-lighted streams! How gentle the music of low melody That is whispcr’d from blossom, and flower, and tree! The earth, like an Eden, is glowing with joy, No serpent hath enter‘d its peace to destroy, A heaven-missiun’d Angel—still watches the whole, "1' is the spirit of God, in that baby’s pure soul. Well, well may that mother look anxiously there On that fair, snowy brow, all unshadow’d by care ; Then turn to the future with wondering gaze, To trace on its pages its fast coming days. How long will her ringlets of raven-like fold, Lie darkly amid its thick tresses of gold? That seem in their beauty of darkness, and light, Like the sunlight of morning in dalliance with night. She gazes upon him—her idol, her joy. The hope of her bosom—her sunny-haired boy, And feels the whole world in its domain so wide, Hath nought in its gift, like her darling, her pride. She thinks of the days when a glad little child, Her heart, as her baby's, was playfully wild— Of her own watchful mother—her blessing, her prayer, Who guarded those days from the footsteps of care. Her far smiling home rises full on her view, When she—like a blossom of summer growth, grew, The fields where she roved in her innocent mirth, And her indoor enjoyments around the old hearth. Those days have departed—their sunlight has fled, And pale is the ray that gleams over the dead; The stateliest tree may be felled to the ground, And its branches unguarded, be scatter'd around. Her household is broken—her father no more Recounts to his children the bright days of yore; 'T is broken and dreary—her fond mother lies Encircled by earth, and wateh’d o'er by the skies. She sees the old grave-yard—each white gleaming tomb, And the forms that are slumbering in darkness and gloom, And a tear of remembrance, and sadden’d regret She sheds for the homestead she ne‘er can forget. These dreamings are casting their shadows e'en now, And dimming the gladness that erst deck’d her brow— Her heart wanders back—when to all things beside She was like her own baby-41 dear mother‘s pride. 18 WORTH AND WEALTH, OR THE CHOICE OF A WIFE. BY ELLEN ASHTON. “ AND so you intend to marry Lucy Warden— ch! Harry. What on earth has put you in such a notion of that girl T" said Charles Lowry, to his friend Henry Bowen, as they sat together, cracking almonds after dinner. “ And why not marry Lucy Warden 'Z” quietly said his friend. “Why? oh! because she ’s not worth a sous; and besides I’ve heard she ’s the daughter of a brick-layer. You know, any how, that her mother kept a little retail dry-goods store until an uncle left Mrs. Warden that annuity on which they now just manage to subsist.” “A formidable array of evils, indeed; but still they do not dishearten me. As for money I do not look for it in a wife, because I should never feel independent ifI was indebted to a bride for my bread. Besides an heiress is generally educated in such expensive habits that it requires a fortune to satisfy her luxurious wishes. As a mere matter of business this marrying for money is nine times out of ten a losing speculation. You are forced to live according to your wife’s former style, and being thus led into expenses which your income will not afford, you too often end by becoming bankrupt. Then, too late, you discover that your wife is fit only for a parlor ;~she becomes peevish, or wretched, or sick, and perhaps all together. Domestic felicity is at an end when this occurs—" “ But her birth I" “ A still more nonsensical objection. It is one of the prejudices of the old colonial times, and was imported from England by the servile adorers of rank, who came over the Atlantic to assume airs in the provinces which they dared not assume at home, and to sneer at the honester members of society, who, instead of being like themselves drones in the public hive, earned their bread fairly. It is this latter class to which our country is indebted for its subsequent prosperity—a prosperity which all the aristocrats of Europe could not have bestowed upon it. The revolution, while it made us politically equal, did not destroy this social aristocracy. The same exc‘lusiveness prevails now as then, but with even more injustice, for it is opposed to the whole spirit of our republican institutions. Nor is. this all: the prejudice itself is ridiculous. How can people, who scarcely know their own ancestors beyond one or two generations, and whose blood has been derived from every nation and occupation on the globe, talk with any propriety of birth? Why, there is scarcely a man or woman of our acquaintance, who is not an example of this pie-bald ancestry. Take, for instance, Walter Hast- ings, who, you know, boasts of his family. I happen to know all about him, for he is a second cousin to myself. His father made a fortune, and married into our family. But who was he? The son of a German redemptioner. Hastings' mother, it is true, is the grand-daughter of an English baron, and the sister—a far higher glory—"of a signer of our Declaration of Independence. Such is a fair sample of our best families. Why I would under- take to furnish from the ancestry of any of them either a peasant or a peer, either a laborer or a drone. Birth, forsooth! The only persons who boast of it in this country are generally those who have the least claim even to an honest parentage; and the noisiest pretender to blood I ever met with was the grandson of a fellow who was hung fifty years ago for forgery.” “Well, you ’re really getting quite low in your notions, Harry—where, in the world, did you pick up such vulgar opinions? You, a gentleman and a lawyer, to marry such a girl! She ’5 pretty enough I grant—amiable no doubt—can sing and draw passably—and makes, I hear, a batch of bread, or does dirty house-work as well as a common kitchen girl. But perhaps that is what you want her for ?" “Your sneer aside, yes! It is because Lucy Warden is a good house-keeper, that I intend to marry her. Not that I would have a bride only because she could, as you say, make a batch of bread. Education, amiubility, a refined mind, and lady-like manners are equally necessary. But a. knowledge, and a practical one too, of house-keep. ing is no slight requisite in a good wife. I know such knowledge is scarce among our city ladies, but that is the very reason why I prize it so highly. Believe me, refinement is not incompatible with this knowledge.” “ Pshaw, Harry; but granting your position, what is the use of such knowledge '1" “ It is of daily use. Servants will always impose on a mistress who knows nothing of her duties as WORTH AND the domestic head of the house. You are an importer; but how long, think you, would you prosper if you left every thing to the care of clerks, who would naturally take advantage of your care- lessness to fleece you? A mistress of a house ought to oversee her establishment in person. This she cannot do unless—to use a mercantile phrase—- she understands her business. If she does not do this, nothing will be well done. The whole evil, believe me, arises from the desire of our women to ape the extravagance of the English female nobility, whose immense wealth allows them to employ sub- stitutes to oversee their domestic establishments. But even had we incomes of hundreds of thousands of dollars we could not carry out the plan, owing to the total absence of good servants of this cha- racter in our country; and in this opinion I am borne out by Combe, Hamilton, two of the most observant and just of English travellers." t‘ Well, Harry, you were born for a barrister, or you could not run on so glibely. But it ’s a shame that a gentleman who might command the choice of the market, and marry the richest heiress in \Valnut street, should throw himself away upon a girl without a sixpence. Now there’s Charlotte Thornbury and her sister who are co-heiresses,— why can’t you take the one and I the other 7" “Merely because I love another. You smile; but despite the sneer I am a believer in love. Of Charlotte I have nothing to say, except that she is beautiful. You know how often we have discussed the matter. I only hope she will make you a good wife." “ Allons! the ladies are awaiting us. You and I will never, on this question, agree.” The foregoing conversation has given our readers a pretty accurate idea of the two young men to whose acquaintance we have introduced them. Henry Bowen was a young lawyer, with a small annual income, but of—what is called—an unim- peachable family. This, with his acknowledged talents, would have procured for him the hand of many a mere heiress, but he had wisely turned away from them all, and sought a companion for life in one, without name or fortune, but who, in every requisite for a good wife, was immeasurably their superior. Charles Lowry, on the contrary, was a dashing young merchant, who by dint of attention in the countinghouse, could afford to be luxurious in his style of living. He had imbibed many of the false notions of fashionable society, and among others the idea that a rich wife was indispensible. His sole object was to secure an heiress, as much for the :20er! 0f the thing as for her fortune, although this latter was no slight temptation to the young merchant. And he had finally succeeded. Amid a host of rivals he had won the prize. Need we say. that Charlotte Thornbury, the beautiful, the gay, but the careless heiress, was the guerdon? The two friends were married in the same week. The one took his wife to a small, but neat and convenient house in one of our less fashionable streets,—while the other entered at once into a splendid mansion in Walnut street, whose furniture and decorations were the theme of general envy WEALTH. 207 and admiration. The one bride kept but a single servant, the other had several. Yet the mansion of Mrs. Lowry, though always magnificent, was never tidy, while the quiet home of Mrs. Bowen was a pattern of neatness and simple elegance. The young merchant never went home without finding that his wife had been out all day either shopping, or making calls, and was in consequence tired and silent, or perhaps out of humor; while the young lawyer always found a neat dinner and a cheerful wife to welcome him. As for Charles, he had always sneered at love, and having married from motives of vanity and interest, a woman whose mind he despised, he had nothing of sympathy \‘ith her, nor was it long consequently before he found her society irksome. then the toils of the counting-house were over he went home, because it was the custom, but not because he expected to derive any pleasure from the conversation of his vain and flippant wife. He was glad when the season commenced with its round of dissipation, because then he found some relief in attending the fashionable entertainments of his own and his wife’s acquaintance. Since his marriage he had never enjoyed a single hour of real domestic felicity. How different was the wedded life of Henry and his bride. All through the tedious duties of the day, the recollection of his sweet wife’s greeting at night, cheered the young lawyer on in his labors. And when evening came, and he had closed his office for the day, how smilingly, and in what neat attire, would Lucy preside at the tea-table, or, after their meal had been disposed of, bring out her work-stand, and sew at something, if only at a trifle for a fair, while Henry read to her in his rich, mellow voice. And then, sometimes, they would sit on the sofa, and talk of a thousand plans for the future, when their income should be extended, or, if it was in summer, they would stroll out for a walk, or call upon some one of their few intimate friends. “ Dear Henry," said Lucy, one evening to her husband, as they sat talking together after tea, “ how wearied Mr. Lowry looks of late. I think he must be in bad health. How glad I am you are always welL I know not what I should do if you were to be taken sick." “ May that day be long averted, my own Lucy,” said the husband, as he kissed her pure brow, “ but 1 have noticed something of the same look in Lowry; and have attributed it to the cares of business. His Wife is a woman, you know, who could do little to alleviate a husband’s weariness.” “ Oh ! how can she be a wife, and not wish to soften her husband’s cares. Indeed, indeed, if you only look the least worried I share your trouble until your brow clears up." “ And it is that which makes me love you so dearly,” said the husband, as he pressed her to his bosom. “ Ah 1" he continued to himself, *t if Charles saw me to-night I wonder whether he would not envy me ?” That evening there was a brilliant party at the house of Mrs. Lowry, who was smiling upon her guests in all the elation of gratified pride. Never had she appeared mo re happy. But eveh the envied fi / THE DUSTY WHITE ROSE. BY MRS. VOLNEY E. THIS is not thy place—oh! thou dusty white rose, This is not thy place, by the dusty highway, Thou shouldst bud where the murmuring rivulet flows, And sings itself off through the meadows away. Yes—there is thy place, on the distant green lea, HOWARD- Thou remindest me much, oh! thou poor blighted flower, Of a fair human blossom, I met on life's way ; She struggled and liv’d through dark Destiny's hour, But like thine, has her young bloom all wilted away. Where the sweet hawthorn blossoms, and wild In life’s_rugged pathway, it is not the bright, warblers sing. There, fanned by the zephyr, and oo’d by the bee, Thou mightst rival thy fair sister buds of the spring. Jackson, Md. 1841. Lovely blossoms of beauty that soonest depart, Far more do I grieve how soon sullies the light, The pure and untainted,—the bloom of the heart. THE VOICE OF THE SPRING TIME. BY MARTIN TIIAYER, I COME! I come! from the flowery South, With the voice of song and the shout of mirth; I have wandered far, I have wandered long, The valleys and hills of the South among; On woodland and glen, on mountain and moor, I have smiled as I smiled in days of yore; In emerald green I have decked them forth, And I turn again to my home in the North. I have rovcd afar through the storied East, And held on her hills my solemn feast; Through her cypress groves my voice was heard, In the music sweet of my fav'rite bird; Each plain I have clothed in sunlight warm, And slumbered in peace ’neath the desert palm; A garment oflight to the sea I gave, And melody soft to each rushing wave. O’er the isles that gem the Egean sea, p I sported and flew with frolicksome glee; ’Round the ruins grey of the olden time, Bright garlands I hung of the creeping vine; Ah little they thought, who slumber beneath, That the warrior’s plume, and the victor's wreath, \Vould fade like the blossoms that spring-time flings, ’Round the cottcr’s grave, and the tombs of kings. O’er Marathon grey I walked in my pride, And smiled o‘er the plain where the brave had died. On the field of Platzea I laid me down, ’Neath the shadows deep of old Cithmron’s frown. JR. Full soundly I ween doth the Persian sleep, When the fir trees mourn, and the wild flowers creep ; His requiem soft I sang as I lay, And dreamed of the glory won on that day. O'er Italia’s hills soft sunlight I poured, And her olive groves bloomed wherever I trod ; A eoronet green to the mOuntains I gave, And a robe of blue to each laughing wave; With verdure I clothed each mouldering pile, And laughed at the glory of man the while, ForI thought how old Time had trampled in scorn, o‘er the monuments proud of yesterday’s mom. I come! I come! with the song of the thrush, To wake with its sweetness the morning’s blush ; To hang on the hawthorn my blossoms fair, And strew o‘er each field my fiowrets rare. The lark, he is up, on his heavenward flight, And the leaves are all gemm‘d with diamonds bright; The hills are all bathed in purple and gold, And the bleating of flocks is heard from the fold. Go forth! go forth! for the spring-time is come, And makes in the North his bright sunny home; The sky is his banner—the hills his throne— W'here in sunshine robed, he sits all alone; In the depths of the woods his footsteps are seen By each moss-covered rock and tell-tale stream ; And his voice is heard through each leaf-clad tree, In the plaint of the dove and the hum of the bee. ' 18* THE REEFER OF our hopes. As we gained upon the merchantman, the crowded state of his decks became more and more apparent, and we could plainly detect, by means of our glasses, that every exertion, even to wetting down the sails to the royals, was being made on board of him to escape. But all was in ' vain. Few vessels afloat could beat us on the tack we were now going, nor was it long before we had the chase within range of our long Tom. “ She has n’t shown her bunting as yet :” said Captain Stuart, “ but we ’ll throw a shot across her, run up our flag, and see what answer she makes.” The long gun was cast loose, the foot of the foresail lifted, and the gunner applying the match, the ball went whizzing on its way'; while at the same moment our flag was run up to the golf, and blowing out to leeward, disclosed the arms of our colony.* For a few minutes the shot might have been seen richochetting along the waves, until it plunged into the sea a few fathoms on the larboard of the stranger. Still, however, no ensign was shown by the chase. “ Pitch a shot into her this time, Mr. Matchlock," ejaculated the skipper, addressing the gunner, " and see if that will bring her out." “ Ay, ay, sir," said the old fellow, squinting along his piece, and aware that he was one of the best marksmen afloat in any service, “ ay, ay, we ’ll awake them to a sense of their condition presently; we ’ll drive the cold iron through and through the reprobates: too high, a little more starboard— steadily all, and mark the mischief," cried the old fellow, applying the match. The rest of the sen- tence was lost in the deafening report of the can- non; a sheet of fire was seen streaming out an instant from the mouth of the piece; and as the pale white smoke sailed slowly eddying away to leeward, the old gunner might have been discerned, bending eagerly forward, and shading his eyes with his hands, as he gazed after the path of the ball. “ By the Lord Harry how it makes the splinters fly!” said the old fellow, as the shot, striking full on the quarter of the chase, went through and through her deck. “ And there goes her flag at last,” said West- brook, as the ensign of England floated from the quarter of the merchantman, while at the same momenta cloud of smoke puffed from his stern, anda shot, skimming along the deep, toward us, plunged into the waters a cable’s length ahead. “ We ’re beginning to make him talk, eh !” chuckled tho gunner, waxing warm in his work. “ Let him have it again now—ah! that will bring out his teeth-give it to ’cm, you old sea-dog,” he continued, familiarly patting his piece, “ and by the continental Congress, he’s got it among his sky- scrapers. There come his to’-gallant sails— hurrah l” * The present national flag, consisting of the stars and stripes, was not adopted until 1777, when Congress passed a resolution to that effect. Prior to that time each commander used whatever device suited his fancy. The first ensign of Paul Jones is said to have been a pine tree, with a rattle-snake coiled at the foot. about to strike, and the motto, “don‘t tread on me." The arms of acolony, as in this instance, werc often used—Ens. ’76. 211 The fight now became one of intense interest, for the merchantman perceiving that escape was impossible, seemed determined to resist to the last, and kept up a brisk and well-directed fire upon us from his stem-guns. Their range not being, how. ever, so great as that of our piece, we were enabled after a while to regulate our distance so as to crip- ple the chase effectually without sustaining any damage ourselves. But it was not long that we were sufiered to maintain the combat on our own terms. Worried beyond endurance by the havoc made among his spars, the chase soon put his helm up, wore round, sud hauling up his course: in gallant defiance, came down boldly toward us. “ We shall have it now," whispered \Vestbrook as he stood by the division where he commanded, “they must outnumber us two to one—but we ’ll give them a lesson for all that." “ Ay! hand to hand, and foot to foot, will be the struggle, and God defend the right.” No sooner had the chase altered his course, and shown a determination to accept our challenge, than the firing on both sides ceased, and the two ships steadily but silently approached each other. The eve of a battle is a solemn time. However men may talk in their jovial hours, or feel amid the maddening excitement of the contest itself; there is something inexpressibly awe-inspiring in the con- sciousness that we are soon to be arrayed in deadly hostility against our fellow-creatures; and now as I gazed along the silent decks, and beheld our brave fellows gazing, as if spell-bound, upon the approach- ing foe, I perceived that their emotions were akin to my own. Yet there was nothing of fear in those hardy bosoms. There was a compression of the lip, an occasional flashing of the eye, and a half- suppressed word now and then among the men, which showed that amid all their other feelings, a deep, unflinching detestation of their tyrants was uppermost in their hearts. At times their eyes would glance proudly along our sanded deck, with all its apparatus of cutlasses, boarding pikcs, and cannon balls, and then turn indignantly, and almost triumphantly, toward the enemy, now bearing down upon us. Meantime a death-like silence hung upon them; not a sound was heard except the sighing of the winds through the hamper, and the dash of the waters under our bows. The chase had now approached almost within musket shot, and yet no demonstration of an attack had been made. We could see that the chase was alive with men. From every port, and look-out, and top, a score of faces warned us of a bloody battle. Each man was at his post, determination stamped on his countenance. As I gazed upon this formidable array of numbers, and beheld the comparatively gigantic hull of our adversary, steadily advancing on us, like some portentous monster of the deep, I almost trembled for our victory; but when my eye fell again on the brawny chests, and determined visages of our gallant crew, I felt that nothing but extermination could prevent them from hoisting our own flag above the proud ensign of our foe which now flapped lazily in the breeze. But my reverie—if such it might be called—was cut short by perceiving a sheet of 212 flame rolling along the Englishman’s side, and, while his tall spars reeled backward with the recoil, a shower of shot came hurtling toward us. In an instant the gulf of our mainsail fell; our sails were perforated in various places; and a cannon ball striking us amid-ships, cut through both bulwarks, and laid one poor fellow dead upon the deck. The men started like hounds when they see their prey. “ Stand to your guns—my men I" thundered the captain in this emergency, “ let not a shot be fired until I give the word. Bear steadily on your helm, and lay us across their bows." . The moments that elapsed before this endeavor could be consummated seemed to be protracted into an age. Our gallant fellows could, meanwhile, scarcely be restrained within the bounds of disci- pline. As shot after shot came whizzing over us, the crew grew more and more restive, casting uneasier glances at our commander at every suc- cessive fire. Several of the spars had by this time been wounded, and our hull showed more than one evidence of the foe‘s skill in gunnery. At length a shot came tearing through the bulwark but a short distance from where I was stationed, and after knocking the splinters wildly hither and thither, struck a poor fellow at his quarters, and laid him mangled and bleeding across his gun. I ran to him. One of his shipmates had already lifted the man’s head up, and laid it carefully in the lap of a comrade. The face was dreadfully pale—the features unnaturally distorted. Agony, intense and irresistible, was written in every line of the face. The motion, however, revived him, and he opened his eyes with a groan. Unsettled as was their gaze, they took in the anxious group around him. He saw, on every face, the deepest commisseration. His glazing eye lightened for a moment. “How are you, Jack 1'” said the shipmate, in wh05e lap he lay. The dying man shook his head moumfully. h Don't you know me, Jack ?” said his messmate. There was no answer. The eyes of the sufferer were closed. “ God knows I little thought you were to die thus 1” continued his shipmate, with emotion. “ F or twenty years, in gale and calm, in winter and summer we have sailed together, and now you ’re going to part company, without being able even to bid an old messmate farewell,” and he wiped the cold sweat from the dying man’s brow. " Jack, Jack, don’t you know me? Can I do nothing for you 2” v The sufferer opened his eyes, and made a gesture as if he wished to be lifted up. His desire was gratified. He looked around eagerly until his eyes fell upon the enemy. “ Bury—me,” he faintly articulated, “ after you ’ve—hauled—dowu her flag. And—and Rover," and his voice, for an instant, became stronger, “ send the prize-money to the old woman—and—a—a." He gasped for breath. “ What 'Z—in God’s name what?" senses of the dying man began to wander. “ Speak !—Jack—for the love of God I” “ A—ails—we—e—el!" murmured the man, brokcnly. He ceased. A quivering motion passed But the THE REEFER OF ’76. . across his face. upon the deck. “ He ’s dead—and now boys, for revenge l” said Rover, as he started to his feet. ' The crisis had come. So rapidly had the fore- going scene passed, and so intently had we all been gazing upon the dying man, that, in the interval, the schooner had gained a position on the bow of the enemy, and as the sturdy seaman rose up from beside his murdered companion, we ran short across her in a raking position; and before the words had died upon the air, the long-expected command came from the quarter deck, to open our fire. “ Fire !" shouted our leader, “ one and all—pour it into them—remember you fight for your all 1” “ Give it to ’em like h—l, my boys," thundered the gunner, “ that’s it; there goes her sprit-sail yard—hurrah !" It was a terrific scene. No sooner had the signal been given, than, as with one accord, our gallant fellows poured in their deadly fire. Every shot told. Stung almost beyond human endurance by the restraint in which they had been kept, and maddened by the spectacle of a messmate slain at his post before he could fire a shot, our crew fought like demons rather than men,jerking their guns out as if they were playthings in their hands. Nothing could withstand them. Not a shot was wasted on the rigging of the foe: every one was driven along her crowded decks. The slaughter was immense. Man and boy, sailor and marine, officers and crew went down before that murderous, incessant fire. The flashes of the cannon, the roars of the bat- teries, the crashing of spars, and the shrieks of the wounded and the dying rose up together in terrific discord. Meanwhile the thick clouds of smoke settling down upon us, hid the hull of the enemy completely from sight. Nothing but her masts, rising tall and gallantly above the dim canopy of her decks, could be seen. Directly one of these was seen to stagger; then it swayed to and fro a moment; and directly giving a lurch, the whole lofty fabric of spars and hamper went tumbling over her side. “ Hurrah, boys! we have her now,” shouted the captain of a gun near me, “there goes her fore- mast—let her have it again," and, jerking out his piece at the word, another deadly discharge of grape was sent hurtling along the enemy’s decks. , By this time the two vessels had got afoul, the bowsprit of the foe having become entangled with the shrouds of our main-mast. Unable longer to resist the whirlwind of grape poured along their decks, the crew of the enemy determined on making a desperate effort to retrieve the tide of battle by boarding, and gathering suddenly forward, at the call of their leader, they made an instantaneous rush upon us. But their attack was as quickly met. A momentary vacillation of the veil of smoke hanging over the deck of the foe, by dis- closing the numbers gathering upon her forecastle, betrayed to our gallant leader the intention of the enemy. He saw at a glance that the attack must be repulsed speedily or that we were lost. The vessels were already rapidly swinging around side to side, and in a few moments the overwhelming His shipmate gently laid his head THE HAUNTED CASTLE. A LEGEND OF THE RI'IINE. ON the brow of a lofty and rugged hill, which overlooks the Rhine, stand the ruins of the ancient Castle of Ehlendorf. The ivy has clambered over ,its crumbling towers, as if to shield them from the destructive hand of time, and bind with its creeping tendrils the wounds which he has made. Once its halls resounded with the mirth of the young and gay, of brave knights 'and ladies fair, while the songs of minstrels, and tales of heroic enterprize, Whiled away the hours of night, until the purple light of dawn appeared. Now it has fallen to decay: the race of its noble possessors has become extinct; and the ivy grows, and the owl hoots amid its de- serted courts. At the time when our tale commences, it was in the possession of Conrad, Baron of Ehlendorf, the remaining scion of that noble family. His brother had died in Palestine, leaving to him the title and all the vast estates of his ancestors. In early life he had wedded the beautiful Elfrida, of Aldenburg, and never was a purer gem more dearly valued than the young bride of Ehlendorf by her doting lord. Years of bright, unclouded happiness rolled over their heads; and if unalloyed pleasure has ever dwelt on earth, it was the portion of Conrad, of Ehlendorf, when he looked upon his angel bride and their little Katrine, scarcely knowing which was the loveliest, the mother or the child. Often as he saw their fair offspring, with bounding footsteps, dimpled cheeks, and laughing eye, throwing back her golden curls, and rushing with playfulness and love into her mother‘s arms, he felt that without her his treasures were but glittering dust. Like the other barons of ancient times, his re- tinne was composed of a vast number of armed retainers, and his power and wealth were unequalled by any other of equal rank in the country. His kindness and hospitality were every where prover- bial, and the noblest of the land delighted to gather round. his festive board. Thus, love, wealth and beauty conspired to fill the heart of Ehlendorf with joy, and noughtcould dim his happiness till his loved Elfrida was called from earth to blossom in a fairer dime. Sad and alfiictive was this bereavement to the young baron, overthrowing as it did the dreams that he had been weaving through eight bright years of wedded happiness. Still, as he turned in anguish from the lifeless form of the object of his heart’s best affections, one ray of hope enlivened the sur- rounding gloom. His lovely Katrine grew more and more beautiful day by day, and in her he felt that he possessed a purer treasure than wealth could afford. In his constant watchful care over her helplessness, and the fond confiding aflection with which she repaid his tenderness, he found forgetful- ness of every sorrow. As successive years rolled on she grew more and more lovely, and new charms in her unfolded daily. No opportunity had been neglected which would tend to her intellectual advancement; and at the age of sixteen she possessed the charms of beauty, and an intellect of the highest degree. Their castle was thronged with young cavaliers, eager to win so lovely a prize,—-and though her smiles were be- stowed on all, yet no one of the noble train had received any evidence of her preference. Happy in the fondness, nay, almost idolatry of her father, she remained insensiblc to any other than paternal affection. The baron, though still in the pride of manhood, had never indulged serious thoughts of a second union, and when bright eyes beamed on him, and silvery voices fell in tones of melody upon his ear, he had only to look upon the face of Katrine, where every feature of her sainted mother was re- flected as in a faithful mirror, and his heart was steeled against every attraction. It was a beautiful morning in the month of June, when the baron and his daughter went forth for their accustomed ride. The air was balmy; the fragrance of the flowers was borne upon the breeze, and the groves were vocal with the melody of the feathered songsters. Suddenly dark clouds obscured the sky, and foretold a coming tempest. They hurried on, but When they arrived at the castle, the storm-clouds hung darkly and fearfully over its rugged towers. Then loud thunders rent the sky; gleams of lightning darted from pole to pole. The rain fell in torrents from the darkened sky, hour after _hour, incessantly; the swollen waves of the Rhine beat in fury upon their rugged banks. Ka- trine was seated at her chamber window, watching the raging billows as they rushed in wild commotion against the rocks. Suddenly her attention was attracted by the sight of a cavalier upon the oppo- site shore. The vision was transient, for scarcely had he appeared ere his fiery charger leaped from the towering height of the rock into the boiling waves below. The baron’s sturdy vassals had wit- ‘ nessed his disaster, and rushed forth to rescue him if possible. Urged on by impassioned signs from Katrine, they put forth every effort. For awhile he struggled successfully against the foaming billows, THE/HAUNT but was at'length thrown with violence against the rocks, and when the vessels of the castle had suc- ceeded in bearing him to the shore, he was insen- sible. Hour after hour the baron and Katrine hung anxiously over his couch, watching for signs of re- turning consciousness, but he remained pale and motionless as the work of a statuary; his faint breathing and a slight pulsation alone giving evi- dence that life was not extinct. At length a delicate flush overspread his marble countenance; his eyelids gently raised, and he gazed in bewildered astonishment on all around him. “ Fear not,” said the baron, “ you are with friends, who will watch over you carefully, until you have recovered from your late disaster." The following morning he was able to relate the circumstances which had led him there. He gave his name as Hildebrand, a young knight of Hauo. ver. He had been engaged in the chase, the day before, and had followed the deer so far that he lost sight of his companions, and wandered through the intricate mazes of the forest, not knowing whi- ther his way might lead. Soon the tempest arose, and as he reached the opening of the forest, he spurred on his charger, ignorant of his proximity to the Rhine, until he was precipitated down the frightful chasm. He expressed his gratitude in the highest terms to his noble host for his kindness, and a wish to leave the castle as soon as possible. The extreme debility resulting from his late acci- dent, however, precluded the possibility of his im- mediate departure. Besides, the ravages of the storm had rendered the highways impassable. During this time the fair Katrine left no means untried to cheer the lingering hours. Her harp be- guiled those moments which would otherwise have been tedious, and her voice, whose melody was unrivalled, seemed even more sweet than it was wont to be, as she sung the wild and beautiful legends of their country. Charmed by her beauty, licr accomplishments, and filial affection, young Hildebrand became daily more and more attached to Katrine, while she returned his affection with fond idolatry. Thus passed day after day in peace and happiness, and the only sorrow which dimmed Katrina’s pleasures was the thought of parting, and his wish that their engagement should be concealed from her father, until he should return to claim his aflianced bride. Sincere and trusting, she yielded to the conviction that he was urged to this wish by powerful motives, then unknown to her, nor allowed the slightest suspicion of his constancy to enter her mind. One bright morning three weeks after his arrival at the castle, a courier alighted with despatches for Hildebrand. As he perused them, a cloud rested upon his brow, and he hastened to find Katrine. He told her that his presence was demanded at i court, but with many promises of a speedy return, he bade her a fond farewell. \Veeks, nay, even months passed away, and still Katrine received no tidings from her stranger lover. She had with- , drawn herself from gay society, and her gladsome laugh no longer resounded through the silent halls. IIer anxious parent saw with anguish the sorrow of l his child, and finally won from her the tale of her ED CASTLE. 215 love. In vain he used every endeavor to find the retreat of their guest. The name of Hildebrand was unknown tb any of the barons of the vicinity, and he was forced to relinquish his fruitless inquiry. At length it was announced that a tournament was to be held at the capital, in honor of the nuptials of the Elector of Hanover, and the baron hoping that this scene of gaiety would dissipate her melancholy, won the consent of Katrine to accompany him, The tnoming of the day appointed dawned with unusual splendor, and the eye of Katrine beamed with the light of hope, as she took her place in a gallery commanding a full view of the field of ac- tion. “ Surely,” she thought to herself, “ when the bravest of the land are about to signalise them- selves, Hildebrand will not desert the noble band." The field was elegantly prepared; and the tents, glittering with all the splendor of martial panoply, added double richness to the scene. On either side of the lists were galleries of blue and red and purple silk, crowded with the beauty of the land. All was anxious expectation. Soon a shout of joy from the assembled multitude announced that the elector and his young bride were approaching. Mounted on a fiery charger, which he managed with perfect skill, his noble form appeared to the best advantage. His bride rode a beautiful white palfrey, and though there was something noble in her flashing eye and masculine firmness, still her beauty could not be compared, without disparagement, to the angelic loveliness of Katrine. As they advanced near the place where Katrine was seated, an undefined hor- ror thrilled through her frame, yet her eyes remained fixed upon the prince. Surely it was the same noble form. Could it be Hildebrand? He turned his dark eye upon her and met her anxious glance; the color receded from his cheek. She uttered a faint cry of agony, pronounced the name of Hilde- brand, and fell senseless into the arms of her atten- dants. The tale can be told in a few words. Her faith- less lover had been summoned from his delightful retreat at Ehlendorf by the duties of state; at..l ambition had led him to form an alliance from which his heart revolted. In the cares of state and the hilarity of his nuptials he had in a measure drowned the memory of Katrine, but now she seemed to rise like a gentle spirit to reprove his falsehood. The arrows of remorse had entered his soul and poisoned his enjoyment. Though sur- rounded by all the honors and dignities of this world he found no peace. Katrine was borne by her afflicted parent to their once happy home, but the light of existence had fled forever, and the house of Ehlendorf was soon to be remembered as among the dead. A few sad years rolled on. The baron was borne to his last resting place. Katrine with her attendants alone remained within the castle walls. At length she yielded up her vast domains in favor of a distant relative, with this restriction, that the old castle should remain undisturbed, and as it was reported, retired to a convent in Switzer- land. From this pcriod the old fortress was left to the ravages of time, uninhabited by any mortal, though the superstitious inhabitants of the vicinity declared it to be the abode of supernatural beings. 216 A tall form according to the neighboring villagers, rubed in white, had been seen upon the battlements at midnight, while strains of wild unearthly melody were heard floating on the breeze; and when the storm was raging, the same spirit form was seen hovering over the yawning chasm and keeping its fearful vigils where no mortal foot durst approach. The benighted traveller turned away, choosing to wander through the mazes of the forest, rather than pass the fearful place, and even the adventurous mountain boy fled in terror from its lonely walls. Years had rolled on, when the Elector of Hano- ver chanced in hunting to pass through the domains of Ehlendorf. One of his followers related to him the superstitions concerning the castle, and despite their entreaties he insisted upon exploring its re- cesses. He reached it just as its towers were gleam- ing in the pure moonlight; and the waters of the Rhine flowed gently on, while each tiny ripple wore its glittering coronet of moonbeams. How vividly bright the visions of the past rose in his memory, as he entered once more through the castle’s lonely gates. Just as he passed the threshold the notes of an Eolian harp sent a thrill of superstitious terror through every vein. He opened the door which led to Katrine’s bouinr, when a sight met his eye which caused him to recoil with terror. Extended on a couch, and guarded by an old attendant, was the form of the once beautiful heiress of Ehlendorf. The deep flush of agitation overspread her check as she recognised him and said, “ Why intrude upon the sanctity of one devoted to Heaven, or strive to bind a heart to this earth which its sorrows have broken '2" ALETHE. and not the spirit was before him, and he slowly approached her saying, H I come,‘to crave the boon of pardon from one so deeply injured as you have been." A sweet smile beamed on her placid countenance as she said, “ It is granted, and may kind Heaven forgive all your wanderings, as freely as I now forgive your falsehood. I have found the bitterness of earthly sorrow, and for awhile brooded sadly over disap- pointed love, but the deep dream now is past. For years my hopes have been fixed upon a brighter world, and not one lingering trace of earthly idola_ try has mingled in my devotions. I would have secluded myself in the sacred walls of a monastery, but my heart clung with fondness to my father’s halls. I have traced the Creator’s power in the starry heavens and stolen abroad to view the glories of nature in the pure moonlight. This has given rise to the superstitions of the peasantry, and I have carefully avoided undeceiving them lest they should intrude upon my retirement. And now, farewell. My sands of life are well night spent, and I shall soon join my sainted parents in Heaven. Leave me in solitude, I entreat you, lest the lingering spell be thrown again upon me. Once more fare- well.” Thus saying she motioned to the door where he had entered, and he retired in sadness of spirit. A few weeks after, the form of Katrine was deposited in the family vault, and the castle remained unten- anted. The peasantry still call it the Haunted Castle, asserting that the fair lady of Ehlendorf is seen to wander by moonlight over its crumbling These words assured him that the true Katrine towers. EMMA. F emale Seminary, Yonkers, N. Y. 1841. _' I1: 7': 1"— A L E T H E . av I. s. FaeroIr. I saw Alethe—she was young and fair: A rose-bud op'ning to the balmy spring; And as she knelt in holy, fervent prayer, Her youthful heart to God surrendering, The music of her voice in murmurs low, Sounded like tones of sweetest melody, Half-waking heard—or like the silver flow Of some lone woodland stream—she seem'd to be A type of perfect beauty—Heav'nly symmetry. Again I saw Alethe.-—It was where Dwelt sickness, poverty, and misery deep- Where prison-walls enclos’d a parent dear ; And like an angel, she had come to keep St. Louis, 154] . Watch while he slept—to comfort him—to pray. In innocence she came, like Marcy’s dove, With healing balm, to sooth his care away! Oh! such sweet tenderness—~such holy love, Mut be akin to that in the bright world above! Once more I saw Alethe—at her breast Hang a sweet infant, and the radiant smile That revell'd round its lips while calm at rest, Was like the smile of cherubs,—-free from guile. Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming, The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paint Aught so much like a guardian Angel beaming In full beneficence upon a saint As sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint. MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. “ WELL, well,” said my grandfather, ti sit down, girls, and I will tell you all about it." Cousin Sarah and myself accordingly got our work, and sitting down at a proper distance, as- sumed the attitude of earnest listeners. “ If you had ever been in France,” he com- menced, " I could make you understand my story much better, but your little rustic American imagi- nations can never conceive any thing like the refinement, and yet freedom of society in that polished country; the softness and beauty of the earth and sky; or the striking magnificence of the old ruinous chateaux; but as it is I shall be very brief in my sketches of these things.” " Oh, no, no, grandfather,” we both exclaimed at once, “ you must be the more particular in your description; for being strange to us they are the more interesting." “ Well," he replied, “I will as much as I can, without making a long story of it; but do not interrupt me, for that will utterly break the chain of my recollections. “ First, you must consider that although I am an old American citizen, I was once a young French nobleman; and your grandmother whom you see busied in household duties is a Stuart, of the royal blood of Scotland.~ The estate of my ancestors lies in view of the ancient and noble city of Lyons, stretching from the beautiful Rhone west to the Cervennes mountains. A fine chateau near the river is the modern residence of our family; but its ancient strong-hold is a rude and magnificent old castle, built on the rocky summit of a mountain which stands alone in its majesty, looking down with seeming scorn on the proud city, and the river which can never more than his its feet. My noble grandsire had two sons, of whom my father was the younger. My uncle, of course, in- herited the title and estate, and was sole lord of the old castle; although my father occupied mag- nificent apartments in the chateau. I remember when quite a child, accompanying my father in his visits to my uncle, at such seasons as he chose to reside on the mountain. My awe and admiration of the dark, old structure were boundless. There it sat, firm as the eternal rock to which it was secured, utterly inaccessible on the side toward the river; and scarcely approachable in any direction, save by an expensively constructed road, dug or built along the margin of a brook which flows at the bottom of a ravine, down the mountlin, toward the river. This traversed ravine presented to my eyes a thousand wild, beautiful, and romantic spots. I had not then seen the forests, and mountains, and wild glens, of this panorama of nature’s most grand and beautiful works; this land of the majestic and the terrible; the lovely and the sweet; from the savage chieftain beside the soul-stunning Niagara, to the enameled humming bird kissing the blossoms that overhang the silver fountain. Oh! this is a glorious country; but it is not my native France. “ In that dear land every perpendicular rock, every babbling cataract, every gnarled tree,‘ or rag- ged shrub was a picturesque and wonderful object to my young imagination; and to be allowed to visit my uncle at the castle was the highest reward at which my efi'orts were aimed. My uncle was a widower. At thirty years of age he married a. beautiful child of seventeen, whom he fervently idolised : but in less than two years the fair creature began to fade. He carried her to balmy Italy, but he returned alone. From that time he was sad and gloomy, almost morose. He never left the castle, except to ramble over the mountains, among the wild recesses of which he often spent whole nights, and I sometimes shuddered as I heard the domestics hint that he was or would be utterly crazed. Such was my uncle’s condition, when on a beautiful summer morning my father set out with me toward the castle. I was eight years of age, and had just been made master of a fine sleek mule, which I was permitted to ride by the side of my father’s noble Arabian horse. That was a proud day to me. Never since have I felt myself of as , much consequence as then. My uncle’s steward who saw in me the future lord of the estate, always paid me great deference, and I was an idol in his family. Of course I spent the time of my visits with them, after paying my respects to my uncle, who always saluted me with grave courtesy, and then turned sorrowfully away. I was an especial pet of the steward’s daughter, a pretty girl of about seventeen, who always treated me with choice cakes and delicious fruits. On this day she spread a table in a garden arbor with her choicest viands, adding rich creams and sweet-meats, to which we sat down joyfully. But she soon made me sad by saying that in all probability I should not soon dine with her again. She was about to be married, and go far away. But she wished to tell me something of great importance, only she feared that I was too young to have disc'retion sufficient to manage so ‘19 218 strange an affair. This mysterious prelude wrought my curiosity to the highest pitch. I protested and promised every thing she required of me, and so she began: u‘You see the square tower all covered with ivy that stands on the angle of that perpendicular rock. Did you ever notice how lonely it is; how small and high the windows are, and that there is no way of getting to it from without? Well, you see it is only connected with the rest of the building by one long, dark gallery; the other sides being closed up with strong walls. This tower has been called the Haunted Tower these hundred years. I used to be afraid to go near it. You were a very little baby when your beautiful aunt died abroad, and your uncle came home a mourner to this place. I was then about as old as you are now. I cried bitterly for the loss of my young lady, and pitied my lord exceedingly. I observed that he went frequently to that tower, and remained for hours within it. Once I ventured to follow him. I know not what impelled me; but I was surprised when I entered the hall. It was tastefully furnished, and adorned with the most beautiful and fragrant exotic and native plants and shrubs. I stood a moment lost in admiration, when I thought I heard low voices in conversation. I listened; I distinctly heard my lord speaking, and detected the murmur of a soft female voice. A door on one side the hall stood partly open. I approached it stealthily, and saw my lord kneeling before a most beautiful woman, who sat upon a low seat, resting her face upon her hand, seemingly in deep sorrow. She was dressed in black, and her hair was of the sarde dark hue, while her hands, face, and shoulders were white as alabaster. I did not look long, but I saw my lord press her hand to his lips, when she sud- denly withdrew it with a shudder, and bending down placed both her hands over her face and wept. I stole away; but whether I was observed, or my intrusion suspected, or from some other cause, my lord ever after $011M the door behind him, so that I entered there no more. Yet often in the mellow twilight I have heard strains of solemn music, so soft and sorrowful that I have sat down and wept until the melody ceased. But I never saw the lady since that time. I have heard others assert that they have seen an appari- tion, which they say is like our deceased lady, and that while they gazed it vanished away. But the person whom I saw was as unlike my lady as possible, and as to vanishing, as these sights were always seen in the evening, I suppose she wore a white dress and a black mantle, which on being alarmed she drew around her, and so became invi- sible. Now who she is, or how she came here, or why she keeps herself concealed I cannot guess. I have kept it secret out of respect to your uncle, but I thought as you will be lord here after his death, and as he is slowly wasting away, I would tell you, and so when you come to the estate you will examine into it. But do not mention it until then; for I am sure that any discovery or investigation would greatly afilict your poor uncle, whose melan; choly I am sure is connectedwith this mystery.’ “ Now, girls,” said my grandfather, “ if you can MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY- tell me how such a piece of information would make you feel, I shall have no need of telling you the wonder, the terror, the curiosity and anxiety which it awakened in my mind. Sleeping or waking my thoughts were full of Annette’s story. Once I ventured to ask my mother why people thought my uncle’s castle haunted? ‘ It is a common thing,‘ she replied, ‘ for the vulgar to tell marvellous tales of old buildings, castles in particular; but I hope that you will show your superior breeding, by never giving heed to such tales. Your father has been there much by day and night, and he never saw any thing wonderful; and it would grieve him if he knew that you had been listening to stories of supernatural agency.’ I assured her that I did not believe in ghosts; and I never again ventured to propose the subject. As years passed on, the im- pression became less vivid, until Annette’s tale of wonder seemed to me like some old familiar legend. I was about eighteen when I was suddenly sum- moned from the University to attend my uncle's death-bed. When I found myself again in that old familiar place, although the old steward had died, and his place was filled by a stranger, the story of the old tower came first among the recollections of the post. My uncle was so wan and wasted that I should not have known him, yet he seemed exceedingly glad to see me. In the night as I sat beside his bed, he dismissed the nurso, saying that she must need rest and sleep. He then said that as I was his kinsman and successor, he hoped that he might confide to me something which nearly concerned his honor. I remarked that as his honor was mine he need be under no apprehension. So he commenced. “ ‘I was, according to custom, betrothed in my boyhood to a sweet little babe almost as soon as she saw the day. Our fathers were sworn friends, and I saw the little Adela frequently, and loved her as a dear sister. But when I began to consider myself a man, I sometimes felt as if I could not wait for her, for she was much younger than I. Being fond of reading, and naturally romantic, I drunk in with avidity every wild and passionate legend, and longed for some thrilling adventure. My alliance was tasteless, because it lacked the excitement of adventure or opposition. And yet when weary of noise and pleasure, I found it sweet to pass an hour in her society; she was so gentle, unassuming, and affectionate. At the age of twenty-five I departtd on my travels, with a soul thirsting for adventure. I pass over all, however, until I arrived at Constantinople. Here among the licentious I felt that all the passions of man’s nature had full licence. I shall not carry you by my de- tails into scenes by which I pray God you may never be polluted. Suffice it that a young and lovely creature, whose innocence and fund confid- ing I should have respected, forgot her alliance to her nominal lord, and became mine with a fervor of affection which is never equalled, or even under- stood iu these cold climes. I thought only of dallying with her awhile when I first sought to win her; but there was an enchantment about her which I often fancied to be in reality the magic of which I had often read. At length the time of my MY GRANDFAT sojourn in that unequalled city was expiring. Iv sought to tear myself away, for I never dreamed of taking Alma with me. But she would not leave me. I felt embarrassed as to the manner in which I should dispose of her if she accompanied me to France. But my hackneyed heart felt no com- punction for the deceit I had practised upon her; and I resolved formally to retain her, keeping her, if possible, in ignorance of our laws and customs, and of Christianity of course; and to marry Adela according to contract. So I gave myself up to the pleasures of her society; and she dreamed not of the workings of the heart which she fondly consi- dered all her own. “ *Arrived at home, I placed her in an elegant mansion, furnished her with attendants, and every elegance and luxury of life ; and while preparations were going forward for my union with Adela, found my highest enjoyment in the society of the ardent Alma. She was a perfect contrast to Adela in every particular. I loved them both,just as you may admire the lily and the rose. The wedding day arrived, and I pledged to Adela a perjured vow. “‘ I had been married one year when my wife enquired of me who the beautiful girl was whom I was in the habit of attending to places of public amusement. I was prepared for this, and told her that it was a Turkish lady, the wife of a sea captain, a particular friend of mine, who was absent at sea. Adela insisted on being introduced to her, for she- said she felt a great curiosity to look on the woman whose beauty had become the theme of every tongue. ‘Here was a dilemma for which I was utterly unprepared. I could make no rea. sonable excuse, and the hesitancy and embarrass- ment of my. manner excited or confirmed suspicion. It seemed that Adela was completely a woman, and determined to gratify her curiosity, although by so doing she made herself wholly miserable. \Vhen I next visited Alma I found her sorrowful and pale. She had been visited by a lady, whom, from her description, I knew to be my wife, who had drawn from her artless tongue her whole history, and then set before her the ignominy and sinfnlness of her present situation. These were strange words for the poor girl’s ear, yet I succeeded in calming her mind, and left her with emotions of such sorrow as~I never felt before. I fully comprehended the wrong that I had done her, and the anguish that must from this time be her portion. I felt angry at Adela, and yet how could I blame her. She discovered a coldness and restraint in my manner, and became herself cold and restrained; in short, we were all three wretched. Adela in her zeal employed her confessor to teach Alma the myste- ries of religion. Alma was ever in tears; and Adela began to pine and waste away. At length she became so ill that the physician declared that nothing could help her unless it were a journey and short residence in Italy. But before I set for- ward I conveyed Alma to this castle, and placed her in the tower which superstition had cast a spell around; entrusting her to the sole care of an aged female domestic, lest during my absence she should be persuaded to enter a convent. “ ‘ I came_ home widowed, but not in heart. I Hart’s s'ronr. 219 flew to Alma, and told her there was no drawback on ounhappiness now; that she should now possess both hard and heart. She wept long and agonis- ingly upon my bosom, and then told me that the magic glass of life was broken. That the clear cold light of reality “now lay upon all the ways of love. That earth to her was no longer a blissful paradise. And finally, that she had resolved to enter a nunnery. Oh ! the agony of that hour. I sought by every argument to divert her from her purpose, but she was unyielding. For a long time I refused to let her go, and kept her prisoner in the tower. But when I could by no means move her, when she turned ever weeping from me, or kneeling besought the no longer to keep her from the court of heaven, I gave her the keys of her prison, and left the castle. I returned after a few days. She was gone. I was desolate; and from that hour I have been dying. “ ‘ Last week my confessor put a letter into my hand, observing that it was given him by one who said that it required no answer as the writer was dead. It was frotn Alma. She said she must be brief, for her minutes on earth were few. She bade me reproach myself on her account no more, as she was passing away to heaven, leaving me her prayers and blessings. She had loved me ever and alone. She begged that I would freely pardon her if she had done me wrong. But her chief object in writ- ing was to entreat my protection for our child. Oh! my God, how that word thrilled me. I had not dreamed of such a thing. Yet she said that during my absence with my injured wife she had borne a female child. That she had concealed the circumstances from me, lest it should be made an impediment to her becoming a nun. That the child was named Adela, was now in the convent, and was ignorant of her parents. She desired me to suffer her to continue so, if she should prefer to remain and take the veil; but if she should leave her sanc- tuary, she besought me to be her guardian. I visited the convent; I knelt on the cold marble that lies above my Alma’s colder bosom—I saw my daughter; she told me that she would take the veil. I passed as her mother’s uncle ; told her that she was an orphan, and offered her protection if she would leave the convent. She replied that as she had no earthly parents she would never leave her present place of refuge. I came home and lay down to die. H ‘I have now, my dear nephew, tOId you that which I had thought would never pass my lips; but it is for the sake of my poor child. My heart bleeds for her, orphan, and pennyless as she is. I could not speak of her to your father; but you are young, and your heart is as yet uncalloused. You will eventually succeed to these estates. Albert, I do not wish my child to become a nun; I will give you a letter and casket; you will find them in that bureau; take them to her when I am no more. Say I bade you deliver them only to her. You will thus obtain an interview with her. I am sure you will love her, for she is the image of her mother. If so, take her from the convent, and make her your wife. Promise to do this and 1 will die content. Your relationship need be no obstacle, W0 for it is known only to yourself. Will you pro- mise ?' t I swear to do all you ask, provided Adela is willing.’ ‘ Thank you, my son. Now I can depart in peace.’ “ My uncle died, and was laid in the stately mausoleum of the family. I went to execute his commission to my cousin. As I looked upon her face and figure I no longer wondered that my uncle loved her mother. She was beautiful beyond all description. No eye could scan her features, for her face was like a pellucid fountain, in which all lovely objects of earth and heaven were constantly and changefully reflected. ‘ . “ As she was not of the sisterhood I was allowed to see her daily, and converse with her through the grate, and I need not tell you that I loved her madly. She confessed that her heart was mine, and promised to leave the convent and become my wife. I was now obliged to go on business into Germany. I told Adela that I would be back in eight weeks. “I wrote to her frequently, and at length des- patched a letter naming a day for our meeting. Soon after I had mailed it. I fell on the ice and broke my leg, beside injuring my head so severely that I was unconscious of my own existence for nearly three weeks. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered I wrote an account of the accident to Adela, and continued to write at short intervals until I was able to travel. “I arrived at home after an absence of four months, and flew to the convent to see my soul’s delight once more. Judge of my agony when I was told that I could not see her, and that she had taken the veil. I felt as if the whole beautiful world had become a miserable chaos, amid the horrors of which I was eternally lost., At length I began to hope. I got a letter conveyed to her, in which I pictured as forcibly as language could, the distraction of my mind, and besought her to give me some consolation. She sent me an age- nising reply. She had ever been taught that men were false, and that love was sin. When I failed in my return these precepts were enforced, and she gave them renewed credence. She saw no letter from me afterward, and being urged to join the sisterhood, in her despair and agony consented, and was now lost to me forever. But I could not so resign her. I plead with her that her promise to me being prior made her monastic vows null; and I urged her to elope with me to America. “She at length gave a reluctant consent. I gathered up a large sum of money, and we soon found ourselves on ship-board, and plying from our native land. Think you that I was then happy? Alas for human hopes and passions! I was in possession of my adored and beautiful Adela, but I was a fugitive from my country, I was fleeing like a felon from my father’s house, and I felt that I had left mourning and bitterness in the places where I should have been difi'using peace and joy. Of the rank and wealth that I had relinquished I thought little, for poverty and contempt had not then taught me to value them. But I was sad even in the hour Liberty, Pa. April, 1841. MY GRANDFATHERQ STORY. in which I had attained that for which I would freely have given life itself. Adela and I were united by the chaplain of the ship, on board of which we sailed, but he was a Protestant. Poor Adela scrupled at the validity of a ceremony thus performed; and the prejudices of her education, with the vows she had broken, were persecuting spirits ever torturing her heart, and mixing gall and venom forever with the cup of joy. Her eyes lost their lustre, and her smile was sorrowful; I saw it, and my heart grew sad. I had one hope left, that she would regain her spirits when we should arrive amid the novel and beautiful scenes of the New World; and then I hoped that she would become a Protestant, in which case she w0uld cease to ago- nise over her monastic vows. The chaplain, at my request, used every argument with her in vain; her distress augmented and ere we had been one month at sea she was attacked by a violent fever. “Oh! the bitter, dreadful agony with which I watched beside her couch. Her pains of body were intense, but her distress of mind was more terrible still. At length her reason failed her, and her death-bed scene was indeed agony. But as death approached more nearly, her pains remitted, and her phrenzy passed away. She said that she was forgiven, and ready to appear before God, leaning on the mercy of her Redeemer. She besought me to seek His consolations, and bidding me a fond farewell, her young spirit passed away. “ And now what remained to me of all my trea- sures? I had battered every thing for her; and a. cold and rigid form was all that I had left. Ter- rible and hideous as death had come to her, I longed to feel his hand Nipon me also. But he turned from me. I was obliged to live and see my poor Adela cast into the deep sea, almost as soon as her spirit had departed. My misery was now overflowing. I was bereft, and alone in the world. I dared not return to France, for I feared the power of the religion whose sanctuaries I had feloniously invaded. I assumed the name which I and all my descendants bear, and landed in Phila- delphia a heart-broken and sorrowing stranger. I was greatly disappointed; for I had been taught to believe America a beautiful paradise, in which wealth and happiness awaited every adventurer who was so fortunate as to set his foot upon its shores. But I learned in time to procure a decent liveli- hood; the romance of youth was dissipated; I became a reasonable creature; I married your good grandmother with rational expectations, and now I am an old man, surrounded by a numerous progeny, and almost ready to depart in peace. And now girls that I have told you the story of my life, which you have entreated of me so often, I hope you will find instruction in it, and learn to v lue the frail and evanescent things of time, less t an the peace of others, and the approbation of your own mind. Now go, and leave me to seek the repose which agitation of mind occasioned by retracing the scenes of 'r'ny youth renders so neces- sary for me." THE PARSONAGE GATHERING. BY MRS. E. Tar: last Sabbath of the year 18* was far spent, and the little band of worshippers who had assem- bled in the village church of ——-, were preparing to return to their respective homes, and digest the homily of their worthy pastor; when deacon Grave- ly advanced toward the altar, with all the dignity of official-bearing in his step, where pausing in the measured tones of one who is in authority, he re- quested the congregation to “tarry a moment.” There was a sudden revolution of faces—a quick rustling of cloaks, and rattling of foot-stools, and then all was so still, one might have heard a pin drop, and every eye bent with eager curiosity on the speaker; who only wished to remind them that the annual visit to their “beloved pastor” would take place as usual on January first, and it was hoped there would be a general attendance on the occasion. An instantaneous gleam of pleasure ran over the faces of the audience, followed by a motion for the door, which was obstructed here and there by the meeting of female friends, who kept impatient foot- steps in the rear, whilst in audible whispers, they exchanged opinions touching the sermon, the pro- posed visit, and their various domestic grievances. But the little church was at length empty, and the sexton proceeded to extinguish the fire in the stove, and close its sacred doors against any week-day intruders. It would be detracting from the solemn- ising-powers of the respected dominie, to say t at the few words spoken by the deacon, had been more effectual than his well-written discourse on the departure of the year, and uncharitable to sup- pose that the church-going villagers thought more and talked more on their way home, of visiting their minister, than of attending to the admoni- tions he had that day given them; and though I am telling a true story, it does not follow that the whole truth must be told; so let me pass on to the following Monday, which dawned without a cloud. There was an earlier stirring than usual in the village, particularly among the farmers’ wives, who must needs get their week’s-washing out of the wayv as soon as possible, that preparations might com- mence for the anticipated visit, which was to take place on “Wednesday. The city-reader may not be aware that it is a custom in country villages throughout many of the older states, to atone somewhat for the meagre salaries allotted to the ministerial department, by donations from those whose hearts are opened to give of such things as they have, to him who breaks the “ Bread of Life" to their souls. Furthermore, it is so arranged by the considerate deacons’ wives, that these donations shall be sweetened on the part of the donors, by a C. STEDMAN. social cup of tea at the parsonage; which certainly cannot be considered as among “ The multitude of Sins” which need the mantle of charity for a covering. By the hasty moving to and fro of the villagers through Monday and Tuesday, it was evident that until their memories were jogged by deacon Grave- ly, they had thought nothing of, nor made any reservations for the annual gathering : but to their credit be it said, that they were not slow to act on this occasion, and designed having everything in "apple-pie order." The farmer unlocked the rich treasures of his granary, corn-crib and fruitery: wheat in “ good measures, pressed down" and over- flowing, was laid aside ; the best of the yellow corn was selected; the golden pippins packed systemati- cally, and even the more solid wealth of the pork barrel gave of its abundance to complete the New Year’s offering. The axe too of the woodman resounded through the neighboring forests, and many a sturdy hickory and oak bowed the willing head, at the bright promise of adding' cbeerfulness and comfort to the parsonage hearth. Nor was the ambitious house-wife to be out-done by her lord: from the “ wool and the flax," which she had sought and worked “ willingly with her hands," a worthy portion was chosen for the pastor’s wife and her nursery-flock. And the store-room held out its do. nation of butter and cheese; not forgetting that weightier matter of economy, ycleped “ black-butter" —so indispensible to the farmer’s table! (being a mixture of quinces and apples, boiled down to sauce in sweet cider, and eaten on bread by the children, instead of butter.) Nor was this all: Doughnuts and twisted cakes were soon dancing merrily over the fire, plumcakesswelling in the oven, and many a little delicacy contrived by the inventive geniuses that were busy on the occasion ; —for it is understood that these gatherings are to be no source of trouble or expense to the minister’s wife. One of the neighboring house-wives is appointed to the high office of mistress of ceremo- nies, and some half dozen others move at ber beck and call through the personage-house, making all needful arrangements, while the lady herself is but an admiring spectator of the scene, and has only to dress and receive her prq/itable visiters. The farmers were not alone in their “labors of love,” for the enterprising shop-keepers were as busy on their part in preparation. " Dry goods and Groceries,” read their signs, and “ the signs of the times," were read in the liberal offerings that were made ready for the day, each having the savor of their trade withal. And the day at length arrived! A New Year’s 19" 222 sun enlivened the spirits of the villagers, (albeit, they knew nothing of fashionable “ calls" on Time‘s natal day,) and threw open the gates of the parson- age. At an early hour might be seen gliding over the polished surface of a late fallen snow, the farm- er’s sled, bearing its ponderous load of wood; here and there, wheel-barrows and hand-barrows, groan- ing with the burden of such variety as would puzzle any head to remember, all wending their way to the pastor’s dwelling. Two o’clock, P. M. found the elder portion of his congregation, having sent their gifts as a passport, preparing to appear in person before their minister. For once, the “Sun- day suit” of true blue and shining gilt, was put in requisition on a work-day; and the buxom dame came forth from her toilet in her “best” gown and cap, and when in addition, the “meeting-bonnet" and hat were donned, away trudged the farmer and his “ better half,” leaving the caré of the homestead to the young folks, who were to take their turn at candle-light; when it was understood that the old folks were to return, and give them a chance by themselves. Ye who love the cheerful, unostentatious scene, peep with me in imagination into the minister’s parlor :—see that weather-beaten group of farmers in the corner, animated by the light of each other’s countenances, while the crops of the late season are compared, and the improvements in modern husbandry denounced as H innovations," and hostile to the wisdom and practice of their respected fore- fathers. Or if you would hear of broken banks and money-matters in general, listen to that trio, which comprises the chief of the village merchants: and then pass to those social wives and spinsters who are rocking, knitting and gossiping, all most industriously at the same moment. The latter ac- complishment they evidently excel in; as can be proved by their remarks on the domestic qualifical tions of Mrs. Tidifield; the lax government of Mrs. Gadabroad; the inferior household manage- ment of Mrs. Carelittle, and the H high notions" of Mrs. Citybred, (a late comer among them,) which they “guess will have to come down, after she has lived in the country awhile,” &c. &c. But as these industrious ladies had no ill meaning in this species of detraction, and would do “ a good turn" for any of their erring neighbors before mentioned, we must attribute this propensity for scandal, to the “ original sin" which is inherent to their sex. The tea “goes off" in old presbyterian style, and each discovers something of her own handiwork amid the variety spread before them. * * * But alas! all earthly pleasures must terminate. As the even- ing shades gather without, there is a breaking up of the gathering within, and the afternoon visiters dis- perse to the “ quickstep” of “ Homeward bound." The first light that gleamed through the parson- age-windows was a signal, that seemed well un- derstood by the belles and beaux of the village; who light of heart and light of step, hurried in blooming clusters to the evening gathering, evident- ly reckoning on a merry-making of no common order. But after the excitement of arriving was over, and the last guest had been ushered into the presence of the company, there arose a question THE PARSONAGE GATHERING. in the minds of some, as to what they had met. together for; and in sooth no one seemed exactly to know. On one side of the ample apartment, in bright array, were seated all the fair of the neigh- horhood, in blushing, simpering silence! While op- posite, in formidable rows, sat the young farmers and shop-keepers of the village, as “ slick” as poma- turn and starch could make them, twisting their thumbs one way for lack of thought, and the other way, for lack of talk; but not daring to cross the dividing-line, into “ fairer realms beyond." " The awful pause" was at length broken by a proposition which came from some unknown source, to “ get up u play," and many were the bright smiles that responded to it. Every one knows, that when the young folks of a village once throw oil" the stiffness of distance, and mingle in the unrestrained mirth of a rustic game, they are the happiest of the happy! On this New Year’s evening, they would have had a regular “jollifica- tion,” but for the timely caution of deacon Gravely, who remained to sustain the dignity of his office, by keeping the lambs of the flock within due bounds; reminding them that they were at the minister’s house: a fact which they seemed quite willing to forget. The deacon’s notice proved something of a damper upon their gaiety; but after all was far less efiectual than that given on the preceding Sunday ; as many a chasing for the kiss which was to redeem a pawn, and loud bursts of merriment testified; much to the discomfiture of the deacon. But there were at the party two who kept themselves aloof from the festivities of the evening, and were ob- served to sit in a corner together, engaged in con- versation and apparently unconscious of the merry scenes around them. They were none other than the daughter of Mrs. Citybred, and the intelligent young physician of the village. It was evident that they had been accustomed to the refinements of ethication and good society, and were for the first time in their lives at a parsonage gathering. Many were the sly jokes and whisperings interchanged by the company touching‘ these exclusives; but of none effect on the doctor and his unsuspecting companion. What they conversed about is none of our busi' ness; but certain it was that the lady‘s countenance glowed with pleasure; and it was observed by all that the doctor never looked happier before. On the breaking up of the party, it did not escape ob- servation nor remark, that the doctor waited on Mrs. Citybred’s daughter home. What the efl'cct of such an agreeable meeting was, none could say decidedly; but as they were afterward seen riding together several times in a very exclusive looking vehicle; and as the doctor has never before been known to ride out with a lady alone, since he settled in the village, of course there were rumors of a wedding’to take place be- fore the next gathering, and much commiseration wasted on the doctor in anticipation of his “ ex- travagant wife." But as the next New Year’s day found him still a bachelor, it yet affords matter for gossip and conjecture among the villagers whee ther the Dr. and Mrs. Citybred's daughter will ever be married or not. TO AN OLD ROCK_ BY G. G. WELL! hands of friends have all been pressed- My mother’s kiss is on my cheek— My father’s hands and eyes have blessed His first-born—though he could not speak! And now I break the ties that bind Me to the last of my own kind. But yet, to thee, my old grey rock, I hasten a in days of yore; And memories sweet and pleasant flock In throngs around me, as I pour hly last heart-gushes over thee, Friend of my wayward infancy! For oft are yet my tongue expressed The wild emotions of my soul, And strange, proud feelings heaved my breast, Like tides beneath the moon’s control, I ’ve wandered to this cool retreat, The Spirit of the place to meet. And often in the solemn night, While kissing winds slept on the lake \Vhich murmurs at thy base, and light FOSTER. And starry music kept awake The thronging fires of thought within, I ’ve stolen to thee an hour to win From all the carking care which rushed Over my untamed spirit's mood, And leaned on thee, like infant hushed, And felt, as thus secure I stood, The god whose shrine was in my brain, Return to his old haunts again! And when the friends of youth grew cold, And loving eyes were turned away, And even Hope was growing old, And all my heart-flowers withered—aye, I turned to thee, my firm old rock, And learned, like thee, to bear the shock. But now, I go—Old Rock, farewell! And thou my tiny lake, adieu! Proud Hope my wandering steps impel O’er yonder mountain calm and blue. When fame is won and withered too, Old friends! I will return to you. TO THE BY THE LATE J. G. THEY tell me thine eyes are blue, lassie, They tell me thy cheek is fair. May grief never spoil its hue, lassie, Nor give its bloom to the air. The world lies before thee now, lassie, And when time rolls a few more years Its troubles may blight thy brow. lassie, And dim thy blue eyes with tears. Thou art come to a stormy life, lassie, Where often the hurricanes lower— Where wild are the waves of strife, lassie, And strong is ailiiction’s power. Where flowers soon fade away, lassie, And strew their leaves to the blast— "‘BLUE~EYED LASSIE.” snooxsfl‘ Where one moment the sky is gay, lassie, The next with clouds overcast. Thou art the new-born rose.of spring. lassie, As soft, as fair, and as frail—- The hands of the storm oft fling, lassie, The rose of spring to the gale. \ May that hand never fall on thee, lassie, To blight thy rose in its pride, Mayst thou glide o’er a sunny sea, lassie, On a calm and gentle tide. May the cup of thy life never cloy, lassie, May thy heart e‘er be light and gay ; Mayst thou meet with the smile of joy, lassie, And a blest, and a cloudless day. " Through the kindness of the mother of the poet, (the well-known and lamentedlflorio) we are enabled to present our readers with the above sweet little poem—one of his earliest compositions, and. certainly not one of his worst. By mere accident it has hitherto remained unpublished—Ens. . LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. THE ROBBERY AND MURDER. .Macd. 0, horror ! horror! horror! tongue, nor heart, / Cannot conceive nor name thee! “Janna,” said a mild but feeble voice, “cheer up, God will yet send us relief. Has he not said that he heareth even the young raven’s cry, and think you that he will suffer us to starve? Oh! no,” continued the sick wife, forgetting her own sufferings in those of her husband, “ believe it not. Succor will yet come: we shall once more see happy dAys—” “Ay!” answered the husband, bitterly, “ when we are in our graves. Ay! when want has driven the nails in our coffins: but not till then. My God !” he exclaimed suddenly, with the fierceness of des- pair, “ was it for this I was sent into the world ?" “ Oh ! James,” said the meek wife, bursting into tears, “ I can bear all except such terrible repinings. F ather," she continued, raising her streaming eyes to heaven, “ forgive him, for he knows not what he says.” The husband was moved. He turned his head away from his wife, perhaps to hide a tear; but if so, his weakness vanished as he gazed upon the ruinous and desolate apartment to which poverty had driven them, while all the bitterness of his soul once more lowered on his face. The room was a low garret, black with age, and tottering to ruin. In its best days it had been at most but a wretched apartment, for at its highest part it would scarcely admit of a man standing up- right, while on the opposite side the cracked and leaky ceiling shelved down until it met the floor. The walls had once been plastered, but age had long since peeled them nearly bare; and the time- stained beams of which the building had been con. structed—it was a wooden one—now gaped through many a crevice. In several places even the wea- ther-boarding without had given way or rotted off, admitting in copious draughts, the biting wintry blast which roared around the house. A solitary candle bumed in the room, flaring wildly as the gusts whirled through the apartment. There was no fire-place in the garret—God knows it was well enough l—for the poverty-stricken inmates had not wherewithal to purchase food, much less fuel. N 0 furniture was in the room, except an old chest, a broken cup or two, and the ricketty bedstead, on which, with a mattrass of straw beneath her, lay that suffering wife. She was pale, emaciated, and evidently ill, but, amid it all, you could see llIat'beth. on her wasted countenance, traces of the rarest beauty. The marble forehead; the classic eye- brow; the Grecian contour of face; the finely chiselled mouth and throat; and above all, the dark blue eye, its chastened expression lighting up the whole countenance as with an angel‘s purity, told what must have been the loveliness of the sufferer, before care, or poverty, or woe had driven their iron ploughshares through her soul. Oh! well might it fill her husband’s heart with agony to look upon her now, and think of the day when in far different circumstances, he led her a blushing bride, to his home. But if such were his feelings when gazing on his angelic wife, how far more poignant did they become as his eye fell upon the almost tarnished babe lying in her arms. Poor little thing! it had fallen asleep at length, after crying long for that sustenance which its mother had not to give, although she would have drained her heart’s blood. if, by so doing, she could have appeased the hunger of her babe. By its side lay a boy, apparently about four years of age, his little delicate face worn with hunger' and privation, and his thin fingers tightly grasping the bed-clothes, as though he feared lest some one should snatch the scanty covering from around his form. Alas! he had been early introduced to misfortune. Often had he gone sup- perless to bed of late, forbearing even to ask for food, because he knew his mother had it not, and that it would only pain her to refuse him; and often, too, when her husband being absent in the vain search after employment, his mother would indulge freely in the tears she checked in his presence, her little boy would climb upon her knee, and throw- ing his wan arms around her neck, kiss her and tell her not to cry. At such times the mother’s tears would only fall the faster, and clasping her babes convulsively to her bosom, she would find a melancholy pleasure in the sympathy of her child. But all these things were now forgotten by the boy. He lay in the deep sleep of infancy; and as he slttmbered a smile played across his little face. Per- haps he was dreaming of the angels in heaven. James Stanhope was a young man of good he mily, a fine personal appearance, and the manners of a gentleman. Destitute, however, of a fortune, he obtained a livelihood by acting as a clerk in a public ofiice. He moved in good society, and en- LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO- joyed a moderate income, which, by proper econo- my afforded him, at least once a year, the means of spending a fortnight at one of those \public places of amusement to which beauty, wealth, and fashion annually resort. During a visit to one of these summer pleasure haunts he met, and formed an acquaintance with Miss Howard, 9. young lady, scarcely seventeen, a beauty, and an heiress, who was spending a month at the watering-place, with a maiden cousin for a chaperon. An intimacy was the result of a casual introduction, which soon ripened into that most dangerous of all things to two young hearts—an acknowledged friendship. In one short word, they loved, and loved as few have done. But Stanhope, while he addressed the younger, did not neglect the older cousin; and the consequence was that the simple-hearted spinster fancied that it was her company to which the hand- some young stranger was attracted. She thus shut her eyes effectually to the increasing intimacy be- tween the young people, and their love had become not only unconquerable, but so evident as to be the theme of general remark, before the deluded chape- ron, became aware of Miss Howard’s entanglement. She was then thunder-struck at her own indiscre- tion. She was more: she was enraged at the deception which had been practised upon her, or rather which she had practised upon herself. Dreading, moreover, the consequences of Mr. How- ard's displeasure, she determined at once, by flying from the place, to escape the attentions of Stanhope. Her carriage was instantly ordered to the door, their baggage hastily collected, and with scarcely an hour’s warning, Miss Howard was torn from her lover’s presence, without a moment being afforded her to communicate with him. She was not able even to waive him a silent adieu, as he was absent that morning on a ride. Disturbed by a thousand fears lest her lover should think her faithless, and compelled to listen to the bitter recriminations of her cousin, when sympathy was rather needed for her tortured mind, the poor girl lay back in the corner of the carriage and wept with a bitterness of heart such as she had never experienced before. Oh ! who can picture the agony of one thus rudely torn from the object of her love'. Life seemed to her to have lost its charm. Death, in those first moments of crushing anguish would almost have been welcome. But if such were Miss Howard’s feelings, what were those of her lover when, on returning from his ride, he learned her sudden departure ! A thousand doubts tortured him. At length, how- ever, he gleaned enough of the real cause of Miss Howard’s disappearance, to convince him that her flight did not, as he had at first feared, originate in herself. Oh ! the joy, the bliss of that knowledge. Ellen still loved him, loved him as warme as ever. But here another reflection shot across his mind. With the sanguine temper of youth he had indulged the hope that his want of fortune would be over- looked by Mr. Howard, especially as his cousin had suffered the intimacy between his daughter and Stanhope to continue so long unopposed; but now --how could he resist the intimation so plainly given to him? Few can tell the agony of the 225 lover’s feelings who have not passed through the same terrible ordeal. “I will follow her,” at length he said, “ I will see her once more. To live without beholding Ellen is more than I can endure," and having come to this conclusion the ardent young man set out within a day 10 the city which was the resi- dence alike of himself and his mistress. We will not detail the progress of these two young beings’ passion. As in every like case opposition only fanned their love. Young, ardent, and uncalculating they had already exchanged those vows, which are only less lasting and holy than the marriage ones,—-and the pure mind of Miss Howard looked upon it as sacrilege to break her troth, even had her heart whispered a willing assent thereto. But, on the contrary, all that was said against her lover, only increased her admiration of his cha- racter, and consequently heightened her affection. There is nothing like injustice to draw a woman’s heart closer to that of her lover. In vain they originated slanders to lower him in her eyes; in vain they even brought pretended letters to convince her of his infidelity; she remained inflexible, for every one,‘who knew Stanhope, joined in asserting his innocence, and it was impossible to conceal this from her without secluding her wholly from society. How often does a woman, in some trying circumstances, rise above herself, and display a sudden energy of character which those who had known her for years had thought foreign to her. Thus it was with Miss Howard. How long this reliance in her lover’s unabated integrity might have continued, if she had remained without meet- ing him, we know not; but Stanhope soon found a means to open a communication with his mistress, which effectually checked all danger, and deepened incalculably their mutual love. Foiled in his attempts to obtain an interview with his mistress, Stanhope had found out the church which she attended, and thither he resorted every Sunday, to enjoy the happiness of at least, beholding, if he could not address her. It was not long before Ellen detected his presence, and the stolen glances they exchanged across the church, were mutual assurances of their unabated love. How Stanhope’s heart fluttered as he saw her enter the church, and move up the aisle to her father’s splendid pew. And if, perchance, when the family turned to depart, Ellen could, unobserved, give him a smile and a nod of recognition, how would be long to clasp the dear girl to his arms, and thank her for her kindness. Weeks passed in this manner, however, before the two lovers found an opportunity for an interview. At length one Sunday morning Ellen came alone. As Stan- hope beheld her enter the door unattended, he could hardly contain himself in his seat, so great was his joy. The moment the service was over he hurried down stairs, and amid the crowd in the vestibule, with a. beating heart, awaited her. Her agitation was scarcely less than his own, as he addressed her. A thousand eyes seemed to her fancy to be bent upon her, and she turned pale and trembled by turns. They had proceeded some distance down the street before either could speak more than the 226 common words of salutation. At length Stanhope broke the silence. “ Ellen, dear Ellen, do we meet at last 'I" he said, in a low tone, “ oh ! how can I describe the joy of this moment. Since we last parted what agony have I not endured : doubt, fear, hope, des- pair have all succeeded each other in my mind." “ How could you be so unjust '2" said the sweet ' girl, reproachfully, “ oh i” she thought to herself, “ if he only knew what I have sufl'ered for his sake.” “ Pardon me, dear Ellen, but though I felt con- vinced of your truth, yet I knew not what false accusations might be made against me. It was that which troubled me. I never doubted you, believe me. But oh! you cannot know how ter- rible it-is to be forever excluded from your presence. How often have I watched your window at night, hoping to catch even a glimpse of your shadow, and how long and hitherto how fruitlesst have I waited for this blessed opportunity, if only to assure you of my unabated love, and to ask if you are still my own Ellen. Answer me but once more, dearest: let me hear it from your own lips again.” The arm of Ellen trembled within her lover’s during this passionate address, and, as he con- tinued, her agitation increased so visibly that when he ceased, and looking up into his face, she essayed to answer him, for a moment, she could not speak. At length she murmured brokenly. “ Why do—you ask me—such a cruel question ?” and giving her lover a look of mingled reproach and affection that dissolved him with tenderness, she continued, H you know I love you 1" and over- come, by her emotions, and even forgetting her public situation, she burst into tears. If Stanhope could have that moment clasped her to his arms, and poured forth upon her bosom his thanks for her renewed avowal, what would he not have given! But he could only press her arm as it lay within his own, and murmur his gratitude. Oh! the ecstacy of that moment: it repayed him for all he had suffered during the months he had been separated from Ellen. Their conversation was long and full of moment to their future lives. Urged passionately by her lover, and half persuaded by her own heart, Ellen consented at length to meet Stanhope in her morn- ing walks; and then, bursting afresh into tears, left him at the corner of the street, not far from her father’s princely dwelling, and hurried home. It was a hard task for her that day at the dinner table to conceal her emotion; but she did so. When the meal was over, she hurried to her room to indulge in her feelings. Had she done right in thus consenting to meet her lover clandes- tinely? Her heart answered yes—her reason no. A fresh flood of tears came to her relief, and thus tortured by conflicting emotions, she sank toward morning into a troubled sleep. Well—they met—once—twice—daily. It was a dream of bliss, but it could not last. Every time they saw each other their love grew stronger. Yet Ellen, although urged by her lover to elope, was unwilling to consent to it. Indeed on this point she was inflexible. With tears she said to herself LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. in the solitude of her chamber, that if she had erred at first through her inexperience, and allowed her affections to be placed irrevocably on one whom her parent even unjustly disapproved of, she would not go farther on the path of disobedience. She was young, and she hoped. She trusted that time would make all right. But a bolt was about to fall upon her head, which, for the honor of human nature, we would gladly escape recording. We have said little as yet directly of Mr. Howard, though a glimmering of his character must have been perceptible in the foregoing pages. Mean, crafty, purse-proud, haughty, and inflexible to obsti- nacy, he had nothing in common with his daughter, except the tie of relationship. Ellen was like her mother in every thing, but that mother had been long since dead,—and could the secrets of her grave have been unfolded, perhaps it might have been seen that she died of a broken-heart. Yes! her husband was her destroyer. But he did noth- ing which made him amenable to the law. No. He was always outwardly respectful to his wife. It was only at home that his brutality broke forth; and Mrs. Howard was too meek and forgiving to publish her own sufferings. And thus like too many gentle beings in our midst she drooped, and sickened, and died ; and when they laid her in her gorgeous coffin, and bore her to her tomb, amid all the splendor of wealth, how little did they think that she had been murdered—aye! murdered by her husband’s brutality. God help the thousands who thus die of a broken heart 1 With such a father had Ellen now to do. He had forbidden her all communication with her lover as soon as he suspected that they met, threatening to disown her at once if she disobeyed, and Ellen was returning from a parting interview with Stan- hope, in which she had told him of her father’s commands, and rejecting every proposal to elope, had signified, with a burst of tears, her determina- tion to obey her parent, when on reaching the door-step she met Mr. Howard. He was in a towering passion, though be affected at first to conceal it. “ Very well, Miss, very well. You ’ve seen fit to disobey my orders," he commenced, “ have you? I ’ve watched you, you hussy, myself," he con- tinued, following his daughter into 'the hall, and closing the door, “ what have you to say 'l'f Ellen made a vain attempt to speak, but her emotions overpowered her, and looking up implor- ingly into his face, she burst into tears. “ By G—, Miss, I ’m not to be answered this way,” said Mr. Howard, no longer affecting to conceal his rage, and brutally seizing his daughter’s arm he shook it violently, “ why don’t you speak? None of your whining: Answer me!” and again he shook her. Never before had her parent used her thus. This personal indignity, added to his brutal language, cut her to the heart, and brought on a fresh flood of tears, which only increased her father’s rage. By this time, too, the servants had gathered in the hall, and were witnesses of the whole of this de- plorable scene. “ D—n it," he said, his face flushing with passion, LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO. as he again shook her violently, “ I ’11 bring an an- swer out of you—I will. Ain‘t you going to speak? I told you I 'd disown you for this,—and,” here he muttered an oath I dare not repeat, “ I will. You and your beggarly, upstart paramour”--oh! had that father a heart ?—“ may go to the alms-house together. Out of my door this instant. You are no daughter of mine. Out, I say. Open the door, John.“ The man hesitated an instant. the rage of Mr. Howard. “Open the door, I say. disobeyed by all of you. this, you villain—you—" “ I ’m sure I don’t care,” said the man, almost crying; for he had lived in the family since Ellen was a babe, and loved her as his own, “ for if you are going to turn my poor dear mistress out of doors the sooner I follow the better. I ’d not live with such a brute,” continued he, boldly, “ for millions." ' “ Out of the house, both of you, out, I say," roared Mr. Howard, with a. volley of curses, for he was now stung to an ungovernable rage, and cared not what he did, “ begone l" and taking his daughter by the shoulders he pushed her violently toward the door. Up to this period of the scene, the events of which had passed in less time than we take to describe them, Ellen, stupified and astonished, had been unable to utter a word. Her father’s unpa- ralelled barbarity called forth continued floods of tears. But she now spoke. “ Oh! father,” she said, “ do not turn me from your doors. You are my only parent, and I will, I would have told you all. I only went to bid farewell to him—indeed, indeed I did”— “ You met him, you own to it,” said Mr. How. ard, almost choked with rage, “ before my face. This is too much—out I say.” “ Father! Father !" said Ellen, falling on her knees, “do not cast me ofil For the love of heaven do not. I will be all you ask. I will never see him again: I have parted with him forever—oh ! father! father—" “ Yes! you may father, father me now till you are tired; but it’s too late. Go, and See if your beggar of a clerk can help you. Go, and God's and a father’s curse go with you I" and, with the fury of a. madman the brutal parent seized his daughter by the arms, lifted her up, and pushing her so violently from the door that she went reeling down the steps, slammed it to after her. Ellen was alone—no! not alone, for the faithful John, who had sacrificed his place for her was at her side, and as the innocent outcast looking wildly up at the portal which was thus forever closed upon her, gave a faint cry, and fell insensible to the pavement, he caught her in his arms, and bearing her to a neighboring shop, gave her in charge to the females there, to restore her. Shall we pursue the details of this melancholy story? Oh! let as rather hurry to its close. 1t terminated as might have been expected. Thrust from her father's doors, dreading his brutality even if she could return, and knowing not where to seek It only increased By G- am I to be I ’ll remember you for 227 protection in this sudden emergency, Ellen yielded to the solicitations of her lover, and was married. Poor girl! though she never looked lovelier than on her wedding~day, in her pale, sweet face might be seen the traces of that sorrow which had already begun to darken her ltfe. From the hour when Mr. Howard so inhumanly turned his daughter from his doors, he never was heard to make the slightest enquiry respecting her. He seemed to have discarded her forever from his mind. He never even mentioned her name; he appeared to feel no remorse for the deed into which his passion had hurried him. Not that his con- science never smote him. God knows that would have displayed a malignity of heart worthy of a fiend. But no one ever saw these visitings of remorse,—for his pride forbade him to betray them, as much as it hindered him from re-opening his doors to his daughter. Yet day by day he grew more irascible. The worm was at his heart: he felt, though he would not own its sting. And for awhile the young pair was supremely happy, or if a care did cloud the young wife's brow when she thought of her father’s curse, it was kissed away by her adoring husband. They had enough to provide them the necessaries, and they cared little for the superfiui‘ties of life. The birth of a charming boy only served to knit their hearts closer to each other. The first spring after their marriage Stanhope embarked in business, for he found his salary insuf. ficient for the wants ofa family. And for three years he seemed to prosper. But then came reverses. The times were critical; even heavy capitalists could scarcely weather the storm ; and, in a word, Stanhope was compelled to fail, after having sunk all he had embarked by heavy losses. Had he been a large trader, and becoming bankrupt, dragged scores into ruin with him, he would have been universally pitied, and perhaps his creditors would have yielded up to him from the wreck of millions a sufiiciency for the rest of his life ; but as he was only a poor man his case met no commisseration. He determined, however, to pay every debt. The endeavor exhausted almost literally his last dollar. He had barely a std'ficiency left to transport his family to the village of , having been ofiered a situation as a clerk in a store in that obscure hamlet. Before leaving the city, however, his sweet wife, believing that under such circumstances her father must relent, had, without infortning her husband of her intention, sought admittance at her parent’s mansion, determining to fling herself at his feet, and solicit his forgiveness and aid. But she_ was repulsed—my pen shakes as I record it—she was repulsed like a common beggar from her otvn father’s door. t Let us hurry on. Have we not often seen how misfortune when it once begins to lower on a man, will sometimes continue its pitiless shower without intermission, until it has laid its victim in his grave? Well! every day beheld Stanhope, in despite of his utmost exertions, sinking lower and lower into distress. His scanty salary barely af- forded his family the coarsest food, and even this was lost within a year, and directly after the birth 228 of a daughter, by an illness which incapacitated him from labor, for so long a period that his em- ployer was forced to discharge him, and procure a substitute. At length he recovered; but how fear- fully was he in debt! A year’s labor at his late scanty pittance would scarcely discharge his liabi- lities. Ellen had foreseen this, and ventured to write to her father, but the letter was returned unopened.- To add to Stanliope’s distress, after various efforts to procure steady employment, which only resulted in constant disappointment, his furni- ture was sold under a distress, and his now alarmed creditors falling like vultures on what remained, left him with nothing but the bedding on which they slept, and the clothes which they wore, with the few other articles protected by the law from an execution. These, however, he was soon forced to dispose of to gain sustenance for his family. In this strait they had found shelter in the crumbling garrct, where they now were,-and though a month had elapsed, and every thing they had to part with was sold, Stanhope was still without employment. His wife, after hearing up till nature could endure no longer, had for several days been lying on a bed of sickness; and that night they had--oh ! God can it be true l—gone dinnerless and supperless to bed. Until within a few days Stanhope had breasted the storm with unshrinking firmness, although, at times, when he looked upon his angelic wife and little ones, suffering the full horrors of poverty, his resolution had almost given way. But even he could not withstand the , accumulated miseries which now beat so bitterly upon his unsheltered head. Let it not be thought that we exaggerate his misfortunes. God forbid! Even in our boasted city, and at this day, too, when charity has b'ecome fashionable, more than a dozen die annually from sheer starvation. Stanhope saw nothing but this before them. He could not seek employment in other places, for how would his family subsist in his absence 'l—nor could he take them with him, for alas! he had not the money to transport them. Broken in spirits 'and maddened with despair, the thoughts which rushed through his mind as he gazed around the room can be easier imagined than described. In that moment his whole life passed before him as in a panorama. He thought of his happy boyhood; of the bright hopes of his youth; of his first sanguine love for Ellen; of the bitter disappointment which followed; of the hopes, and fears of their separation, and the joy of their first meeting afterward; of the tumult of feelings, all, however extatic, with which he welcomed the houseless wanderer to his own humble home; of the three bright and happy years which, like a dream of heaven, followed their union; and finally of the series of misfortunes, heaped one upon an- other, and growing daily more and more intense, which had closed the whole, and brought him down to abject poverty. Had he been alone in the world he could have borne it all without a murmur. But to see his darling uncomplaining Ellen, his little Henry, his innocent babe, starving before his eyes! Oh! it was too much. Frenzied with agony he started from his seat, placed his hand to his brow, LEAVES FROM, A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO- and gazing a moment wildly around the room, rushed from the house. Hour after hour passed, and still he returned not. His wife grew alarmed. She had noticed his wild air as he left the room; she had seen that his soul was tortured almost to madness; and she now trembled lest he might in his despair have made away with himself. But no !--it could not be. Her Stanhope would never do that. Yet it was almost dawn and he was still absent. She rose painfully from her bed, and staggered to the door to look out. A light snow covered the ground to the depth of an inch; and the whole landscape was as silent as death, except when the wind moaned out a moment in the neighboring forest. For some moments she gazed vainly through the twilight, but could perceive no one. At length her straining eyes detected the outlines of a form, and—could it be 'I—yes! it was her husband. She rushed into his arms, almost fainting with joy, as soon as he reached the threshold, murmuring,-— “ Thank God, dear James! you are retumed— oh ! how glad, how glad I am,”_and then burst into tears. “ Thank God! too, Ellen for I have brought you money—I begged it—we shall not starve, no matter at what cost it was gained," said her, hus- band wildly, as he flung a small purse upon the floor. Ellen scarcely noticed the manner or the tone of the speaker in her joy at his return. The night passed away rapidly: indeed the day was breaking when Stanhope returned. She still wept on her husband’s bosom. At length they re- turned up stairs, when the contents of the purse were examined. They were not very valuable; yet they sufficed to ensure that family from starvation, mind, only from starvation, for at least a fortnight. Such a timely relief seemed indeed providential, and once more they suffered themselves to hope. “ Did I not tell you God would not utterly for- sake us,” said the sweet wife. “ Oh! let us thank him, dear James,” and falling upon her knees, while her agitated husband followed her example, that angelic being poured out her gratitude before her maker. Stanhope was deeply affected, and he sob- bed aloud. WhenJ at length they arose, they saw that their sweet boy, who had awoke in the interval, had also fallen on his little knees beside them. They clasped him to their arms, and wept afresh. But they were tears of joy—the first they had shed for weeks. Alas! they were destined to be but too short lived. That morning the whole village was thrown into consternation, by the intelligence that the mail had been robbed, and a passenger murdered, just before daybreak, and within a mile of the hamlet. After the first burst of horror had passed, measures were taken to ferret out the perpetrators of this awful deed. The nearest magistrate entered promptly upon this duty; witnesses of all kinds were exam- ined; and after a laborious, though secret investi- gation of several hours, a warrant was issued for the apprehension of JAMES Summer: charged with the double crime of mail-robbery and murder. Do not start reader! When you shall have heard the evidence which led to this fearful accusation you LEAVES FROM will yourself have painful doubts. And yet could the generous, the noble, the high-minded Stanhope be a murderer? Listen. It appears that the mail-coach, on that calami- tous night, had but three passengers besides the driver. The snow was falling fast, but evidently subsiding, when, about a mile from the village, and in sight of the turnpike-gate light at its hither ex- tremity, three men, emerging from a hedge by the road side, had stopped the horses, cut the traces, knocked down the driver, and after rifiing the mail- bags, had proceeded to rob the passengers, who, all this while, guarded by one of the robbers with a pistol in'eithcr hand, had been forced to look upon the perpetration of this enormous felony in silence. At this point, however, when each robber was oc- cupied with his man, one of the passengers, thinking he could overpower his antagonist, attempted to escape. In the scuttle he was thrown down; oaths ensued; and the robber exclaiming suddenly, “ Is that you, then by G— take this l" was seen at the word to shoot him through the brain. All this had passed so rapidly that the other robbers had not even time to interfere; but no sooner was the deed done, than apparently alarmed lest the report of the pistol should bring up succor, they sprang into the hedge and disappea’red. The two passengers were so paralysed by the murder of their comrade, that they stood for some minutes, without making an effort to follow the robbers—and even when they recovered their presence of mind, they were afraid to make any pursuit until they had first obtained aid from the village. One of them therefore mounted a leader, and aroused the inmates at the turnpike gate, and in the neighboring houses. Before a sufficient force could be collected, day had broken; but as the snow had ceased falling immediately after the flight of the robbers, it was not difficult to trace their retreat. This was done for nearly half a mile to a bye-road, back of the village, where the foot- steps divided—two of the robbers appearing to have turned off to a stream down which they con- tinued their way, while the other one struck across to the village. This latter trail was followed in mute horror; and though at intervals it was almost obliterated by the drifts, yet its course could still be distinctly traced, up to the very door of the building in whose garrett James Stanhope lodged. “ Now, gentlemen,” said the magistrate, “if any one left that house last night, or if any one entered it near daybreak, he is the man.” This was soon settled. The landlord of poor Stanhope, who occupied the lower stories, deposed, that being kept awake nearly all night, by a violent 'tooth-ache, he had heard some one descend the stairs after midnight, and, from the heavy step, sup- posed it to be Mr. Stanhope. Just before daylight he heard another person come down stairs, when his curiosity being excited, he arose and peeped through the bowed shutters. He saw Mrs. Stan- hope standing at the front door, as if looking for some one. In a few minutes her husband returned. He thought even then that there was something wild in his tenant’s appearance; and his attention was particularly called to it by seeing Stanhope place, or rather fling, a small purse into his wife’s A LAWYER’s PORT-FOLIO. 229 bands, exclaiming, “Here is money, we shall not starve, no matter how it was got,” or words to that effect. They then went up stairs, and he retired, wondering, to bed. As soon as he heard of the catastrophe of the night, he determined on acquaint- ing the magistrate with his suspicions. , “ It does seem, gentlemen,” said the justice, taking his spectacles from his eyes, and looking around at the astonished listeners, when the witness had concluded his testimony “ as if the finger of God had pointed us directly to the perpetrator of this enormous felony and murder. James Stanhope was always a beggar, and no honest man need be so in this highly-favored country.”—-The magistrate forgot that but a week before he had refused to en- gage his victim as a common day-laborer, because he said Stanhope’s late sickness had left him too weak to work with any profit to his employer.-- “ Let three or four of you get ready to accompany me, for the rntu'derer may prove desperate. I ’ll take my father’s pistols he were at Princeton.” Meanwhile, the coroner, having been sent for by express, had arrived and impanelled a jury, in the language of the law, “super oisum corporis.” The murdered man was identified as a passenger, and his name, on searching his pockets, discovered to be Mr. Howard. A verdict, that the deceased came to his death by the hands of a person or persons unknown, was given in, and the jury adjourned. Could it be that the deceased was Ellen’s parent? Alas! subsequent investigations proved it to be too true, and the village was in a few days thunder- struck with the intelligence that Stanhope had mur- dered his own father-in-law. But we anticipate. Meanwhile, the victim of these investigations, exhausted by his last night’s watching, was lying in his crazy garret, in a calm deep sleep. His wife sat beside him, leaning her head on her hands, and gazing into her husband’s face, as his features smiled in slumber; while now and then,as her little boy would steal up to her for a kiss or a caress, she would drop a tear of mingled happiness and love upon his face. Sweet, noble woman l As she looked upon that calm, chiselled face, and thought of all her husband had suffered for her sake, how her heart swelled with emotions of tenderness to- ward him. His pale, high brow was partly shaded by the dark locks which curled around it. On every line of its broad surface could be seen the traces of care. Ellen stooped and kissed it. At that moment the door was suddenly opened,und a crowd of men broke rudely into the apartment. The noise awakened the sleeper, and he started half up and gazed around him, while the frightened little fellow ran and clung to his mother’s side, peeping trem- blineg at the strangers. Ellen sprang to her feet equally alarmed, gazing with an ashy cheek on the intruders. “ There he is-—sei7.c him, seize him,” said the magistrate. Three of the officers rushed forward, but Ellen instinctively interposed between them and her hue band. One of the men attempted to thrust her aside. Quick as lightning the indignant husband felled the wrelch to the floor. “ He resists the law,” shouted the magistrate, 232 went the most searching probing. The efforts of the defence were directed to establish the possibility that there might have been three fugitives on the first track even after the separation—in short, to overthrow the view taken by the prosecution that the robbers seperated at this point. “ Did you,” said my colleague, " inspect the tracks of the larger body of fugitives after the supposed defection of one of their number 7" The man answered in the affirmative, and said that he was certain there could not have been more than two, by the number of foot-marks. “ How far did you follow the tracks '2" I“ To the neighboring creek.” “ And why did you not pursue them farther?” “ Because the creek being frozen over, the ice was what is called glip, and the wind had conse- quently so drifted the snow off from the surface, that we lost all sight of the path pursued by the robbers." “ Did you examine the opposite bank in order to recover the trail ?” " Yes !—for a quarter of a mile, but to no pur- pose.” My colleague was foiled. We opened our case as we best could. The gigantic difliculties against which we had to con- tend almost disheartened us; but one look at the prisoner and his sweet wife inspired us with re- newed energy. Poor Ellen! how eagerly she hung on every word, gazing- now on her husband and then on the speaker, and seeming to say in every look, that though all the world might desert the accused, she at least would cling to him to the last. Our evidence was confined almost wholly to the character of the accused, although the account which he gave of himself on the night of the mur- der was skilfully introduced by my colleague, as a portion of a conversation between the prisoner and one of the commonwealth’s witnesses, which had been given only in part by the prosecution. It was in substance as follows: Stung to madness on the night of the murder, by the horrors of approaching starvation, Stanhope had left his home, scarcely knowing whither to " bend his steps for aid. For several hours he wan- dered about in the wintry night, and at length found himself on the borders of thé creek, back of the village. While standing there moodily, it began to snow. All was silent around. As the white flakes drove in his face, and the biting air swept over his cheek, his feelings became gradually less excited, and he was on the point of returning home, when he perceived three men rapidly approaching through the snow-storm. For the first time in his life he stooped to beg. The nearest man turned sharply around on him as he spoke, seemed to hesi- tate a moment, and then, as if by a sudden impulse, flung him the purse, which was subsequently identi- fied as Mr. Howard’s. The men then dashed down the bank toward the stream, and vanished as rapidly as they had appeared. Such was the substance of our defence. It met with nothing but sneers from the prosecuting officer, who, in his address to the jury, treated it as a story fabricated solely for the occasion. Too many of the spectators appeared to agree with him, and LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’s PORT-FOLIO. when he sat down, the ominous faces of the jury chilled my very heart. At this moment, however, my colleague rose to reply. Never shall I forget the impression made by this rejoinder. Few men of his day possessed so much eloquence, and on the present occasion it was ex- erted to the utmost. Skilfully availing himself of the course of argument adopted by the attorney general, he drew in the darkest colors, the unna- tural conduct of Mr. Howard to his daughter, and her subsequent destitution owing thereto, and then, by one of those bursts of passion for which he was remarkable, picturing her as she now sat, almost heart-broken, by her husband’s side, he succeeded in awakening the deepest pity in his audience to- ward the accused. Then, by a sudden transition, he seized upon the testimony of the last witness of the prosecution, and in a few rapid, lightning-like sentences, tore it into shreds. “ Yes! gentlemen of the jury," continued my impassioned colleague, " there is no evidence whatever to criminate the defendant. The grand error of all prosecutions is in thinking a certain man guilty, and then proceed- ing to account for his conduct. But you must proceed in a manner directly the reverse of this. You must start with the murder and trace up, from that point, the perpetrator. Take the present case, dismiss the idea that Stanhope is the murderer— start afresh on the search after the guilty man-- follow up the fugitives to the moment when these other footsteps are met with, and then before God and your own consciences, is there any proof—I repeat it, is there any proof, that James Stanhope left the path, or even whether any man left it? You start. But here is the gist of the argument. Here is the broken link in the chain of testimony against us. Unless you are satisfied that some one of the robbers did leave the gang, you must acquit the prisoner. Might not the unfortunate man at the bar have been, as he says, on the spot when these men passed? The finding of the purse on the prisoner proves nothing, for might he not have obtained it in alms'! Would not the murderer, indeed, gladly rid himself of this tell-tale, in order to divert suspicion from himself? The character, the relationship, the honor, the common sense of my client forbid the supposition that he would commit so frightful a crime, and yet instantly seek his home, although the ground was covered with snow, and he knew that detection, under such circum_ stances would be inevitable. Gentlemen, it could not be. On your oaths you will sayit could not be. And as you value a fellow creature’s life, as you value your eternal peace, I conjure you to remem- her that the least doubt must acquit the prisoner. Convict him—and you destroy an innocent man. Acquit him—and you give peace to a broken- hearted wife. If you condemn him, oh ! what will be your pangs of remorse when the real criminal is detected. I leave you to your God and yourselves. I implore heaven to guide you aright." He took his seat. A dead silence hung over the vast assembly. The effect was too deep for words. At length a heavy, long-protracted sigh was heard throughout the crowd, as if men had held their breaths in awe, and found relief, only that moment, 234 I imputation could not be shaken off, and he was eventually driven in reality to crime. On thus sud- denly discovering his old master, he had yielded to a long-cherished thirst for revenge, and murdered him in the impulse of the moment. “ All this will be clear," said the judge, “ if you produce the real criminal. I cannot suffer the jury again to retire until you have thus corroborated your story." “ Let your honor send a couple of otficers to my house. Nat Powers, whom every one knows, is the man.” In less than a minute a posse had set forth, every one wondering that suspicion had passed over the most notorious character in the neighbor- hood, and who had not left the penitentiary a twelvemonth. Before an hour the guilty man was CLING TO THEE- produced in court. He maintained his dare-devil expression of countenance until he saw by whom he was accused, when he turned pale as death, and muttered a curse on her treachery. ‘ The real murderer was subsequently tried, found guilty, and hung. The disclosures he made after sentence led to the arrest of one of the mail robbers, who suffered also. Yet no one would ever have suspected them, if the murderer’s leman had kept silence. Thus closely allied in appearance are often innocence and guilt. Need I say that a verdict was returned unani- mously acquitting the prisoner—or that the joy of that sweet wife was past utterance? Stanhope, who had stood all till now, wept like a child. God knotvs their after felicity was dearly purchased by the agony of that day. D. ___ng%§%g@o_ I CLING TO THEE. BY '1‘. G. SPEAK. ’T is sweet, belov‘d, to have thee nigh, In pleasant converse thus with me, For while these social moments fly, I feel my heart-strings cling to thee—- Yes, cling to thee with stronger ties Than e’er I felt or knew before, As day by day some charm supplies, That makes me bless thee more and more. Though love may be a troubled stream, And oftimes seek a troubled sea, I find the passage like a dream, In sailing down its tide with thee; And feel resigned amidst the roar That would against our barque prevail, Till every idle gust is o’er That hangs around its bridal sail. I cling to thee, by night by day-— With all a wife’s aifection tried, And bless thee fondly when away, And when reclining at my side. I think of thee where’er thou art, Nor can forget thee though unseen—- Thou beacon of my trusting heart! That cheer’st it through each passing scene. In doubt—inltransport—or distress, My soul reclines itself on thee, Whose words are ever quick to bless—- And being bless’d it clings to thee. I t clings around the cherished name It first rejoic’d to know was thine— In bliss or sorrow—wrong or shame, For ever yours—for ever mine. I cling to thee as guide and friend—- The plighted guardian of my heart— Whose presence doth a brightness lend, That leaves a sadness when apart. The love I know, the joy I feel, As closely with thy fate entwin'd— And time cannot thy memory steal, From out the chambers of my mind. I cling to thee in calm or storm— In terror—torture—bond or‘free, My love from out its fountain warm, Still rolls in tranquil rills to thee. For thee it pours the fervent prayer— The morning hymn—the evening lay— That thou mayst never know despair, Nor fell Misfortune’s friendless sway. I cling to thee as clings the vine Around some noble forest tree—- And when thou shalt thy strength resign, I too would fall and sleep with thee ;—- Yes, 'neath yon bright and flaming sun, And this our own dear native sky, We long have liv'd and lov’d as one, And would as one together die. Thou'rt dear to me through all of time— And in that hour when life takes wing, The thought serene—the hope sublime— Departing still to thee shall cling. But shouldst thou, love, first sink to sleep, And light my worldly path no more, My soul shall wait, and watch, and weep, And cling to thee, though gone before. A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTRIIM. i BY \Va had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to peak. “Not long ago,“ said he, at length, “and I could have guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened before to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting 'giddy ?” , The “ little cliff,” upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown himself down to rest, that the weightier portion of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and slippery edge—this “little cliff" arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. No considera- tion would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky—while I struggled in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason myself into sufiicient courage to sit up and look out into the distance. “You must get over these fancies,” said the guide, " for I have brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the scene of that event I.mentioued--and to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye." “ We are now," he continued, in that particular- ising manner which distinguished him—“ we are now close upon the Norwegian coast—in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude—in the great pro- vince of Nordland—and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now ra'use yourself up a little higher—hold on to the grass if you feel EDGAR A. POE- giddy—so—and look out beyond the belt of vapor beneath us into the sea.” I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian Geographer’s account of the More Teneln'arum. A panorama more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like ram- parts of the world, lines of horridly black and beetling clifi', whose character of irredeemable gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at the distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible :1 small, bleak-looking island ; or, more properly, its position was discem- ible through the wilderness of surge in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land,arose another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. The appearance of the ocean, in the space be- tween the more distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross-dashing of water in every direction—as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was little, except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks. "The island in the distance," resumed the old man, H is called by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to the north- ward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, Kieldhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off -—-between Moskoe and Vurrgh~are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These are the true names of the places—but why it has been thought necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can understand. Do you hear any thing? Do you see any change in the water ?” We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sen until it had burst upon us from the summit. As the old man spoke I became l 236 A DESCENT INTO aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping cha- racter of the ocean beneath us was rapidly changing into a current which set to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in precipitous descents. In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical alteration. The general sur- face grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirl- pools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen bef re. These streaks, at length, spread- ing out to a great distance, and entering into com- bination, took unto themselves the gyratory motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. Suddenly—very sud- denly—this assumed a distinct and definite exist- ence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt of gleaming spray—but no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half shriek half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven. The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an excess of nervous agitation. “ This,’_’ said I, at length, to the old man—“ this can be nothing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstriem." “ So it is sometimes termed," said he. “ We Norwegians call it the Moskoe-striim, from the island of Moskoe in the midway.” The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most. circum- stantial of any, cannot impart the faintest concep- tion either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene—or of the wild bewildering sense of the novel which confounds the beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, nor at what time—but it could neither have been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his descrip- tion, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, although their efi'ect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle. THE MAELS'I‘ROM.‘ “ Between Lofoden and Moskoe,” he says, “ the depth of the water is between thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to afford a convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a bois- terous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water re- laxes the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gra- dually returning. When the stream is most bois terous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. 1t likewise happens frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are over- powered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and home down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large stocks of rim and pine trees, after being ab- sorbed by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea—it being constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the ground." ‘ In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. The “forty fathoms” must have reference only to portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Mos- koe-striim must be immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into the' abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter diffi- cult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales andthe bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing that the largest ship of the line in existence, coming within the influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once. The attempts to account for the phenomenon-— some of which, I remember, seemed to me sufii- 238 A DESCENT INTO point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity. " In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and we were dead becalmed, drift- ing about in every direction. This state of things, however, did not last long enough to giVe us time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us—in less than two the sky was entirely overcast—and what with this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see each other in the smack. “Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. The oldest seamen in Norway never experienced any thing like it. We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but at the first pufi' both our masts went by the board as if they had been sawed off—the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety. “ Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon water. It had a complete flush deck with only a small hatch near the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten down when about to cross the Strom, by way of precaution against the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have foundered at once-— for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted me to do this-— which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could have done—for I was too much fiurried to think. “ For some moments we were completely de- luged, as I say, and all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could stand it no longer I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the ‘water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard—but the next moment all this joy was turned into horror—for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the word ‘Moskoe- stro'm ." “No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I shook from head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough—I knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Striim, and nothing could save us! “You perceive that in crossing the StiUm chan- nel, we always went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and then had to wait THE MAELSTROM. and watch carefully for the slack—but now we were driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this ! I To be sure,’ I thought, * we shall get there just about the slack—there is some little hope in that’—but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun ship. “ By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky—as clear as I ever saw—and of a deep bright blue—aud through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit up every thing about us with the greatest distinctness—but, oh God, what a scene it was to light up! “I now made one or two attempts_to speak to my brother—but, in some manner which 1 could not understand, the din had so increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers as if to say ‘ listen ." “ At first I could not make out what he meant—— but soon a hideous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob—it was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run down at seven o’clock! We were behind the time (f the slack, and the whirl of the Strt'hn was in full fury! “When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always to slip from beneath her—which appears very strange to a landsman—and this is what is called riding, in sea phrase. Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore us with it as it rose—up—up—as if into the sky. I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around—and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-strb'm whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead ahead—but no more like the every- day Moskoe-striim, than a mill-race is like the whirl as you now see it. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognised the place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. “ It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in a wilderness of foam. The A DESCENT INTO boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill shriek— such a sound as you might imagine given out by the waste-pipes of many thousand steam~vessels, letting ofi' their steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the whirl, and I thought of course that another moment would . plunge us into the abyss—down which we could only see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skint like an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboatd arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the horizon. “ It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of the gulf, I felt tnore composed than when we were only approaching it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. It‘suppose it was despair that strung my nerves. “ It may look like boasting—but what I tell you is truth—I began to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God's power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I posi- tively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular fancies to occupy a man’s tniud in such extremity—and I have often thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool might have rendered me a little light-headed. “There was another circumstance which tended to restore my self-possession ; and this was the ces- sation of the wind, which could not reach its in our present situation—for, as you saw yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen, and strangle yott, and take away all power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these annoyances—just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed petty indulgences, for- bidden them while their doom is yet uncertain. “ How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask which had been securely THE MAELSTROM. 239 lashed aft under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. As we ap- proached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act—although I knew he was a madman when he did it—a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and went. myself, astern to the cask. This there was no great difliculty in doing; for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel—only swaying to and fro, with the immense sweeps and sweltcrs of the whirl. Scarcer had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought ll was over. “ As I felt the sickening sweep ofthe descent, I had instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them—while I expected instant destruc- tion, and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took courage, and looked once again upon the scene. “ Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admiration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel prodigious in circumference, immeasurable in depth, and whose perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewilder- ing‘ rapidity with which they spurt around, and for the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, fromtn .t circular rift amid the clouds which I have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. “ At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When Irecovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel—that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parrallel with that of the watch-but this latter sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had scarcely more difliculty in maintaining my hold and footing in this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved. “ The rays of the moon seemed to search the 240 A DESCENT V INTO very bottom of the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all met together at the bottom—but the yell that went up to the Heavens from out of that mist, I will not attempt to describe. “ Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, had carried us a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept— not with any uniform movement—but in dizzying swings and jerks, ,that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards—sometimes nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress ‘downward, at each revolution, was very perceptible, but slow. “ Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible fragments of vessels,‘ large masses of building timber and trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my, dreadfiil doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been delirious—for I even sought amusement in speculating upon the relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. “ This fir tree,” I found myself at one time saying, “ will certainly be the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,”-—and then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all~this fact —the fact of my invariable miscalculation—set me upon a train of reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily once more. “ ]t was not a new terror that thus affected me— but the dawn of a more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly from present observation. I called to mind the great variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strb'm. By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraordinary way—so chafed and roughened as to have the ap- pearance of being stuck full of splinters—but then I distinctly recollected that there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely absorbed—that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, for some reason, had descended so slowly after en- tering, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either THE MAELSTROM. instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, three im- portant observations. The first was, that, as a general rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent—the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the other of any other shape, the superiority in speed was with the sphere—the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this subject with an old school-master of the district; and it was from him thatI learned the use of the words ‘cylinder’ and ‘sphere.’ He explained to me—although I have forgotten the explanation—how what I observed was, in fact, the natural consequence of the forms of the floating fragments—and showed me how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, ofiered more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. “There was one startling circumslance which went a great way in enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool, were new high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself securely to the water-cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose frotn the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. Iattracted my brother’s attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my power to make him understand What I was about to do. I thought at length that he comprehended my design—but, whe- ther this was the case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea, without another moment's hesi- tation. “ The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale—as you see that I did escape—and as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape was efl'ected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say—I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succee- sion, and bearing, my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance be- tween the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which SOLILOQUY OF AN OCTOGENARIAN- I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The froth and the rainbow disappeared. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew feeble and fluctuating—then ceased altogether—then finally reversed themselves with a gradually accelerating motion. And then the bottom of the gulf uprose— and its turgid aspect had in great measure departed. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strb'm had been. It was the hour of the slack—but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects 241 of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Strb'm, and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into' the “grounds” of the fishermen. A boat picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions—but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the spirit- land. My hair had been raven-black the day before, and now it is white as you see. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story—they did not believe it. I now tell it to you—and you will put no more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden. SOLILOQUY OF AN OCTOGENARIAN. BY PLINY EARLE, M. D. ’T 15 nearly past—this fitful dream, \Vhose phantoms dazzle to deceive, Like glittering bubbles on the stream, 0r meteors in a summer eve; And now, half-opening to my sight, I see the realms of lasting Light. These feeble pulses speak of death; ' This clouded vision bids me look, ‘Vith the undaunted eye of faith, To climes for which Elijah took From Carmel’s cliffs his joyous way— Translated to eternal day. The blood which, in my childhood, rushed Like mountain torrents in the isles Where earth with constant life is flushed, And everlasting summer smiles, Now struggles in its sluggish flow, Like streams through Greenland’s bank of snow; Yet not all frozen,—if a beam Of light return from earlier years, If, from the spell of childhood’s dream, Triumphant over grief and tears, One bright, enchanting moment come, Like a lost, loved one welcomed home, The loosened current, warmed anew, Hurries along these frigid veins, As the hot Geyser rushes through The frozen banks on Iceland's plains; And, all forgetful of my years, I yield again to child-like tears. Go. tell me not of loving earth; Tell me not' life is fraught with joy; Say not this world has given birth To happiness without alloy; Too ubtle is the spirit’s bliss To stay in atmosphere like this. There‘s not a pang that tends the heart. . In the long catalogue of woe, Of which I have not shared a part, In this, my pilgrimage below ; I've quatfed at sorrow’s bitter cup, And drank its turbid waters up. And now I wish to lay me down, My mother, Earth, upon thy breast, When the green turf, with flowers o'ergrown, ’ Shall flourish o‘er my couch of rest; Gladly would I resign this trust, And dust consign to native dust. Why should I not? my former friends Have fallen round me, one by one, As fall the leaves when autumn sends His breezes through the forests dun. The grave has garnered all my love, Why, why remain its walls above 1— Here doI stand alone—alone— As stands the stern and sturdy oak, When all its forest-freres are gone, Before the woodman‘s fatal stroke, Or wintry tempest sweeping by, With the leagued legions of the sky. Then speed thou home, my wearied soul, On angel-pinions; bend thine eye, Unmoved, upon the glorious goal That waits thy coming in the sky. Ho, for the waters which arise At Zion’s foot, in Paradise ! There shall thou lift thy spirit-tongue, In praises. that thy bonds are riven, As, by the fountain, Miriam sung Hosannahs to the God of Heaven, When Israel, freed from Pharoah’s hand, Departed for the promised land. 2 l. MAY- DAY. A RHAPBODY BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ.- h is April, and the rain is pattering against our window as we write, with a low monotonous tinkle like the far-ofi' music of an evening bell. How every thing has changed since yesterday! The sunlight no longer floods the hill-side—the birds sing not their jocund lays—the brooklet by our window no more goes frolicking onward in its glit- tering sheen. . The sky is dun, spongy, and covered with flitting clouds. The fields are drenched by last night’s rain, and the cattle cower under the sheds in the ham-yard. Yet the south wind has a warmth and freshness in its touch delicious to the fevered brow of a student, and as it breathes through the easement the blood dances more mer- rily along our veins and we feel a new life within us. It is April, fickle fooling April, but already one begins to dream of May. And soon it will be here. Oh! how we long for its bright sunshine, its bud- ding flowers, its delicious perfumes, its breezy mornings and its starry nights, reminding us of that better country where the streams sing on forever, where the spring-time never fades, and where all the sainted ones we have loved on earth, purified and made more glorious than ever, await us with their seraphic smiles. May !--bright, beau- tiful May l—what is like to thy loveliness 7 The Summer may be full of maturer beauty, the Autumn more like a matron in her queenliness, but thou art as a young and innocent bride, all blushing and trembling in thy tearful gladness. And of all days in May give us the first—the vesperus of her sky—- the proudest gem in her coronal. Is there any thing so exquisite in the older poets as their habit of constantly alluding to the merry sports with which our English ancestors were ac- customed to celebrate the first of May? Is there any thing more captivating to the lover of green and sunshiny fields and antique customs, than the dance around the flower-decked pole of the village, with the rosy-checked maidens for partners, and the hobby-horse, the morrice-crew, and the comba- tants of the ring around? Alas! the day for these spectacles has gone forever. Even in merry Eng- land the first of May has lost its popularity, and it is only in some quiet dell, secluded among the hills, far away from the metropolis, that the May- POle is wreathed with garlands on the eventful morning, and the blushing beauty is crowned with flowers as queen of May. How many kindly feelings, how many happy hours, how many holy 1 associations have been lost to us by the neglect of this simple rural custom! Far away from home and friends, in lands remote even from his native continent, the sight of a pole decked out with flowers for some pagan festival, has recalled to the wanderer’s mind the happy days of his youth, when he spotted with his gay companions on the village lawn, or slily kissed some blushing little beauty who had been his partner on the first of May. We wish this good old custom could be revived among us, not with its grotesque maskers, but as a day for greenwood sports. \Ve sing “10 Pan” at the few celebrations which are vouchsafed to us in these degenerate days. Your crabbed utilita- rians may talk of its uselessness, and sneer at it as a childish pastime, but who that has a soul for the beautiful in nature can fail to love this merry-making on the greensward'! Give us the pure canopy of heaven for our ball-room ceiling—let us dance where the birds may carol around us and the balmy breath of flowers kiss our cheeks. Let as welcome in the blushing month with the young, and beautiful, and gay, feeling as we partake in their sports, as if old Spenser had dreamed of the fair ones around us, when he drew that immortal picture of May: “ Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground. Deckt all with dainties of her season‘s pryde, And throwing flow'res out of her lap around: Upon two bretheren’s shoulders she did ride, The twinnes of Leda; which on either side Supported her, like to their Soveraine Queene. Lord! how all creatures laught, when her they spide, And leapt and daunc’t as they had ravisht beene! 'And Cupid selfe about her fluttered all in green." Exquisite! " The fayrest mayd on ground !" Have you ever been on a May party? Then do you not remember that blue-eyed one, with the golden tresses, and that small fair hand, whom your eyes followed throughout the whole bright day, and whom you could have gone on your knees and swom to be not only the loveliest flower of the group, but of the county, aye! for that matter, of the world? You were just nineteen then, and she was in her sixteenth spring, by our faith! You had never met before, but long ere nightfall,-—what with wandering through the wood together, or LIFE. plucking flowers for each other, or lifting her over the pebbly little brook clear and musical as her own pure heart—you have come to feel as if you had known each other for years. And that night you cannot sleep for thinking of her, or if toward morn- ing you drop into a doze, you dream—oh! how sweetly—of your little partner; so sweetly that when you awake, you sigh, and close your eyes, and would give the world if you could only sleep and dream thus of her forever. And you get up and feel even melancholy, wishing all the while that every day was the first of May, and that—for why not 'l—your golden-haired darling was your con- stant partner. And that very morning you chance, mind! only chance—to have some business that takes you down the street where she resides, and you happen so accidentally to meet her as she comes forth, looking to your eyes, with her snowy virgin robe, and her blooming cheek, and her neat chip bonnet wreathed around with flowers, more beautiful than ever—aye! more beautiful than you had imagined aught earthly could be, even though “ Deckt all with dainties of the season’s pryde." And so you can but address her—and she happens to be going your way too—and nothing can be more natural than that you should talk about yesterday —and thus you go on smiling and chatting and feeling so joyous withal, that in the very gladness of your heart you can almost carol aloud with the happy birds, or “ leap and dauncc as you had ravisht beene!" Ah! verily young May-gocr thou hast lost thy heart. And so it proceeds. And you call upon her— as of course you must—to ask her whether she over- fatigued herself on May-day, you having forgotten' altogether in your casual meeting to propound to her that question. And when thus calling you find she has a harp or a piano, and as you play on the flute, it is the most natural thing in the world to practise duetts together. Or perhaps you are both learning French,'or reading Goethe in the original, or doing something else—no matter what l—which can be better done in company. And by and bye you get so used to these visits, that not an evening passes without beholding you together; and gradu- ally you forget your studies and care less for them, though all the while perhaps you are learning a. sweeter lesson; and your golden-haired partner will April, 1841. On! life is but a dream, A sunbeam’s play,’v A flower on a stream Passing away. A song upon the air, A festal guy, A something wondrous fair Passing away. 243 sigh now—most singular !--so very often; and you yourself will begin to feel your heart flutter when her soft blue eye meets your own by chance, for of late you do not look into each other's faces as you used to; and so by and bye—heaven only knows how—you will find yourselves sitting side by side on the sofa; a. few smothered words will be whis- pered; you will draw her with a holy embrace toward you; her head will sink upon your bosom ; and thus for—it may be five minutes, it may be longer—you will sit in silence, a deep sacred silence, with your hearts quick beating against each other in a rupture no words can tell. And at length you will whisper her name; and with a happy sigh she will look up “ smiling tearfully," as “the blind old Sciote has it; and again you will press her to your bosom, breathing your deep deep love in every word; and she will murmur back y0ur vows, at length, with maidenly whispers, blushing to her bosom the while, and speaking lower than an. angel might be thought to sigh. And so—and so—years after, when she sits beside you at your household hearth, with that fair-haired little one smiling on her knee, you will bless God that ever you went a-Maying. Ah ! give us the love which comes in the freshness and innocence of youth. But May-Day is not all that charms us in the blushing month. All through its sunny days there is the song of birds, and the odor of flowers, and the waving of green grass, the more beautiful be- cause we have just emerged from the snows of Winter, the blustering winds of March, and the fickle skies of April. Everything is budding and breaking into life. If you'go out into the fields you can almost hear the grass growing. The gar- den has a thousand colors, and they all mingle in harmony. The birds greet you at morning beneath your window, and your favorite steed gambols at your approach in wanton joy. The winds murmur low like rushes by the river side, the hills are cov- ered once more with verdure, and the delicious greenness of the meadow land is past the poet’s pen. And most of all, the om: whom for years you have loved, seems to grow more beautiful daily, smiling and carollipg around you, to your eyes more lovely than when you first won her for your bride. May ! bright beautiful May, why tarry the wheels of thy chariot? J. S. A prison-house of woe, A wintry day, A dark gulf’s ceaseless flow Passing away. A bird upon the wing, A meteor ray, A wild mysterious thing Passing away. R. E. J. SPORTS AND PASTIMES. DOG BREAKING. To ensure good sport, the shooter must be provided with good dogs. However abundant game may be, there can be no real sport without good; and how- ever scarce game may be, a good day’s sport is at- tainable with good dogs, by a person who feels what sport is, and who does not look upon filling the game- bag and loading the keepers with game, as the sole end and aim of the sportsman's occupation. The mere act of killing game no more constitutes sport, than the jingling of rhyme constitutes poetry. Since, then, good dogs contribute to good port, the shooter should be careful to whom he entrusts the breaking of them. Bad habits, by dogs, as well as by bipcds, are sooner acquired than got rid of. If it suit his convenience, the shooter should frequently accom- lpany the breakers when practising his dogs: he should direct them to make use of few words, and those words should be the same that he is in the habit of using. A multiplicity of direction only serves to puzzle :1 dog, as a person’s speaking Irish, Scotch, and Welsh alternately would perplex a Spaniard I In common with other sports, shooting has a. vocabulary of its own. We subjoin a list of some of the words made use of by breakers and sportsmen to dogs, many of them being any thing but euphonious to the unaccustomed ear. To-ho spoken in an under tone, when the dog is, ranging, is a warning to him ’that he is close upon game, and is a direction to him to stand. There is no necessity for using it to a dog (that knovvs his business. Spoken in a peremptory '~ anner, it is used to make the dog crouch when he as run up game, or been otherwise in fault. Down- harge, or down-to-charge, is to make the dog crouch vhile the shooter charges. Take-heed, and lie-careful, .are used when the dog ranges over ground where it 'is customary to find birds. Take-heed, is a word of :porrection; be-careful, of encouragement. The former is used by way of caution or notice to prevent the dog putting up birds by running over the ground too fast; the latter is likewise a caution, but used when the dog beats slowly or carelessly. Back, is used to make a dog follow at heel. 'VVarefence, is used to prevent dogs passing a fence before the gun. The dog should never, on any account, leave an enclosure until it master has left it. 'Ware or beware, is used to rate a dog for giving chase to a bare, birds, or cattle, or for pointing larks, or approaching too near the heels of a horse. Seek, is a direction to the dog to look for a dead or, wounded bird, hare, or rabbit. Dead, is to make a dog relinquish his hold of dead or wounded game. The dog should not touch a dead bird, but should retain possession of wounded game until it is taken from him; for should he suffer a bird that is only slightly wounded to disengage himself from his grasp, another seek becomes necessary; and the bird is either lost, or despoiled of its plumage by the catching and re-catching. A dog-breaker who has not a good temper, or what is tantamount thereto, a plentiful store of patience, should never be employed, or he will ruin any really valuable dog entrusted to his care. Dog-breakers are an impatient race of people, and it is but natural that they should be so, since nothing tries the pa- tience more than the management of a number of young dogs of different disposition, except shooting over bad ones. A young dog that carries his head well up when . beating, should be chosen in preference to one that hunts with his nose on the ground. It is not only the best dog that carries his head up, but game will suffer him to approach nearer than one that tracks them. The handsomest dog is that which shows the most breed ; the most valuable that which affords the sportsman the greatest number of shots. It is more desirable to break young dogs in com- pany with a pointer than with a setter. The former makes a more decided point than the latter. The dog should be taught to quarter his ground well. He should cross over before the shooter con- tinually, at not more than twenty paces distance in advance, ranging about thirty paces on either hand, and leaving no part of his ground unbeaten. If in company with other dogs, he should not follow them, but each dog should beat independently. The dog may be taught to back or back-set, by the breaker holding up his hand and crying to-ho .' when another dog makes a point. A well-bred dog will invariably back-set instinctively. To back-set in- stinctively is the distinctive characteristic of a pro- mising young dog; indeed, it is the only safe standard by which the shooter may venture to prognosticate future excellence. A dog’s pointing game and larks the first time he is taken out, is no certain criterion of merit: but there is no deception in a dog’s back- ing instinctively the first time he sees another dog make a point. It is a proof that he is a scion from the right stock. The shooter should kill nothing but game over a young dog, or the dog will never learn his business. He should of all things avoid shooting larks and field'fares. When the shooter is in the habit of killing small birds, such as larks sometimes, and at \ SPORTS other times is in the habit of correcting him for pointing them, the dog becomes confused. and is puzzled when he comes upon a snipe, whether to point or not. Where game is scarce, the best dogs will occasionally point lurks: and it requires much time to teach a young dog that they are not game, and to break him of pointing them when once he has acquired the habit. ‘ \Vhen punishing a dog, it is better to beat him with a slender switch than with a dog-whip. But whether a switch or dog-whip be used, the dog should be struck across, not along, the ribs; or, in other words, the switch or lash should not be made to lap round his body. but the blow should fall on the whole length of his side. A dog should never be kicked, or shaken by the ears. When the shooter is unprovided with a switch or dog-whip, he should make the dog lie at his foot several minutes, which the dog, eager for sport, will consider a severe pun- ishment, and it is a sort of punishment not soon for- gotten. The following is the routine of dog-breaking. We very much approve of the system. The first lesson, and the one on which the breaker’s success chiefly depends, is that of teaching the dog to drop at the word “ down ;" this must be done before he is taken into the field. Tie a strong cord to his neck, about eighteen yards long. and peg one end into the ground. Then make the dog crouch down, with his nose be- tween his front feet, calling out in a loud voice "down." A often as he attempts to rise, pull him to the ground, and repeat the word “dmon” each time. \Vhen he lies perfectly quiet while you are standing by him, walk away, and if he attempt to follow you, walk back, and make him “ down" again, giving him a cut or two with the whip. This lesson must be repeated very often, and will take some trouble before it is properly inculcated. When once learned it is never forgotten, and if properly taught in the beginning, will save an infinity of trouble in the end. He ought never to he suffered to rise, until touched by the hand. This lesson‘should be prac- tised before his meals, and he will perform it much better as he expects his food, and never feed him till you are perfectly satisfied with his performance. After you have been flogging him, always part friends, and never let him escape while you are chastising him, at least, if he does, do not pursue him, as if he sees (which he soon will) that he is the quicker run- ner of the two, all discipline will be at on end. When he has become tolerany steady, and learned to come in to the call, and to drop to the hand, he must be taught to range and quarter his ground; a thing which is seldom seen in perfection. On some good brisk morning choose a nice piece of ground, where you are likely to find. Take care to give him the wind, 1'. c. to let him have the wind blowing in his face, wave your hand with “ hey on good dog,” and let him run off to the right hand to the distance of about eight yards. (We sugggcst thirty.) Call him in. and, by another wave of the hand, let him go off to the same distance to the left. Walk straight- forward with your eye always on him. Go on and let him keep crossing you from right to left, and vice cersd, calling him in when at the limit of his range. AND PASTIMES. 247 This is a difficult lesson, and requires great nicety in teaching. Never let him hunt the same ground twice over. Always have your eye on him, and watch every motion. A fortnight's attention to diet, bedding, and exercise, will bring a dog into condition, however lean or cum- brous he may be, if not diseased. Dogs should be al- lowed plenty of exercise. They cannot be too often taken out, either with or without a gun, by a person who understands their management, and is disposed to attend to them. Their kennels should be warm and d1 3/, and, if not under cover, should be placed in shel- tered situations. The straw should he often changed, as cleanliness is indispensible to health. They should he kept free from ticks: when a dog is tormented with these troublesome creatures, he should be well rubbed with a mixture of train oil and spirit of turpentine, which may be washed off the next day with soft soap. The dog seems to be endued with some instincts for the exclusive service of' man; whereas the in- stincts of all other animals are conducive to the supply of their individual wants, and their useful- ness to man is secondary thereto. It would be diffi- cult to controvert the argument, that the pointer‘s instinct was given for the purpose of aiding men to capture or kill game, by means of such engines as nets or guns. This, we are aware, may be a doubtful position to maintain; but who can ay for what other apparent purpose this peculiar faculty was given? It may, indeed, be urged, that the propensity to point, in the pointer, is a. means ordained by Providence for his subsistence in a wild state, by enabling him to approach within reach of his prey, and thus to accomplish, by another species of stealth, what the tiger and other animals of the cat tribe effect by ambuscade. Such an argument, however, is presumptively rebutted by the fact, that all existing races of wild dogs are gregarious, and resort to the chase for food; nor is there any record of the existence of dogs in a state of nature, except those calculated for the chase. It is therefore gratuitous to assert, that the instinct or faculty of pointing was bestowed upon the pointer as a. means of subsistence, since he has ever been de- pendant on man for food. It is strongly argued, that all dogs have descended from one common stock, and that by difference in food, climate, and training, they have become what they are at present; nor is it more improbable that such is the fact, than that the human race are de- scended from one common parent; for dogs are not more dissimilar than the various tribes of men, who differ not only in outward form, but morally and intellectually, as much as dogs vary in size, shape, temper, and sngacity. Those animals which can be domesticated improve by acquaintance with man, as the wild fruits by cultivation. All wild dogs have some qualities in common; but their instincts are somewhat limited or not called forth. It is only in its domesticated state that we find the various qualities which render the dog so useful a servant to man. Wild dogs are, in comparison with domesticated dogs,what savages are to civilised society; for where- ever savages are found, they bear some resemblance to each other, and are engaged in similar pursuits. 250 R. s v I n w o F with fatigue and anxiety, dies. The grandfather, through grief, immediately follows her to the tomb. The younger brother, meantime, has received infor- mation of the old man’s poverty, hastens to England, and arrives only in time to be at the closing scene of the tragedy. This plot is the best which could have been con- structed for the main object of the narrative. This object is the depicting of a fervent and dreamy love for the child on the part of the grandfather—such a love as would induce devotion to himself on the part of the orphan. We have thus the conception of a childhood, educated in utter ignorance of the world, filled with an affection which has been, through its brief existence, the sole source of its pleasures, and which has no part in the passion of a more mature youth for an object of its own age—we have the idea of this childhood, full of ardent hopes, leading by the hand, forth from the heated and wearying city, into the green fields, to seek for bread, the decrepid im- becillity of a doting and confiding old age, whose stern knowledge of man, and of the world it leaves behind, is now merged in the sole consciousness of receiving love and protection from that weakness it has loved and protected. This conception is indeed most beautiful. It is simply and severely grand. The more fully we sur- vey it, the more thoroughly are we convinced of the dofty character of that genius which gave it birth. That in its present simplicity of form. however, it was first entertained by Mr. Dickens, may well be doubted. That it was not, we are assured by the title which the tale bears. When in its commence- ment he called it “ The Old Curiosity Shop," his design was far different from what we see it in its completion. It is evident that had he now to name the story he would not so term it ; for the shop itself is a thing of an altogether collateral interest, and is spoken of merely in the beginning. This is onlygone among a hundred instances of the disadvantage under which the periodical novelist labors. When his work is done, he never fails to observe a thousand defects which he might have remedied, and a. thousand alterations, in regard to the book as a whole, which might be made to its manifest improvement. But if the conception of this story deserves praise, its execution is beyond all—and here the subject na- turally leads us from the generalisation which is the proper province of the critic, into details among which it is scarcely fitting that he should venture. The Art of Mr. Dickens, although elaborate and great, seems only a happy modification of Nature. In this respect he differs remarkably from the author of “ Night and Morning.” The latter, by excessive care and by patient reflection, aided by much rheto- rical knowledge, and general information, has arrived at the capability of producing books which might be mistaken by ninety-nine readers out of a hundred for the genuine inspirations of genius. The former, bythe promptings of the truest genius itself, has been brought to compose, and evidently without effort, works which have effected a long-sought consum- mation—which have rendered him the idol of the people, while defying and enchanting the critics. Mr. Bulwer, through art, has almost created a genius. NEW BOOKS. Mr. Dickens, through genius, has perfected a standard from which Art itself will derive its essence, in rules. When we speak in this manner of the “ Old Curio- sity Shop," we speak with entire deliberation, and know quite well what it is we assert. We do not mean to say that it is perfect, as a whole—this could not well have been the case under the circumstances of its composition. But we know that, in all the higher elements which go to make up literary great- ness, it is supremely excellent. We think, for in- stance, that the introduction of Nelly‘s brother (and here we address those who have read the work) is supererogatory-that the character of Quilp would have been more in keeping had he been confined to petty and grotesque acts of malice—that his death should have been made the immediate consequence of his attempt at revenge upon Kit; and that after matters had been put fairly in train for this poetical justice, he should not have perished by an accident inconsequential upon his villmy. We think, too. that there is an air of ultra-accident in the finally discovered relationship between Kit’s master and the bachelor of the old church—that the sneering polite- ness put into the mouth of Quilp, with his manner of commencing a question which he wishes answered in the affirmative, with an affirmative interrogatory, instead of the ordinary negative one—are fashions borrowed from the author’s own Fagin—that he has repeated himself in many other instances—that the practical tricks and love of mischief of the dwarfs boy are too nearly consonant with the traits of the master—that so much of the propensities of Swiveller as relate to his inapposite appropriation of odds and ends of verse, is stolen from the generic loafer of our fellow-townsman, Neal—and that the writer has ufl‘ered the overflowing kindness of his own bosom to mislead him in a very important point of art, when he endows so many of his dramatis persona; with a warmth of feeling so very rare in reality. Above all, we acknowledge that the death of Nelly is exces- sively painful—that it leaves a most distresing oppres- sion of spirit upon the reader—and should. therefore, have been avoided. But when we come to speak of the excellences of the tale these defects appear really insignificant. It embodies more originality in every point, but in character especially, than any single work within our knowledge. There is the grandfather—a truly pro- found conception; the gentle and lovely Nelly—we have discoursed of her before; Quilp, with mouth like that of the panting dog—(a bold idea which the engraver has neglected to embody) with his hilarious antics, his cowardice, and his very petty and spoilt- child-like malevolence; Dick Swiveller, that prince of good-hearted, good-for-nothing, lazy, luxurious, poetical, brave, romantically generous, gallant, affec- tionate, and not over-and-above honest, “ glorious Apollos;” the marchioness, his bride; Tom Codlin and his partner; Miss Sally Brass, that “ fine fellow ;" the pony that had an opinion of its own; the boy that stood upon his head; the sexton; the man at the forge; not forgetting the dancing dogs and baby Nubbles. There are other admirably drawn cha- racters—but we note these for their remarkable originality, as well as for their wonderful keeping. THE REEFER OF BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIBING ’76. in run LAST wan.” THE SHIP’S BOY. “HILIB !” said Westbrook, “ who ’s skulking here?” and he pushed his foot against a dark heap, huddled up under the shade of one of the guns. As he did so, a slight, pale-faced, sickly- looking boy started up. “Ah! its you, Dick, is it ?--why I never before thought you ’d skulk-— there, go—but you must n’t do it again, my lad.” The boy was a favorite with all on board. He had embarked at Newport, and was, therefore, a new hand, but his quiet demeanor, as well as a certain melancholy expression of face he always wore, had won him a way to our hearts. Little was known of his history, except that be was an orphan. Punctual in the discharge of his duties, yet holding himself aloof from the rest of the boys, he seemed to be one, who although he had deter- mined to endure his present fate, was yet conscious of having seen better days. I was the more con- firmed in my belief that he had been born to a higher station lrom the choice of his words in conversation, especially with his superiors. His manner, too, was not that of one brought up to buffett roughly against fortune. That one so young should be thrust, unaided, out into the world, was a sure passport for him to my heart, for his want of parents was a link of sympathy uniting us together; and we had, therefore, always been as much friends as the relative difference of our situations, on board a man-of-war would allow. Yet even I, so great was his reserve, knew little more of his history than the rest of my shipmates. Once, indeed, when I had rendered him some little kindness, such as an officer always has it in his power without much trouble to himself, to bestow upon an inferior, his heart had opened, and he had told me, more by hints though than in direct words, that he had lost his father and mother and a little sister, within a few" weeks of each other, and that, houseless pen- niless and friendless, he had been forced to sea by his only remaining relatives, in order that he might shift for himself. I suspected that he did not pass under his real name. But whatever had been his former lot, or however great were hi sufferings, he never repined. He went through his duty silently, but sadly, as if—poor child !——he carried within him a breaking heart. “ Please, sir," said he, in reply to Westbrook’s ad- dress, “ its but a minute any how I ’ve been here.” “ Well, well, Dick, I believe you," said the warm-hearted midshipman. “ But there go eight bells, and as your watch is up, you may go below. What! crying—fie, fie, my lad, how girl-hearted you have grown.” “I am not girl-hearted always,” sobbed the little fellow, looking up into his superior’s face, “ but I could n’t help crying when I thought that to-night a year ago my mother died, and I crept under the gun so that no one might see and laugh at me, as they do at every one here. It was just at this hour she died," he continued, chokingly, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable weeping, “ and she wasthe only friend I had on earth.” " Poor boy! God bless you 1" said Westbrook, mentally, as the lad, finishing his passionate excla- mation, turned hastily away. It was my watch, and as Westbrook met me coming on deck, he paused a moment, and said, 9 Do you know any thing about that poor little fellow, I mean Dick Rasey? God help me I ’ve been rating him for skulking, when the lad only wanted to hide his grief for his mother from the jests of the crew. I would n’t have done it for any thing.” " N o—he has always maintained the greatest reserve respecting himself. Has he gone below T" “ Yes! who can he be? It’s strange I feel such an interest in him." “ Poor child !—he has seen better days, and this hard life is killing him. I wish he could distinguish himself some how—the skipper might then take a fancy to him and put him on the quarter deck.” “ What a dear little middy he would make,” said Westbrook, his gay humor flashing out through his sadness, “why we havn’t got a cocked-hat aboard that would n’t bury him up like an extinguisher, or a dirk to spare which is n’t longer than his whole body." “Shame, Jack—its not a matter for jest—the lad is dying by inches." “ Ah! you ’re right, Parker; I wish to heaven the boy had a birth aft here. But now I must go below, for I ’m confoundedly sleepy. You ’11 have a lighter watch of it than I had. The moon will be up directly—and there, by Jove 2 she comes— look how gloriously her disc slides up behind that wave. But this is no time for poetry, for I ’m as 258 along our sides, or the breeze sighing through the hamper faded entirely, and save an occasional creaking of the boom, or the sullen falling of a reef-point against the sail, not a.- sound broke the repose of the scene. The strange sail had long since been lost sight of to starboard. So profound was the darkness that we could scarcely distinguish the look-out at the forecastle from the quarter-deck. Silent and motionless we lay, shut in by that dark shroud of vapor, as if buried by some potent en- chanter in a living tomb. " Hist 1” said a reefer of my watch to me, “ don’t you hear something, Mr. Parker ’1” I listened attentively, and though my hearing was proverbially sharp, I could distinguish nothing for several moments. At length, however, the little fellow pinched my arm, and inclining my eye to the water, I heard a low monotonous sound like the smothered rollicking of oars that had been muffled. At first I could not credit my senses, but, as I listened again, the sound came more distinctly to my ears, seeming to grow nearer and nearer. There could be no mistaking it. Directly, more' over, these sounds ceased, and then was heard a low murmured noise, as if human voices were conversing together in stiflled tones. At once it flashed upon me that an attack was contemplated upon us—by whom I knew not—though it was probable that the enemy came from the strange sail to starboard. It was evident, however, that the assailants were at fault. My measures were taken at once. Hastin ordering the watch to arm themselves in quiet, I ordered the men to be called silently; and, as by this time the look-outs began to detect the approach of our unknown visitors, I enjoined equal silence upon them, commanding them at the same time, however, to keep a sharp eye to starboard, in order to learn, if possible, the exact position of the expected assailants. In a few minutes the men were mustered, and prepared for the visitors, whether peaceful or not. Most of the officers, too, had found their way on deck, although as it was uncertain as yet whether it might not be a false alarm, I had not disturbed the skipper. Westbrook was already, however, prepared for the fight, and as I ran my eye hastily over the crew I thought I saw the slight form of Dick Rasey, standing amongst them. " Can you hear any thing, Westbrook 'I” said I. “ It ’5 like the grave l" was his whispered answer. “ Pass the word on for the men to keep perfectly quiet, but to remain at their stations.” “ Ay, ay, sir." For some minutes the der-h-like silence which had preceded the discovery of our unknown visitors returned, and as moment after moment crept by without betraying the slightest token of the vicinity of the assailants, I almost began to doubt my senses, and believe that the strands I had heard had been imaginary. The most profound obscurity meantime reigned over our decks. So great was the darkness that I could only distinguish a shadowy group of human beings gathered forward, without being able to discern distinctly any one face or figure; while the only sound I heard, breaking the hush around, was the deep, but half-suppressed THE REEFER OF ’76. breathing of our men. Suddenly, however, when our suspense had become exciting even to nervous- ness, a low, quick sound was heard right off our starboard quarter, as if one or more boats, with muffled oars, were pulling swiftly on to us; while almost instantaneously a dark mass shot out of the gloom on that side, and before we could realise the rapidity of their approach, the boat had struck our side, and her crew were tumbling in over the bul- warks, cutlass in hand. Our preparation took them, however, by surprise, and for a moment they recoiled,but instantly rallying at their leader‘s voice, they poured in upon us again with redoubled fierce- ness, cheering as they clambered up our sides, and struggled over the bulwarks. " Beat them back, F ire-Flies l” I shouted, " give it to them with a will, boys—strike.” uPress on, my lads, press on—the schooner's our own I" shouted the leader of the assailants. Levelling my pistol at the advancing speaker, and waving our men on with my sword, I gave him no answer, but fired. The pistol flashed in the pan. In an instant the leader of the foe was upon me, having sprung over the bulwarks as I spoke. He was a tall, athletic man, and lifting his sword high above his head, while in his other hand he presented a pistol toward my breast, he dashed upon me. I parried his thrust with my blade, but as he fired I felt a sharp pain in my arm, like the puncture of a pin. I knew that Iwas wounded, but it only inspired me with fiercer energy. I made a lunge at him, but he met it with a blow of his sword, which shivered my weapon to atoms. Springing upon my gigantic adversary, I wreathed my arms around him, and endeavored to make up for _the want of a weapon, by bearing him to the deck in my arms; but my utmost exertions, des- perate as they were, s_arcely sufficed to stagger him, and shortening his blade, he was about plung- ing it into my heart, when a pistol went off close beside me, and my antagonist, giving a convulsive leap, fell dead upon the deck. I freed myself from his embrace and sprang to my feet, just in time to see little Dick, with the smoke still wreath- ing from the mouth of his pistol, borne away by the press of the assault. In the next instant I lost sight of him in the melee, which now became really terrific. Hastin snatching a brand from one of the fallen men, I plunged once more into the fight, for the enemy having been by this time reinforced by another boat, were now pouring in upon us in such numbers that the arm of every man became abso. lately necessary. It was indeed a desperate con- test. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought; desperation on the one hand, and a determination to conquer on the other, lent double fury to our crew; while the clash of swords, the explosion of fire-arms, the shouts of the combatants, and the groans and shrieks of the wounded and dying, gave additional horror to the scene. By this time our captain had reached the deck, and his powerful voice was heard over all the din of the battle urging on his men. The fall of the enemy’s leader began now to be generally known among his crew, and the conse- quence was soon apparent in their wavering and want of unity. In vain the inferior officers urged THE REEFER OF them on; in vain they found their retreat cut off by the shot we had hove into their boats; in vain they were reminded by their leaders that they must now conquer or die, they no longer fought with the fierceness of their first onset, and though they still combatted manfully, and some of them desperately, they had lost all unity of purpose, and, struck with a sudden panic, at a last overwhelming charge of our gallant followers, they fled in disorder, some leaping wildly overboard, some crying for quarter when they could retreat no farther, and all of them giving up the contest as lost. Not a soul escaped. They who did not fall in the strife were either drowned in the panic-struck flight, or made pri- soners. The whole contest did not last seven minutes. When they found themselves deserted by their men the officers sullenly resigned their swords, and we found that our assailants were a cutting out party from the ship to starboard, an English frigate. The man-of-war had not, it seems, discovered us until some time after the moon arose, when her light, happening to fall full upon our sails, betrayed us to their look-outs. The darkness almost directly afterward obscured us from sight, and the calm that ensued forbade her reaching us herself. Her boats were consequently manned, with. the intention of carrying us by boarding. The most singular por- tion of it was that none of as perceived that the stranger was a man-of-war, but this may be ac- counted for from her being built after a new model, which gave her the appearance of a merchantman. The bustle of the fight was over ;_ the prisoners had been secured; the decks had been washed down; my wound which turned out slight had been properly attended to; and the watch had once more resumed their monotonous tread; while at proper intervals, the solemn cry, “ all’s well,” repeated from look-out to look-out, betokened that we were once more in security, before I sought my ham- mock. I soon fell asleep, but throughout the night I was troubled by wild dreams in which Beatrice, the ship's boy, and the late strife, were mingled promiscuously. At length I awoke. It was still dark, and the only light near was a single lantern hung at the extremity of the apartment. My fellow messmates around were all buried in sleep. Suddenly the surgeon’s mate stood beside me. “ Mr. Parker!" said he. I raised myself up and gazed curiously into his face. “ Little Dick, sir—" he began. “ My God 1” I exclaimed, for I had actually for. gotten, in the excitement of the combat and the succeeding events, to enquire about my young pre- server, and I now felt a strange presentiment that the mate had come to acquaint me with his death— “ what of him. Is any thing the matter 7" I asked eagerly. “I fear, sir,” said the messenger, shaking his head sadly, “ that he cannot live till morning." “ And 1 have been lying here,” I exclaimed, re- proachfully, “ while the poor boy is dying,” and I sprang at once from my hammock, hurried on my clothes, saying, “ lead me to him at once." "He is delirious, but in the intervals of lunacy ’76. 259 he asks for you, sir," and as the man spoke we stood by the bedside of the dying boy. The sufferer did not lie in his usual hammock, for it was hung in the very midst of the crew, and the close air around it was really stifling; but he had been carried to a place, nearly under the open hatchway, and laid there in a little open space of about four feet square. From the sound of the ripples I judged the schooner was in motion, while the clear calm blue sky, seen through the opening overhead and dotted with myriads of stars, be- tokened that the fog had broken away. How calmly it smiled down on the wan face of the dying boy. Occasionally a light current of wind—oh ! how deliciously cool in that pent-up hold—eddicd down the hatchway, and lifted the dark chesnut locks of the sufferer, as, with his little head reposing in the I lap of an old veteran, he lay in an unquiet slumber. His shirt-collar was nnbuttoned, and his childish bosom, as white as that of a girl, was open and ex- posed. He breathed quick and heavily. The wound of which he was dying, had been intensely painful, but within the last half hour had somewhat lulled, though even now his thin fingers tightly grasped the bed-clothes as if he suffered the greatest agony. Another battle-stained and gray-haired seaman stood beside him, holding a dull lantern in his hand, and gazing sorrowfully down upon the sufferer. The surgeon knelt beside him, with his finger on the boy’s pulse. As I approached they all looked up. The veteran who held him shook his head, and would have spoken, but the tears gathered too chokingly in his eyes. The surgeon said,- . “ He is going fast,—poor little fellow—do you see this '1" and as he spoke he lifted up a rich gold locket, which had lain upon the boy's breast. “ He has seen better days.” I could not answer, for my heart was full. Here was the being to whom, but a few hours before I had owed my life—a poor, slight, unprotected child—lying before me, with death already written on his brow,—and yet I had never known of his danger, and never even sought him out after the conflict. How bitterly my heart reproached me in that hour. They noticed my agitation, and his old friend—the seaman that held his head—said sadly, “Poor little Dick—you ’ll never see the shore again you have wished for so long. But there ‘11 be more than one—thank God l—when your log ’s out, to mourn over you.” Suddenly the little fellow opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around. “ Has he come yet '2” he asked in a low voice. “ Why won‘t he come 'I” “I am here," said I, taking the little fellow's hand, “ don’t you know me, Dick 7" “ Doctor, I am dying, ain’t I 7" said the little fellow, “ for my sight grows dim. God bless you, Mr. Parker, for this. I see you now,” and he faintly pressed my hand. " Can I do nothing for you, Dick '!" said I, “ you saved my life. God knows I would coin my own blood to buy yours." “I have nothing to ask, only, if it be possible, let me be buried by my mother,--you will find the name of the place, and all about it, in my trun ." 260 TIME’S uAnything—everything, my poor lad," I an- swered chokingly. The little fellow smiled faintly—it was like an angel’s smile—but he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that patch of blue sky, far overhead. His mind wandered. “ It is a long—long way up there,—but -there are bright angels among them. Mother used to say that I would meet her there. How near they come, and I see bright faces smiling on me from them. Hark! is that music ?" and, lifting his finger, he seemed listening intently for a moment. He fell back; and the old veteran burst into tears. Philadelphia, May, 1841. . MN we we, CHANGES. The child was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ voices? God grant it. I opened his trunk, and then discovered his real name. Out of mercy to the unfeeling wretches, who were his relatives, and who had forced him to sea, I suppress it. Suffice it to say, his family had once been rich, but that reverses had come upon them. His father died of a broken heart, nor did his mother long survive. Poor boy! I could not fulfil the whole of his injunction, for we were far out at sea, but I caused a cenotaph to be erected for him beside his mother’s grave. It tells the sim- ple tale of THE Smr's BOY. 1:4- “{‘w— TIME’S CHANGES. BY JOHN . Tunas is a sweet and wildering dream Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours, ' Which gilds the memory with its beam, And the stern spirit overpowers. Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time, How spell-like do its glories rise ! Like some ethereal pantomine Danced on the skirt of autumn skies! We stand and gaze ; and wonder-rapt, Think of the changing power of years, As on our brow its trace has crept, And from our eyes exacted tears. There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles, And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower, Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles, Usurp the mother many an hour. There is the first half-spoken word, How rare a music to her ear! She listens, as she had not heard, And hearing, owns it with a tear. There is a passing on of Time— The boy is merged into the man— And daringly he frets to climb What once his vision could not scan. Lancaster, Pa. 1841. W- FOILNEY. Come back from this poetic scene .' Come from this scene of flowery youth! Come from the time when all was green. To cold and dreary, stubborn truth. Look on your own now withered brow, Where care sits emperor of the mind ; Look to your throbbing heart ; and now Cast all these dreams of youth behind. Read the sad change which Time has wrought; Compare it by your memory’s glass ; And turn from that whose lightest thought Points to the grave where ages pass. See, from the cradle to the tomb, Though years are multiplied between, How brief, in varied joy and gloom, Is Life's wild, feverish, fitful scene. But yesterday, and youth was drest In dimpled and in smiling glee, Drawn, with fond fervor, to her breast, Or throned upon a mother’s knee. To-day, and Time, with added years, Has stampt his progress on our brow In manhood’s pallid care, and tears Unbidden dim the vision now. THE LOST HEIR. BY H. J- “VVELL flown, falcon—see how it mounts into the clouds—the heron has it—on, on knights and ladies fair, or we shall not be in at the death.” As the speaker ceased, the falcon, which had been mounting in gyrations growing narrower and narrower as it ascended above' its prey, suddenly stooped from its height, and shooting upon the heron, like a thunderbolt, bore the huge bird in its talons t0 the earth. The swoop, and the descent passed with the rapidity of lightning, and in a moment after the gallant train were gallopping to the assistance of the falcon. Their way lay along the high bank of the river, from whose reedy margin the heron had been roused. The path was often broken, and-difficult to traverse; but so eager were all to reach the desired point that no one appeared to mind these inequalities. Suddenly the path made an almost precipitous descent, and while a portion of the train clashed recklessly down the steep, the more prudent checked their course, and sought a less dangerous road. By this means the party became divided, that which remained on the brow of the hill being by far the more numerous. The other group consisted, indeed, of but three individuals—a falconer, a page, and the niece of their master, the Earl of Torston. The palfrey of the latter was one of rare speed, and it was with difliculty that the two servitors could keep up with their beautiful and high-spirited mistress. “ On Ralph—ay, Leoline, you are falling- behind," she said, glancing around at her companions as the distance between them rapidly increased. “To the right—to the right," shouted the fal- coner, " the heron has fallen in the marsh." The maiden suddenly drew her rein in, to follow this direction; but as she did so a half a score of men, attired as Scottish borderers, started from the thickets around, and seizing her bridle, and that of her attendants, vanished with them into the recesses of the forest. All efforts at resistance were pre- cluded by the numbers of the assailants, and lest the two servitors should alarm their new rapidly approaching companions, they were hastily gagged. The whole party then set forward at a brisk pace toward the neighboring Scottish border. The lady Eleanor was one of the most beautiful maidens of the north of England, and her expecta. tions from her childless uncle were equalled only by her charms. Already had many a gallant knight broken a lanes in defence of her beauty, or sought VERNON. even more openly to win her for his bride. But to all alike she bore the same demeanor. Her heart was as yet untouched. Gay, sportive, full of wit, and not altogether unconscious of her exalted sta- tion, the heiress of three baronies continued to be the idol of her uncle, and the admiration of the English chivalry. It was while engaged in hawking with her train that she had been sur- prised, as we have related, by a band of Scottish marauders, with the intention of profiting by her ransom. For some hours the party continued their flight with unabated speed, concealing themselves in the depths of the forests, until they had left the posses- sions of Lord Torston, and gained a range of barren and desolate hills, where there was little likelihood of meeting with interruption. The object of the capturers was obviously to beer of? their prize across the border,so rapidly as to defy all mea- sures to be taken for her rescue. The lady Eleanor was not, however, without considerable energy of character, arising in part no doubt from the stormy times in which she lived, for she had listened so often to the tales of her ancestor’s deeds that she felt it would derogate from her, even though a maiden, not to shew a portion of the same spirit in disaster. As they were hurried along, therefore, she busied herself in revolving a plan for her escape. But she could' think of no feasible scheme, without the co-opera- tion of her servitors, and they were kept so far in the rear, and guarded so carefully, that any com- munication with them she saw would be impossible. In this perplexity she breathed a silent prayer to the virgin, and was about resigning herself to her fate when the wail of a bugle broke upon her ear, and looking up she beheld three horsemen crossing the brow of a hill, a few yards distant. At the same moment the marauders recognised the new comers as enemies, and hurrying their captives into the rear prepared for the fray. “ Ah! what have we here 'I" exclaimed the leader of the men-at-arms, a bold stalwart youth, just verg- ing into manhood, turning to his companions, “ by St. George, a pack of Scottish thieves—and there is a lady among them, a prisoner I trow, for she is dressed like a maiden of rank. What say you, comrades? we are three good men against you dozen varlets, shall we attempt a rescue '2" “ Ay—ay—Harry Bowbent, lead on," exclaimed the leader of his companions, " for though your 262 blood is often over-hot, yet who could refuse to charge yon Scottish knaves in such a cause ?" The marauders had, meanwhile, drawn them- selves up across the road, and when the three men- at-arms spurred their horses to the charge, the Scots received them by stepping briskly aside, and striking at the animals with their huge swords. Two of the assailants were thus brought to the ground at the first onset; but the one called Bow- bent, and his elder companion, bore each a Scots- man to the earth with his long lance, and then taking to their swords, struck about them with such fury as to finish the contest in a space of time almost as short as that which it takes to narrate it. They did not, however, gain this victory without cost. Both the youth and his elder comrade were wounded, while the man~aLarms, who had been unhorsed, was killed. Several of the marauders fell on the field, and the others took to flight. “Poor Jasper,” said the youth, looking moum- fully upon his slain follower, It your life was soon ended. God help me! misfortunes seem to attend on all who espouse my fortunes.” And, after re- garding the dead man a moment longer, the youth turned away with a sigh, to fiilfil his remaining duty, by inquiring whom he had rescued, and ofi'er- ing to conduct her to a place of safety. Meanwhile the lady Eleanor had been an anxious though admiring spectator of the contest, and many' a prayer did she breathe for the success of her gal- lant rescuers. The boldness of the youth espe- cially aroused her interest, and her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker, whenever he seemed on the point of being overpowered. As he now moved toward her, she felt, she knew not why, the color mounting in her cheeks,—-and as he raised his visor, she could not but acknowledge that the conntenance beneath, vied with, and even excelled, in manly beauty and frankness of expression, any she had ever seen. The youth, however, had just began to express, in the courtly language of the day, his delight at having come up so opportunely, when a sudden paleness shot over his countenance, and after endeavoring vainly to speak, he sank, fainting to the ground. “ It is only this ugly wound in his side,” said his older comrade, noticing the alarm in the maiden’s countenance, “ he has fainted from loss of blood." “- Can he not be borne to the castle '.'—here Ralph, Leoline, a litter for the wounded man—but, see, he revives." The wounded youth opened his eyes faintly, and gazed upon the maiden as she spoke, and then closed them, as if in pain. “ He has fainted again," said the lady Eleanor, " cannot the blood be staunched? I have some slight skill in the healing art, let me at least bind up his wounds." Taking a scarf from her neck as she spoke, the maiden proceeded to examine the hurts of the young man-at-arms, and having carefully bound them up, during which operation the reviving sufferer testified his mute gratitude by his looks, she allowed him to be placed on the rude litter her servitors had hastily prepared for him, and then the whole party set out to return to the castle. THE LOST HEIR. It was a fortnight after the above events, and the wounded youth was now convalescent. The room in which he sat, was a large old gothic apartment, but the mild breath of summer stealing through the open window, and bearing the odor of flowers upon its bosom, gave a freshness to that old chamber, which banished, for the time, its gloominess. The invalid was sitting up, and by his side was the lady Eleanor, gazing up into his eyes with a look which a woman bestows only upon the one she loves. On reaching the castle, the lady Eleanor, in the absence of her uncle, ordered the utmost attentions to be paid to the wounded young man. In conse- quence, the best room in the castle was allotted to him, and in the absence of a better leech, and in compliance with the customs of the time, the lady Eleanor herself became his physician. Opportuni- ties were thus presented for their being together, which, as he grew more convalescent, became dan- gerous to the peace of both. Perhaps it was his dependence on her skill; perhaps it was the wound he had received in her cause; perhaps it was that she had expected no refinement whatever in one apparently of such questionable rank ; perhaps—but no matter—like many a one before and since, it was not long before the lady Eleanor found that in attending her patient, she had lost her heart. Nor was the wounded youth less inspired by affection for his fair physician. Gratitude for her kindness, to say nothing of her sweetne and beauty, had long since won his most devoted love. And, now, as they sat together, one. might perceive, by the heightened color on the cheek of the maiden, and the unresisting manner in which her hand lay in that of the youth, that their mutual affections had just been revealed to each other in words. “ Yes—sweet one,” said the youth, as if contin- uing a conversation, “ we may have much to over- come before we triumph, if indeed we ever may; and I almost wish that we had never met." His companion looked at him chidingly. "No, not that either, dearest. But yet I would I could re- move this uncertainty that hangs around my birth. I am at least a gentleman born—of that I have always been assured—I am, moreover a knight; but whether the son of a peer, or of one with only a single fee, I know not. Until this uncertainty can be removed, I cannot pretend openly to aspire to your hand. I almost fear me that my honor may be questioned, thus to plight my vows with you, dear Eleanor; yet fate, which has thrown us thus together, has some meaning in her freak.” “ May it prove indeed so,” said the maiden. “ But you say you were alwaystold you were noble born. Who assured you of this? Indeed, I must hear your history, for who knows,” continued she archly, “ but I may unravel your riddle '1" “ Of my early life I know little, for though I remember events as far back even as infancy, yet it is but faintly, as we often remember incidents in a dream. Indeed I have often thought that these memories may be nothing more than vague recol- lections of dreams themselves happening so far back in my childhood as to seem like realities. Be that %4 SIGHS FOR THE dered air, “ what mean you? It cannot be, and yet your words, your looks, your gestures, imply it —am I to find in this castle my birth-place T” “ Yes! my son,” exclaimed the baton, unable longer to control the emotions, which had been swelling for days in his bosom, “ and in me you find a father," and opening his arms, his long lost son fell into his urms. “ I no sooner saw your face,” said the father, when these emotions had subsided sufficiently to permit an explanation, “than I felt a yearning to- wards you, for it reminded me of your mother. But when I heard your story,” he continued, “ it tallied so completely with the loss of my only son, that I suspected at once that you were my child. Your age, too, agreed with what his should have been. Unwilling, however, to make known my belief, I enjoined silence on my niece, determining to bring you here in order to see if the sight of your birth- place would awaken old recollections in your bo- som. I have succeeded. I do not doubt but that you are my son,—and now let me lead you to your cousin, who by this time will have changed her ap- parel, and be ready to receive us." H One moment, only,” said Sir Henry, “ I have that here, which as yet I have shewn to no one. It Clairfait Hall, 1841. ——°%3‘§%}< "’ . a. SIGHSFOR THE UNATTAINABLE. is a ring I wore on my neck when a child. Here it is.” “ God be praised, my son,” said the old baron, “ for removing every doubt. This is your mother’s wedding ring, which, after her death, you wore around your neck,“ and the long-separated father and son again embra'ced, while tears of joy and thankfulness stole down the old man’s face. Is it to be supposed that the lady Eleanor looked more coldly on her lover, now that every difficulty in the way of their union was removed: or that the young heir was less eager to possess himself of his bride, because, by wedding her, he would preserve to her the possessions which otherwise she would lose? Truth compels us to answer both questions in the negative. Scarcer a month had elapsed before the young knight led his blooming cousin to the altar, while his new-found father looked on with a joy which he had thought, as a childless man, he could never more have experienced. And in the proud array of England’s proudest chivalry, which met at Torston castle to celebrate the nuptials, no one demeaned himself more gallantly, or won more triumphs in the lists, than the young, knight, now no longer Harry Bowhent, the soldier of fortune, but the heir of the richest earldom in the realm. —- UNATTAINABLD BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. MY heart is like the basin deep, From which a fountain’s waters flow- It cannot all its treasures keep, Nor find them welcome when they go. From its recesses dark and drear, There bubble up a thousand springs, Sparkles of hope, and drops of fear, Wild thoughts and strange imaginings. ’T is full of great and high desires-— It swells with wishes proud but vain-— And on its altar kindle fires, Whose wasted warmth but nurtures pain. And feelings come, with potent spell, In many a wildering throng combined, Whose force no words can ever tell, Nor language e’er a likeness find. But, ah! how sinks my saddened soul, To know, with all its longings high, It ne’er can reach the tempting goal, Nor to the lofty issue fly. To feel the ardent wish to range The world of thought and fancy o’er, Yet know—oh! contradiction strange ! It owns a wing too weak to soar. To have the love of all that ’s fair, And beautiful and pure and free, Yet find it choked with weeds of care, Flung from the world’s tempestuous sea. To feel affections warm and high, Boiling within my panting breast, And meet a careless, cold reply, Where sought my weary soul for rest. Oh! give me Nature’s kindly charm, A scene where quiet beauty reigns— Give me a heart with feeling warm, ' To share my joy, to soothe my pains. And they who love the stormy path Of wild Ambition’s wildered scheme, May revel in its rage and wrath, Most welcome to the bliss they dream. THE SYRIAN LETTERS. WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVXLIUS PRISCUS 0F CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED. a Damascus. Ssiwruus 'ro Cormmus—Grtrcmtmx I HOPE you will not deem me tedious, my friend, if I endeavor to describe to you the manner in which Lactantius maintained the truth of that faith of which he is one of the most: illustrious advocates. But you should have heard him, to have felt yourself in the presence of one of the greatest of men. As the day was mild, Septimus ordered the couches to be disposed along the level roof, as affording much the most delightful place to hold a conversation, for so harmless is the air of this climate, that you may even take your midnight repose under the open sky; and this they inform us is the reason why this land is so noted for those who are skilled in the map of the heavens. This, you may truly say, should be no matter of surprise, for it may be held impossible that one the least inclined to medi- tation should behold,night after night, without being fired with the spirit of investigation, that overspread- ing canopy unbounded and far reaching as eternity, but bright with wheeling stars, that rise at their own fixed moment, and set behind some well-known peak, and thus, year after year, traverse the same unvarying and harmonious circle, without collision with.their sister orbs—glorious and imperishable. The sun, fast sinking toward Cyprus, robbed of his exhausting heats, was mildly burning above Lebanon. The city lay on every side. In one direction rose the pillar of Antonine; in another the amphitheatre; and you might, with steady ob- servation, see the wild beasts pacing to and fro, with impatient step, their well-barred cages, kept now more for curiosity than sport. In another quarter the accustomed grove relieved the wilder- ness of marble, like a clump of palms which often starts out so refreshingly against the whitened sands. But, what was most beautiful to behold from this elevated site, was the far receding valley in which this city is built, sheltered on either hand by an eternal battlement of rocks, cultivated to the utmost stretch of industry, clothed with its fruitful vines, and glistening with its hundred gardens, temples and villas, wherever you might look. Through its centre ran the mazy Leontes, shining from among its tufted banks, and catching ever and anon the parting glories of the sun gwhile on its bosom, or suddenly emerging from some green shade, the eye detected, by the sparklingof the oar, the gaily colored galley, freighted with many a light heart. Thus raised above the bustle of the crowded thoroughfares, and soothed by the Cyprian breeze, we felt the inspiring influence of all we saw. Lactantius was the first to speak. “ I hesitate not to avow,” said he, “ that I feel a deep solicitude in behalf of my friend Mobilius. Would that I had the power to expound to him the unsatisfactory reliance of his faith, the feebleness of its supports, and the terms of its delusions. As the shivering reed trembles on the first assault of the rude wind, so does this perishable belief upOn the first advance of swrft-footed adversity; forsaking you when you most require the aid of ready guid- ance and bright-eyed consolation. “ Brought from Egypt by the crafty priest, that land of science, but of superstition, he planted it in' a soil where he was certain it would thrive, and to make success more sure he mingled with it the gaudy ceremonies of Chaldea. Strange that so noxious a plant should flourish as well as in its native soil, and so near the walls of Bethlehem. “ They burn an offering of perpetual fires to the king of day—what a sorry imitation of his light when but a struggling ray shall quench it! They behold his blinding brightness, they feel his piercing heats, they see nature bloom beneath his smiles, and they forget he sprang from something. They look not beyond. Will the sun rescue us from affliction, and heal us in the hour of sickness? How," he exclaimed, warming as he spoke, and felt the influence of rapt attention—“ How shall glittering rites propitiate that which can neither feel nor see, which was created to rule the day, divide the light from darkness, and mark the rolling seasons, but has no power to save, to heal or van- quish? The throbbing pulse, the glistening eye, the kindly sympathy We feel in another’s anguish speaks to us of a soul, declares to us we sprang from some sublime and all-wise original. Behol ," said be, rising from his couch with a commanding attitude, “you temple, the boast of Syria, what symmetry, what grandeur l—as wise would it be to say it sprang from nothing, as that sun, which from time almost incalculable, has risen in the east and set beneath those mountains. It must have been the instru- ment of an all wise purpose. Then why not adore the source through whose command it blazed into existence ’1 ' “ How is it, Mobilius, that the faithful follower 23 274 This law, thou say’st, revolts thy sense of right; It strikes thee merely as a strange caprice ; A snare where reason trips at every step— Let us confes and judge it not, great bard! Like thine, my mind with darkness is replete, And not for me it is to explain the world: Let Him who made, explain the universe. The more I sound the abyss, the more, alas! I lose myself amid its viewless depths. Grief, here below, to grief is ever linked, Day follows day, and pain succeeds to pain. In nature bounded, infinite in wish, Man is a fallen god rememb’ring Heaven: Whether that, disinherited of all His pristine glory, he doth still preserve . The mcm’ry of his former destinies, Or that the vastness of his wishes gives A distant presage of hi future greatness— Imperfect at his birth, or fallen since—— The great, the awful mystery is man. Within the senses' prison chained on earth, A slave, he feels a heart for freedom born, And wretched, to felicity aspires. He strives to sound the world; his eye is weak ;— He yearns to love; whate’er he loves is frail. All mortals unto Eden' exile bear A sad resemblance—when his outraged God Had banished him from that celestial realm, Scanning the fatal limits with a look, He sat him, weeping, near the barred gates, He heard within the blest abode afar, The sigh harmonious of eternal love, Sweet strains of happiness, the choral song Of angels sounding God's triumphant praise; And tearing then his soul from heav’n, his eye Fell back afl'righted on his dismal lot. Woe, woe to him who from his exile here Hath heard the concerts of an envied world! When Nature once ideal nectar tastes, She loathes the cup Reality presents. Into the possible, in dreams she leaps ; (The real is cramped; the possible, immense ;) The soul with all her wishes there doth take Her sojourn, where forever she may drink From crystal springs of knowledge and of love, And where, in streams of beauty and of light, Man, ever thirsty, slakes his thirst. And thus, with Syren vision charming sleep On waking, scarce she knows herself again. Such was thy fate, and such my destiny! I too the poisoned cup did drain; like thine My eyes were opened, seeing not; in vain I sought the enigma of the universe; I questioned nature for its cause; I asked Each creature why created; down the abyss, The bottomless abyss,'I plunged my look,- From the atom to the sun, I all explored; Anticipated time, its stream did mount; Now passing over seas to hear the words That drop from wisdom's oracles; but found The world to pride is ever a sealed book! Now, to divine the world inanimate. To nature's bosom flying with my soul. I thought to find a meaning in her voice. TO LORD BYRON. I read the laws by which the heav’ns revolve, My guide great Newton, through their shining paths. Of crumbled empires o'er the dust I mused; Rome saw me 'mid her sacred tombs descend; Of holiest manes disturbing the repose; The dust of heroes in my hands I weighed, Asking their senseless ashes to restore That immortality each mortal seeks. What say I ? hanging o'er the bed of death, I sought it even in expiring eyes ; On summits darkened by eternal clouds, 0n billows tortured by eternal storms, I called; I braved the shock of elements. Like to the sybil in her rage divine, I fancied nature in those fearful scenes Some portion of her secrets might reveal; I loved to plunge amid those horrors dread. But vainly in her calm and in her rage This mighty secret hunting, everywhere I saw a God, and understood him not. I saw both good and ill, without design, As if by chance, escaping from his hands; I saw on all sides evil, where there might Have been the best of good, and too infirm To know and comprehend him, I blasphemed. But breaking ’gainst that heav’n of brass, my voice Had not the honor to e’en anger fate. One day, however, that by mis'ry wrung, I wearied heaven with my fierce complaint, A light descended from on high, that filled My bosom with its radiance, and inspired My lips to bless what madly they had cursed. I yielded, grateful, to the influence, And from my lyre the hymn of reason poured. “ Glory to thee, now and for evermore, Eternal understanding, will supreme! To thee, whose presence space doth recognise! To thee, whose bright existence every morn Announceth! Thy creative breath hath stooped To me, and he who was not hath appeared Before thy majesty! I knew thy voice Ere I had known myself, and at its sound Up to the gates of being I did rush. Behold me! nothingness doth here presume To hail thee at its coming into life. iBehold me! but what am I? what my name? 'A thinking atom—who may dare to hope ;Between us two the distance e’er to scan! -I, who in thee my brief existence breathe, Myself unknown and fashioned at thy will, 'What ow'st thou, Lord, to me, were I not born? éBefore or after, naught—hail end supreme! Who draw all from himself, to himself owes all. gEnjoy, great artist, of thy hands the work. 11 live thy sov’reign orders to fulfil. Dispose, ordain, control, in time, in space; My day and sphere, for thy own glory mark; .My being, without question or complaint, In silence hasten to assume its place. * * >1: * * a: * Glory to thee! annihilate me, strike! One cry, one cry alone shall reach thy ear— Glory to thee, now, and for evermore!" 276 " I have heard that voice,” thought the stranger, as he took the proffered cup with gratitude, and finished his breakfast in silence. “ Oh! grandmother," said the maiden, springing to the window, “ here come the Iron Greys; how splendidly they look." “ I cannot look at them,” said the matron, in a trembling voice—“ thy grandfather was killed by the Brunswick Greys at Princeton.” “ What was his name '1” said the old man, fixing his dim eye steadily upon the speaker’s face. “ Charles Greely," said the matron, shedding an unexpected tear. “Charles Greely,” said the old man springing up—“ why he was a Life Guardsman, and died by my side—I buried him at the hour of twilight by the milestone.” “ And thou art ?” said the matron, earnestly. 7 “Old Hugh Maxwell, a corporal of Washing- ton’s Life Guard at your service,” said the stranger guest. “ Oh! well do I know thee,” said the matron, weeping—‘t it was thee who gave me directions where to find him, and delivered to me his dying sigh. This is an unhappy day to me, Hugh Max- well, but thy presence lends an interest to it that I had no idea of enjoying. William and Anne, thy grandfather died upon Hugh Maxwell’s breast in battle—let us bless God that we are permitted to entertain the gallant soldier upon the anniversary of that day of glory." And the son brought forth the old family bible, and the widow Greely prayed after the manner of the Quakers, amid her little congregation. When the service was over, and the breakfast equipage had been removed, the son and the daugh- ter each drew a seat beside the old veteran, while their grandmother carefully wiped her spectacles and took a moderate pinch of Maccouba. Then seating herself as straight as a drill sergeant in her cushioned seat in the comer, she turned her well ear toward the old corporal and looked out of the window. ' “Tell us about the battle of Trenton and of Princeton, Mr. Maxwell,” said the grand children, in one voice. The old man looked inquirineg at the widow Greely. “ Thee may tell it, though it may be a sad tale to me,” said the matron, and Hugh Maxwell, after resting his head upon his hand for a moment, began his account of THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON. Tar: twenty-fifth of December, 1776, was a gloomy day in the American camp. An army of thirty thousand British soldiers lay scattered along the opposite side of the freezing Delaware, from Brunswick to the environs of Philadelphia. Gen. Howe commanded the British cantonment, and Lord Cornwallis was on the march from New York to reinforce him. The British soldiers were flushed with success. They had driven us through the Jerseys. New York Island and the North River were in their power. They had tracked us by our blogdy foot- THE LIFE GUARDSMAN. prints along the gloomy, though snow-clad hills: and they looked eagerly forward to the day when the head of our illustrious Washington should he placed upon Temple Bar, and the mob of London should cry out while they pointed at it, " there rests the head of a Traitor.” The banner of England floated heavily in the wintry air, and the fur-clad Hessian paced his rounds on the gloomy hills, with his bayonet gleaming in the stormy light ; videttes were seen galloping along the hill sides, and the valleys echoed with the martial airs of England. But in our camp all was sadness. Five thousand men, ill-armed, and worse clad, without tents or even camp utensils, sat crouching over their lonely watch-fires. But this was not all. The crafty British general had offered a pardon to all who would desert the American cause, and many men of property, aye! even members of Congress, recreant to honor and principle, pocketed their patriotism with the pro- clamation, and basely betrayed their country in the hour of her peril. Members of Congress did I say? Yes, those that had been members: and let me repeat their names, lest perchance they may have been forgotten in the age of sham power and speculation. Galloway and Allen deserted, and joined the enemies of freedom in the fall of 1776. Such was the state of things at this period. All was silence in the American camp. The spangled banner hung drooping over our head quarters, and the sentinel by the low door-way stood leaning in melancholy mood upon his rusty and flintless gun. The eommander-in-chief held a council of war. At the close of it he gave his opinion—he had heard of the scattered cantonment of the British army. “ Now," said he striking his hand upon an order of battle, and pointing from the window of the little farm house toward the wild river, “ now is the time to clip their wings.” It was a master-thought; the council of war concurred with their leader, and each member retired silently to prepared for imme- diate action. The regiments were mustered—the sentinels were called in—a hasty meal was devoured—the evening shut in with darkness and storm—the word was given—and we began our march. One party moved down, one remained stationary, and one passed up to a point above Trenton. I was with Washington. No one in the ranks knew where he was to go— all was mystery; until we wheeled down the steep bank of the Delaware. "Onward," was the word. "Cross the river," thundered along the line, and our freezing legions moved on. Who shall describe the pains and the perils of that terrible march? Who shall reward the noble spirits, who, trusting in their illustrious leader, moved onward, amid famine, nakedness, and the winter’s storm? Surely at this day a generous nation will not let the poor, old veteran die who has his scars—but no certificate—to testify to the glory of that night—better feed an imposter than starve a hero. But to my tale—Upon a high bank \Vashington, and Knox, and a few stafl' officers, wrapped in scanty military cloaks, sat upon their shivering chargers. and awaited the progress of the broken line. _ . \ a I THE LIFE GUARDSMAN- We moved on—some on cakes of ice—some on rafts with the artillery—and some in little boats. Dark reigned the night around—the wild blast from the hills swept down the roaring stream—the water froze to our tattered clothes, and our feet were blistered and peeled by treading upon the icy way. The snow, like feathers borne upon a gale, whirled around us—the dark waters yawned fearfully before us—at every step we were in danger. Now preci- pitated into the stream, and now forced to climb the rugged sides of the drift-ice, still we advanced. At length the cannon and tumbrils were landed, and the last soldier stood upon the opposite shore. Shivering with cold, and pale with hunger and fatigue, our column formed and waited for the word. Washington and his staff were at hand. “ Briskly, men, briskly," said he, as he rode to the head of the line; and then the captains gave the word from company to company, and the army marched on in silence. A secret movement of an army at night keeps the drowsy awake, and the hungry from complaining. Man is an inquisitive animal, and the only way to make him perform apparent im- possibilities, is to lead him after he knows not what. Columbus discovered America in a cruize after Solomon’s gold mine, and the vast field of chemistry was laid open to human ken, in a search for the elixir of life, and the philosopher’s stone. All night our troops moved down the west bank of the river, and as the morning spread her grey mantle over the eastern hills, we reached Trenton. The Hessians, under Rawle, slept. No one feared Washington,—and the moustached soldier dreamed of the Rhine and the Elbe, and the captain slept careless at his inn. But suddenly the cry was raised,--“ He comes! he comes 2” Our frosty drums beat the charge; the shrill fifes mingled in with a merry strain; and our hungry army, with bare feet entered the city. Like the Scandinavian horde—in impetuosity and necessity—before the eternal city, we rushed up the streets, and attacked the surprised enemy at every turn. The startled foe endeavored to defend themselves; but, before any body of them could collect, a charge of our infantry cut them to pieces. Their colors were absolutely hacked off of their standard-staff, while they advanced in line, by a sergeant's sword, and their oflicers were cut down or taken prisoners. Our victory was complete. One thousand men were killed and made prisoners, and the artillery, con- sisting of nine pieces, was captured. Such was the effect of the Battle of Trenton upon the enemy; but to us the consequences were the reverse. Our hungry men were fed, our naked were clothed, the rank and file were armed, and the oflicers pro- moted. The same evening we re-crossed the river, but it was not the terrible stream of the previous night. The footprints of boots and shoes were left on our trail, and the drums beat a merry call, while the bugles answered sweet and clear. In a few hours the Hesian tents shrouded the captors on the site of our old encamptment; and Rawle’s officers had the pleasure of drinking their own wine in their own tents, with General Wash- ington, and his subaltems, as prisoners of war. So 277 well planned was this attack that we lost but nine men, and two of them were frozen to death after being wounded. On the 29th of December, 1776. we again crossed the Delaware, and at 1, P. M., our eagles floated over Trenton. The “meriy Christmas” of our evening party astonished and aroused the king’s generals. Lord Cornwallis hastened to form a junction with Gene- ral Grant at Princeton; and on the 2d of January, 1777, the British army marched against Trenton. It was late in the afternoon when the advance guard of the enemy appeared in sight, their red coats forming a striking contrast with the winter’s snow. Our drums now beat to arms, and General Washington, with 5,000 of us, crossed the rivulet Assumpinck, and took post upon the high ground facing the rivulet. A heavy cannonade speedily commenced, and when night came on, both armies had a breathing spell. Fresh ,fuel was now piled upon the campfires—- the sentinels were posted in advance—small parties were stationed to guard each ford—the cry, “ all ’5 well,” the quick challenge, and the prompt answer; the tramping of a returning vidette—and the occa- sional tapping of a drum in the guard-room, were heard in our camp. The British general rejoiced in the belief that the morning sun would behold him a conqueror of our leader and ourselves. Se- cure cf his prey, the enemy made preparations to attack our camp on the first blush of morning. The noise of hammers—the heavy rumbling of cannon wheels—~the clashing of the armorer’s hammer, and the laugh of the artizan and pioneer, came over upon the night-wind, and grated harshly upon our sensitive ears. An officer, mounted, and wrapped in a military cloak, was now seen silently approaching the com- manders of regiments in quick succession. He whispered his orders in a low tone—the colonels started with astonishment,—they looked—it was their general, and they immediately sent for their captains. Each oflicer heard the new order with astonishment, but to hear was to obey. The cap- tains whispered it to their orderlies, and in twenty minutes after it was communicated to commanders of regiments the whole army stood upon their feet in battle array. Our tents were struck, and our baggage wagons were ready for a march. The sentinels paced their rounds as though nothing was about to happen. The laugh of the relieved guard was heard above the din of both armies, and “ all ’s well" rang above the night. We now stood ready in open column to march. General Hugh Mercer had command of the van guard, and in a few moments our captains whis- pered, "forward, and be silent"—our living mass immediately moved onward, and filed ofi' toward Allentown. Presently we heard the rear guard, with the artillery, rumbling in our rear, and then our camp, so quietly deserted, was lost sight of in the shadow of the hills. For upward of two hours we moved on in com- parative silence. Nothing but the whispers of the officers, and the heavy tread of men was heard. It 24 280 at the grated door, and Leonardo Adimari having personally opened it, Ugolino and his two compa- nions entered the apartment. The count had thrown oFf his reeking mantle, and stood attired in a rich scarlet doublet, fancifully guarded with gold em- broidery, white long hose, and ruffled boots, which exposed his manly person to the best advantage. His locks, of a dark chestnut hue, flowed in long ringlets from beneath a scarlet barret cap, adorned with a jewelled clasp and plume of white heron fea- thers. His countenance, chiselled in the finest and most classical shape, was rendered highly expressive by his dark eyes, which rolled and sparkled with Italian vivacity of character. His form, sufiiciently fleshy for a perfect contour, displayed great muscu- lar strength, united with the most finished symmetry. Depending from a richly ornamented scarf, hung his rapier in its ornamented sheath, and his dagger, of elegant workmanship, was suspended from the em- broidered hangers of his girdle. “ Welcome, noble Ugolino," said Adimari, as he led the count forward, “ and thou too, worthy Pino D’Rossi, we lack patriots such as thou.” “Thanks, noble Adimari," replied D'Rossi, who was a short, sturdy man, attired in a plain, black suit. His age might have been some forty-five years, for his hair was already tinged with gray. A golden chain, depending from his neck, denoted him to be of some mark among the citizens, and his countenance and deportment were those of a stal- wart burgher. “Thanks, worthy Adimari. Patriots are never wanting to defend ‘true liberty, when she is attacked, and was it ever heard that Frenchmen were the guardians of the goddess '2" “ Brave Leonardo,” said an old nobleman, rising slowly from his seat, “ these times call for a speedy action. The blood of a noble family—the blood of my son, Giovanni de Medici—long-spilt, and even now staining the ermine of Walter of Brienne, calls from the earth for vengeance. This moment is propitious. The Florentine people, grieved and oppressed by the hard measures of the Duke, and of Giulio D’Assisi—the Florentine nobles, down-trod- den and despised by the arrogant followers of this count of Brienne—all are ready—all are willing at once to throw off the yoke of thraldom, and to re- assert the ancient liberties and privileges of the city of F lorence." “Well hast thou spoken, noble Pompeo," replied Adimari, “ and it was my intention to apportion this night to each, such charge as the exigencies of the present time demand. My worthy friend, Pino D’Rossi assures me that the people are ripe for the attempt, and my heart decides me that the nobles will not fail to aid them." “The arrogance of these minions of the duke have reached so outrageous a height," said D’Rossi, “that I will pledge mine honor that the populace will prefer a thousand deaths to a longer submis- sion.” “ I," said Bindo Altoviti, “ will speak forthe arti- zans, and will engage to make as many mouthsful of those rascals, the bargello and his son, as they have murdered innocent men." “ For Gualtiers," said the old Medici, “ may the UGOLINO- hand of the Everlasting lie heavy on me and mine, if he, or aught of his race, shall escape the general doom l” Ugolino started. “For mine own part," said he, “ I trust that the effusion of blood may not be farther pursued in these unhappy times than the exigency of the case requires. Far be it from me to justify the conduct of the Count of Brienne, or the arrogance of his proud followers. Yet the count may have been badly advised, and I think these cruelties may not be entirely ascribed to the wickedness of his nature. Let not the noble Medici so far mistake, as to suffer a private desire of revenge, however just such a desire may appear, to overrule the cause of liberty. This, I trust, may be attained without a sanguinary massacre. Let the sword of mercy interpose, nor by a blind and indiscriminate fury, sacrifice the in- nocent upon the same altar with the guilty." “Aye, Count Ugolino," said Medici, and a bitter sneer passed over his thin features, “ we well know the cause of your solicitations. Have we forgotten the tale of Julian D’Este, and of the princess Rosa- belle ? The fair sister of Walter of Brienne may, to a moonsick lover, be an object of deeper interest than the prosecution of the holiest revenge, or the re-assertion of our Florentine liberty.” “ Now, by heaven, Pompeo Medici,” exclaimed Ugolino, “you do me infinite wrong! What? dare you hint that Julian D’Este died by my hand? or that Rosabelle de Brienne sways me with a stronger attachment than the interests of Florence 27" “I speak well-known facts,” replied the Medici. “ Neither is the history of Count Ugolino unknown to the world, nor are his actions left unscruti- nized.” “ Thou irreverend noble !” said Ugolino, while a deep flush overspread his check. the sanction of thine age to protect thee, I would force thee to eat thine own words, with no better sauce to them than my stiletto.” “Nay,” interposed Adimari, while Pino D’Rossi intercepted Ugolino, “these matters will break out again into our ancient broils. \Vorthy Medici— valiant Ugolino—listen to reason—nay, Potnpeo, sheathe thy sword—this is utter rain to our general cause 1" Ugolino returned his dagger to its sheath. “Count Adimari,” said he, “I regret that the words of yon ancient libeller should have moved me so far from my patience in this presence. But enough of this—proceed we to matters of more general import." “Mark me, Leonardo,” said old Medici, as he slowly resumed his seat. “Ages have left us many a sad example. In an ill hour was Ugolino admit- ted into this league. Strong is the dominion of a beautiful woman over the most masculine mind. Beware of you count, for Rosabelle de Brienne will be the destruction of either himself, or of the cause of Florentine liberty.” A smile of scorn curled the lip of Ugolino. “I receive not the prophecy,” said he. “The hour waxes late, and the noble Adimari hath inti- mated his desire to apportion the charge of this insurrrection among the nobles. It is now the “Hadst thou not ' UGOLINO. time for action, but thou and I, Pompeo Medici, must confer still farther." II. ON the same night upon which the above related events took place, the ducal palace was brilliantly illuminated, and sounds of festivity proceeded from the lofty portals. Duke Gualtieri held his high revel. Troops of noble cavaliers and. throngs of high-born dames filled the grand hall of audience, at the top of which was the duke, seated upon an elevated dais, covered with superb hangings, and surrounded by the military chiefs of his faction. Gualtieri was a tall, muscular man of fifty, in the expression of whose countenance a sort of soldierly frankness struggled with a fierce and scornful air. He was splendidly attired in a tunic of purple vel- vet, with hose of rich sendal, and over his shoulder was thrown his ermined cloak. His head was covered with the ducal coronet, and his neck encir- cled by a gorgeous chain of twisted gold and jewel- lery. Near him stood Giulio D'Assisi, the dreaded bargello, or head of police. This last was a man of middle age, attired in scarlet robes, with a face strongly marked by the traces of brutal passion. "A higher measure !" shouted the duke. “ By the honor of the virgin, I think our cavaliers be ungracious to-night, or else these fair dames are more intent upon their beads than their lavoltas. Ha! gallants? hath our air of Florence so dull and muddy a taste to the cavaliers of Provence, that it seemeth to quench the fire of their courtesy T” “ By my halidome!” said the bargello, “your highness speaks well and merrily. The air of F lo- rence, methinks, both an exceeding thick complexion, in comparison with the more delicate breezes which fan the soil of France." " Thou hast aided to thicken it with a ven- geance,” said the duke with a grim smile. “Ha, Giulio, the blood of these swme of Florence, whom thou draggest to thy shambles, might well make the air murky 'l" “ By the patrimony of St. Peter,” replied D’Assisi, " it is but a needful phlebotomy. Marry, if the leech were more often employed in cleansing the veins of your Florentine state, it were good for the health and purification of the remaining body politic.” “ Thou art the prince of provosts, my friend," said the duke. it What, Rinaldo, is it thou 'l and away from the fair Matilde? \Vhen did this happen before in Florence 7" The person addressed was a tall, elegant cava- lier, whose manly countenance was rendered yet more interesting by the melancholy expression of his eyes. He was plainly, but handsomely attired in a costly suit of dark brown velvet, embroidered with seed pearls. " May it please your highness," said Rinaldo, Comte D'Hunteville, (for he was no less a person- age,) “ I have news of some import to communicate. An esquire of mine, passing this night through the Porta san Piero, discovered a person, whom he re- cognized as Pino D’Rossi, the chief of the balia, accompanied by the Count Ugolino, and one whom 281 he knew not, proceeding in the direction of the pe- lace of the Adimari. There are also rumors of seditious meetings which have been held thers,.and I fear—” “ Tush, man,” interrupted De Brienne. "Canst speak of business when so fair a throng of ladies decks our court? or couple the word fear with these dogs of Florence? They shall be cared for; but they have lost the power to harm. Marry, as for the will, we doubt not of that. As for that noto- rious villain, Ugolino, who has dared to aspire to the hand of our sister," continued he, while the fire of rage sparkled in his eyes, “and through whom such infamous aspersions have been cast upon the honor of the house of Brienns, I have my spies upon him. The least imprudent action he dares commit, our trusty Giulio will take order it be not repeated. Forward, Comte D’Hunteville, to the dance!" Hardly had the duke spoken these words, ere a man of singularly unprepossessing countenance, en- tered the apartment. He was of small stature, with a dark, thin visage; restless, inquisitive eyes, and a hooked nose. He wore a plain, civil suit, and a walking rapier, more for ornament than use, de- corated his side. Quickly approaching the duke, he whispered a few words in his ear. The duke started. “ Art thou mad, man '2 A meeting at the palace of the Adimari! Pompeo Medici there ? Why was this not known sooner? Giulio, thy spies have misled thee for the once! Why, they were despe- rate enemies, in whose feud I placed a deep depend- ance for safety. Rinaldo, saidst thou that D’Rossi was there '1” “ Mine esquire hath so informed me, please your grace.” “ By the mass, I doubt some treachery. When Medici and Adimari shake hands, their union is not to be despised. But thanks at least for this infor mation. Hark thee, Cerettieri, be it thy care to look further into this matter. Arrest this Adimari and Pino D’Rossi this very night. Away—their plans shall never be matured! So, gallants, let us again address ourselves to the festivity of the hour.” III. Tm: last lingering taper had disappeared from the windows of the palace, and the clock of the tower had struck the hour of three, when the figure of a man might have been descried, cautiously clamber- ing over the wall which enclosed the ducal gardens. Passing rapidly through the ornamental parterre, he stopped beneath a window which opened upon the gardens, and threw a pebble against the lattice. The signal having been again repeated, the cam- ment opened, and a female form advanced upon the balcony. “ Is it thou, Ugolino 7" demanded a voice, the silvery sweetness of whose tone was so clear and distinct, that it almost startled the count. “ It is I, dearest Rosabelle,” he replied. II I have much to communicate with thee, and the night wanes fast. Throw down the rope, that I may ascend to thee, for the tidings I have to tell 24" 282 thee may brook no ears save thine, for whose only they are intended." The Princess D’Este retired for a moment and returned, bearing a silken cord, one end of which she attached to the balcony, and threw the other to the count. Ugolino ascended, and the princess in a moment was in his embrace. “Quick, let us raise the robe, and close thy chamber carefully, for I have much to say and speedily.” With these words they entered the apartment. It was a lofty room, hung with tapestry of Arras, and sumptuously furnished, as became the rank of its mistress. Large and costly Ottomans, oaken seats richly carved and ornamented with the armo- rial bearings of Brienne, large Venetian mirrors set in massive frames, and richly chiselled stands of colored marble, upon which heavy silver candelabra were placed, added to the magnificence of the apartment, which was lit by a swinging lamp of silver, from whence exhaled a delicate perfume. The count threw himself upon a pile of cushions, and covered his face with his hands. “ Ugolino I" said the princess, passing her small white hand through the curled locks of the count, “ why are you thus agitated ? Are we discovered 'I Do the blood-hounds of my brother still pursue us? If so, impart thy griefs to her who adores thee, that she may, at least, participate in them, if she cannot console thee.” “ I am come,” said the count, and a pang of agony shot across his noble features, “to prove myself a most foul traitor." “ Traitor !" said Rosabelle. “ Ugolino! can the name of a traitor associate with thine ‘1" “ Aye. It can—it must ! Thou knowest, Rosa- belle, the price I paid for thee ere now. Thou art yet doomed to exact from me a sterner sacrifice. When I saw thee first, the fairest dame in France, at the gay field of Poictou, I drew in love for thee with my first breath. Thou wert then the wife of Julian D’Este. What I suffered for thee then, my recollection brings too vividly to light. What ago- nies I new experience, knowing the barbarous re venge which my already too deeply oppressed countryman must undergo, when my tale is told to the duke—yet all for thy sake—no human ima- gination can depict. Then I languished beneath the load of an affection, which honor, reason, duty, chivalry, all combined to oppose. Powerless oppo- sition! The deity of love seems all defensive armor. I sought, impelled by fate, the charms of thy society. For thee, Julian D’Este was no fitting spouse. Harsh and unrefined, he repelled thine Youthful affections, while I, unhappy, too surely was the magnet which did attract them. Then followed our fatal step. Was it folly? My heart still tells me it is no folly to adore thee. Was it madness? Madness never spoke in so clear a tone of reason as in that, which on the day, hallowed to my remembrance, as we perused that antique volume, displayed all our feelings—disclosed the secret emotions of our hearts—gave us soul to soul -and formed our future bliss—our future woe! No base and vicious inclinations—no vulgar volup- tuousness disgraced our union. We felt that we UGOLINO. were made for each other, and when Julian D'Este fell beneath my poniard, I thought it no crime added to my account, when I endeavored, by compassing his death, to confer happiness upon thee." Rosabelle answered nought, but hung more de- votedly around the neck of the count. while the soft blue of her eyes was dimmed with the rising tear. “ What ensued—the impossibility of discovering the murderer of Julian—our farther intercourse—- your brother’s hearty refusal of my suit, and the suspicion attached to our names, were but matters, which, had prudence been consulted ere the deed was done, she would have foretold. But who ad- vises calmly when the burning fire of love threatens to consume him? In fine, the tyrant brought thee with him here to Florence, upon his election as captain and signor of the city. Here, secluded by him from the world, I had given thee up as lost. My faithful Spalatro discovered thy retreat, and as yet we had hoped that our secret interviews were undiscovered. Fatal infatuation ! This very night has Pompeo Medici thrown out hints, nay, open assertions of his knowledge of our situation. Thanks to the death of Giovanni, else all had been discovered to the duke!” " Let me counsel thee to fly !" said Rosabelle, “ as I have done before. There is no time to be lost. Myself will be companion of thy flight." “ It is, I fear, too late. Now listen to the con- clusion of my tale. A great conspiracy is on foot against the rule of the duke. It will break out into revolt ere morning. All is prepared. The fierce Medici swears utter ruin to thy race. Even though forewarned, I doubt that Gualtieri will be overwhelmed. Adimari, equally exasperated with the Medici against thy brother, dare not check Pompeo in his chase of blood, lest he fall 05 and irretrievably ruin the fabric of the conspiracy. Pino D’Rossi vows death to the minions of the duke, who, as I am a Christian man, have well deserved it. Ere day-break, confusion will begin. Thou must fly to thy brother, and advise him of the plot. My name must be known as the traitor to my country, else thy tale will not be believed. My charge lies at the church of Santa Mario del F iore. Ere the palace is invested, do thou devise means to escape, which may readily be done in the confusion. Spalatro will conduct thee to the hotel of San Giovanni, in the Prime Cerchio. There have I prepared disguises and horses. The chances of escape then lie before us, and if fortune befriend us, we will fly to some happier clime. At all events, death is the worst which can betide us, and death ends all woes and calms every distress forever. Art thou willing, my Rosabelle, to trust thus blindly to fate?" " Rosabelle can only live or die with Ugolino 2“ cried the princess, throwing herself into the arms of the count. “Now, Rosabelle, fly to the duke. I hear already a distant sound—a far murmuring, as of the gathering of throngs. This last sacrifice, impe- rious love, will I make to thee! Remember! the hotel of San Giovanni ! Escape or happy death !" He imprinted an ardent kiss upon the lips of the THE THUNDER STORM. BY L You never knew Agnes? She was the prettiest girl in the village, or, for that matter, within a cir- cuit of twenty miles. At the time I write of, she was just budding into womanhood, and if ever there was a lovely being, she was one at eighteen. Her eyes were blue, not of that light blue which is so unmeaning, but of the deep azure tint of a midnight sky, when a thousand stars are shining on its bosom, and you feel a mysterious spell cast upon you as you gaze on high. Just so I felt whenever Agnes would look into my eyes with those deep blue orbs of hers, whose every glance thrilled me to the soul. And then her hair. It was the poet’s color—a rich, sun-shiny gold. How I loved to gaze upon its massy tresses, as they flowed down a neck unrivalled for shape and whiteness. In figure she was like a sylph. Her voice excelled in sweet- ness any I had ever heard. It was low, and soft, and musical as the whisper of an angel. Agnes and I had grown up together. We were not relatives, but we were both wards of Mr. Stan- ley, and had been playmates in childhood. Many a time had we spent whole days in wandering across our guardian’s grounds, now threading the old wood, now loitering by the little stream, and now plucking buttereups to hold under each others chins. Ah! those were pleasant hours. And as we grew up, and were separated,—she remaining at home with her governess, and I going to an eastern college,—I would sit for hours dreaming of Agnes, and wondering if she ever thought of me. I know not how it was; but for years I looked upon her as I looked on no other of her sex, and at the age when youth is most susceptible to no- velty, I remained true to Agnes, as to the star of my destiny. I returned, after a long absence of six years, to the residence of my guardian. In all that time I had not seen Agnes. How I longed to ascertain whether she had changed since we parted, and during the whole of the last stage of my journey, I lay back in the carriage, wondering in what manner she would meet. And when the vehicle stopped at the door of Mr. Stanley’s mansion, and all the re- membered scenes of my childhood crowded around me, I turned from them impatiently, and, with a throbbing heart, looked among the group awaiting me, to see if I could distinguish Agnes. That gray- haired, gentlemanly man I knew to be my second father; but was the surpassingly beautiful girl at H. his side my old playmate? My heart beat quick; DANA. a sudden tremor seized me; my head was, for a moment dizzy, as I advanced hastily up the steps, and was clasped, the next instant, in Mr. Stanley’s arms. “ My dear—dear boy, God bless you l” said the kind-hearted old gentleman. “We see you once more amongst_ us. But have you forgotten your old play-fellow T" he continued, turning to the fair creature at his side. “ Six years make a great alteration I know. Agnes don’t you remember Henry 7” As I turned and fixed my eyes full upon her, I caught Agnes examining me with eager curiosity. Detected in her scrutiny she blushed to the very forehead, and dropped her eyes suddenly to the ground. I was equally abashed. I had approached her intending to address her with my old familiarity, but this aversion of her look somehow unaccounta- hly disheartened me. I hesitated whether I should offer her my hand. The embarrassment was be- coming oppressive, when, with a desperate effort, I extended my hand, and said— “ Miss Agnes—" but for the life of me I could not proceed. It was, however, sufficient to induce her to look up, and our eyes met. At the same instant she took my proffered hand. What happened afterward I could never remember, only I recollect the blood rushed in torrents to my cheeks, and I fancied that the tiny white hand I held in my own, trembled a little,a very little, but still trembled. When I woke from the delirium of indescribable emotions that ensued, I found myself sitting with my guardian and Agnes in the parlor, but whether I walked there on my head or my feet I cannot to this day remember. The month which followed was among the hap. piest of my life, for it was spent at the side of Agnes. We walked, rode, chatted, and sang to- gether; not a morning or an evening found us apart; and insensibly her presence became to me almost as necessary as the air I breathed. Yet—J know not how it was—Agnes was a mystery to me. At first, indeed, we were almost on the same footing as if we had been brother and sister, but after I had been at my guardian’s about a month, she began to grow reserved, although at times she would display all her old frankness, united with even more than her usual gaiety. Often too, when I looked up at her suddenly, I would find her gazing into my face, and when thus detected, she would blush and hast her eyes down, and seem so embar- LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. WRITTEN BY CHARLES JEFFERYS, comrosnnny J. HARROWAY. Philadelphia, Jenn F. Nuns, 184 Cllesnut Street. 2m Con Elpreu. to the home ot‘my Child - hood, Fare - well to my cot - tage and p- go to theland of the Stran ger, \Vhere pleasures a - lone will be Life‘s fieelingjourneyis over, And Earth again mingles with LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. eon anima- Earth,- I can restin the land of the Stranger Cadenza ad lib- Yes, these were my feelings at parting, 291 rall. As well _as in that colla voce- absence soon alter ’d their hand ofSickness came 0 or me, And I we t o’er m Sor - - rows a - P Y No friend came around me to cheer me, No parent to soften my grief; Nor brother nor sister were near me. And strangers could give no relief. ’Tis true that it matters but little. Tho’ living the thought makes one pine,) Whatever befalls the poor relic, When the spirit has flown from its shrine. But oh! when life's journey is over, And earth again mingles with earth, Lamented or not, still my wish is, To ret in the land of my birth. SPORTS AND PASTIMES. HUNTING DOGS. WE said, in our last, that no sport could beattained without good dogs. The first dog, and the very best for the sportsman, is the Pointei. All our pointers are, in some degree, of Spanish extraction; and such of them as have the most Spanish blood in their veins are unquestionably the best. The Spanish pointer is about twenty-one inches in height. He has a large head, is heavily made, broad-chested, stout-limbed, with a large dew-lap; his eyes are full, and widely apart, and his nose is broad; his tail is straight, short, and thick, and his ears large, pendulous, and fine; he should have a round-bailed and not a flat foot. “ The most essential point about the dog," says General Hanger, “is a good foot; for, without a good, firm foot, he can never hunt long. I never look at a dog which has a thin, fiat, wide, and spread foot. As long as the ground is dry and hard, I always wash my dog's feet with warm soap and water. and clean them well, particularly between the toes and balls of the feet; this comforts his feet, alloys the heat, and pro- motes the circulation in the feet. In the more ad- vanced period of the season, when the ground is very wet, then salt and water may be proper.” Scarcely two pointers are to be seen so much alike, that a naturalist would pronounce them to belong to the same class of dogs, inasmuch as they are dissimi- lar in size, weight, and appearance. We recognise only two pointers—the Spaniard and the mongrel. Nearly all the pointers we see are, in fact, mongrels, although each may have more or less of the original Spanish blood. Such, however, is the force of nature, that a dog, having in him very little of the bloud of the pointer, may prove a very serviceable dog to the shooter. We frequently meet with very good dogs—- dogs deemed by their owners first-rate—wbich bear little resemblance, in point of shape and appearance, to the true pointer; some of these have the sharp nose of the fox, others the snubbed nose of the bull- dog; in short, there is every diversity in size and appearance from the greyhound to the pug. The excellence of such dogs must be attributed to judicious treatment, severe discipline, or having been constantly out with a good shot, or in company with highly- trained dogs. It is, however, a mistake to suppose that they are of a proper strain to breed from. Their otl'spring will be deformed, and will probably mani- fest some of the worst and more hidden qualities of the parents. The attempt to lay down a written rule whereby to distinguish between a good and an indifferent pointer, would be futile. How much of the blood of the pointer a dog has in him, will be read in his counte- nance, rather than inferred from his general shape and appearance. There is anindescribable something in the countenance of a thorough-bred pointer, which a little habit of observation will enable the sportsman to detect with tolerable accuracy, so that he may judge of the capabilities of a dog, as a physiognomist will read at a glance a person’s disposition and ability in his countenance. The instinct of pointing, we apprehend, is an inde- structible principle in the blood of the pointer, which, however that blood may be mingled with inferior blood, will always, in some degree, manifest itself; and on this ground we build our theory, that the far- ther any dog is removed from the original Spanish pointer, the worse the dog is; and, consequently, that all attempts to cross the pointer with any other blood must necessarily deteriorate the breed. The grey- hound is seldom or never crossed to give him addi- tional fleetness, nor the bound to improve his nose; why then should the pointer be crossed with dogs which, in so far as the sports of the field are con- cerned, scarcely inherit one quality in common with him? Attempts, however, are constantly made to improve the pointer, by a cross with the blood-hound, fox-hound, Newfoundland dog, or mastifl', sometimes with a view of improving his appearance, and bring- ing him to some fancied standard of perfection ; but, in reality, inducing a deformity. One of these imagi- nary standards of perfection is, that to one part thorough Spanish blood, the pointer should have in him an eighth of the fox—hound, and a sixteenth of the blood-hound. A cross will sometimes produce dogs which are, in some eyes, the beau idéal of beauty; but however handsome such dogs may be, they will necessarily possess some quality not belonging to the pointer. A thorough-bred pointer carries his head well up when ranging; he will not give tongue, nor has he much desire to chase footed game. The bound pointer may he sometimes detected by his coarse ears, by his tail being curled upwards, and being carried high, or by his rough coat. An occasional cross with the mastifl‘ or Newfoundland dog, is said to increase the fineness of nose, but it is converting the pointer into a mere retriever. Another, and the main source of the unsightliness of sporting dogs, is the allowing an indiscriminate intercourse between pointers and setters. Good dogs may be thus obtained sometimes, but they are invariably mis-shapen; they have gene- rally the head and brush tail of the setter, with the body of the pointer, and their coats are not sleek, SPORTS and instead of standing at their point, they will crouch. When the sire is nearly thorough-bred, dogs of a su- perior description, but certainly not the best, are sometimes produced by the Newfoundland or some other not strictly a pointer. We are not willing to allow that the pointer is improved in any quality that renders him valuable to the sportsman, by a cross with the hound or any other sort of dog; though we cannot deny that the setter is materially improved in appearance by a cross with the Newfoundland, but what it gains in appearance it loses in other respects. Breeding mongrels, especially crosing with hounds, has given the gamekeepers and dog-breakers an infi- nity of trouble, which might have been avoided by keeping the blood pure. The Spanish pointer seldom requires the whip; the hound pointer has never enough of it. One of the main sources of the sports- man’s pleasure is to see the dog’s point well. Dogs should be constantly shot over during the season by a successful shot, and exercised during the shooting recess by some person who understands well the management of them, otherwise they will fall ofi' in value—the half-bred ones will become un- manageable, and even the thorough-bred ones will acquire disorderly habits. We look upon the setter to be an inferior kind of pointer perhaps; originally across between the pointer and the spaniel, or some such dog as the Newfound- land, for it has some qualities in common with each. The pointer has the finer nose, and is more staunch than the setter; his action is much finer. Pointers are averse to water; setters delight in it. The setter will face briars and bushes better than the pointer, which i in this respect a tender dog; and for this reason the setter is preferred to the pointer for cover shooting. Besides, his being not so staunch as the pointer isan additional advantage in heavy covers. The sportsman who shoots over well broken pointers, frequently passes game in woods, while the pointers, which are not seen by him, are at their point; the setter, being more impatient to run in, afl'ords the shooter many shots in cover, which the over-staunch pointer would not. The pointer is always to be pre- ferred on open grounds. In hot weather the pointer will endure more fatigue than the setter. The Spaniel, Cock Dog, or Springer.—-Spaniels are the best dogs for beating Covers, provided they can be kept near the gun. They are generally expected to give tongue when game is flushed: some spaniels will give notice of game before it ries, which is very well where woodcock only are expected to be found. Woodcock and pheasant shooting are often combined; when that is the case, a noisy cry is not desirable: pheasant shooting cannot be conducted too quietly, where covers are limited. Wherever the underwood is so thick that the shooter cannot keep his eye on the dogs, spaniels are to be preferred to pointers or setters, whatever species of game the shooter may be in pursuit of. When spaniel are brought to such a state of discipline as to be serviceable in an open country, they will require no further tutoring to fit them for the woods. unless it be that the eye of their master not being always on them, they begin to ram- ble. The efficiency of the training of spaniels for cover-shooting, depends, for the most part, on their AND PASTIMES. 293 keeping near the shooter; for if they riot, they are the worst dogs he can hunt. There is much less trouble in making a spaniel steady than at first thought may be imagined. A puppy eight months old, introduced among three or four well-broken dogs, is easily taught his business. The breaker should use him to a cord of twenty yards length or so, before he goes into the field, and then take him out with the pack. Many a young dog is quiet and obedient from the first; another is shy, and stares and runs about as much at the rising of the birds as the report of the gun. Shortly he gets over this, and takes a part in the sport—he then begins to chase, but finding he is not followed after little birds or game, he returns; and should he not, and com- mence hunting out of shot, which is very likely, he must be called in, and flogged or rated, as his temper calls for. With care and patience, he will soon “ pack up" with the others, especially if that term is used when the dogs are dividing; and if not, he may be checked by treading on the cord, and rated or beaten as his fault requires. Spaniels will, in general, stand more whipping than other dogs, but care must be taken not to be lavish or severe with it at first, or the dog becomes cowed, and instead of hunting will sneak along at heel. The Retriever.—Thc business of the retriever is to find lost game. Newfoundland dogs are the best for the purpose. They should have a remarkably fine sense of smelling, or they will be of little use in trac- ing a wounded pheasant, or other game. through a thick cover, where many birds have been running about. A good retriever will follow the bird on whose track he is first put, as a blood-hound will that of a human being or deer. He should be taught to bring his game, or in many instances his finding a wounded bird would be of no advantage to the shooter. Kennel Treatment.—Thc best regular food for sporting dogs is oatmeal well boiled, and flesh,which may be either boiled with the meal or given raw. In hot weather, dogs should not have either oatmeal or flesh in a raw state, as they are heating. Potatoes boiled are good summer food, and an excellent occa- sional variety in winter, but they should be cleaned before being boiled, and well dried after, or they will produce disease. Roasted potatoes are equally good, if not better. The best food to bring dogs into con- dition, and to preserve their wind in hot weather, is sago boiled to a jelly, half a pound of which may be given to each dog daily, in addition to potatoes or other light food; a little flesh meat, or a few bones, being allowed every alternate day. Dogs should have whey or buttermilk two or three times a week during summer, when it can be procured, or in lieu thereof, should have a table-spoonful of flour of sulphur once a fortnight. To bring a dog into condition for the season, we would give him a very large table-spoonful of sulphur about a fortnight before the 12th of August, and two days after giving him that, a full table-spoon- ful of syrup of buckthorn should be administered, and afterwards twice repeated at intervals of three days, the dog being fed on the sago diet the while. There should always be fresh water within reach. Dogs should never be chained up. REVIE'W OF NEW BOOKS- not a progressive science. The enigmas, says he in substance, which perplex the natural theologian are the same in all ages, while the Bible, where alone we are to seek revealed truth, has always been what it is. The manner in which these two propositions are set forth, is a model for the logician and for the stu- dent of belles lettres—yet the error into which the essayist has rushed headlong, is egregious. He at- tempts to deceive his readers, or has deceived him- self, by confounding the nature of that proof from which we reason of the concerns of earth, considered as man’s habitation, and the nature of that evidence from which we reason of the same earth regarded as a unit of that vast whole, the universe. In the former case the data being palpable, the proof is direct: in the latter it is purely analogical. Were the indica- tions we derive from science, of the nature and de- signs of Deity, and thence, by inference, of man’s destiny—were these indications proof direct, no advance in science would strengthen them—for, as our author truly observes, “ nothing could be added to the force of the argument which the mind finds in every beast, bird, or flower”—-but as these indica- tions are rigidly analogical, every step in human knowledge—every astronomical discovery, for in- stance—throws additional light upon the august sub- ject, by extending the range of analogy. That we know no more to-day of the nature of Deity—of its purposes—and thus of man himself—than we did even a dozen years ago—is a proposition disgrace- fully absurd; and of this any astronomer could assure Mr. Macaulay. Indeed, to our own mint, the only irrefutable argument in support of the soul's immor- tality—or, rather, the only conclusive proof of man’s alternate dissolution and re-juvenescence ad infinitum —is to be found in analogies deduced from the modern established theory of the nebular cosmogony.* Mr. Macaulay, in short, has forgotten what he frequently forgets, or neglects,--the very gist of his subject. He has forgotten that analogical evidence cannot, at all times. be discoursed of as if identical with proof direct. Throughout the whole of his treatise he has made no distinction whatever. This third volume completes, we believe, the mis- cellaneous writings of its anther. “ Corse de Leon: or the Brigand." A Romance. By G. P. R. James. 2 vols. Hmper (9 Brothers. Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne are be- trothed to each other in childhood, but the father of the latter dying, and her mother marrying again, the union of the two lovers is opposed by the father-in- law, the Lord of Masseran. who has another husband in view for her, the Count de Meyrand. To escape 1* This cosmogony demonstrates that all existing bodies in the universe are formed of a nebular matter, a rare ethereal medium, pervading s ace—shows the mode and laws of formation—an proves that all things are in a perpetual state of progress—that nothing in nature is perfected. 295 his persecutions, the heroine elopes, and is married in a private chapel to De Rohan; but just as the cere- mony has closed, the pair are surprised by Masseran and Meynard, who fling the hero into a dungeon, and bear ofi' Isabel. The young wife manages to escape, however, and reache Paris to throw herself on the protection of the King, Henry the Second. Here she learns that her husband, whom the monarch had or- dered to be freed, has perished in a conflagration of Masseran’s castle; and she determines to take the veil. In vain the king endeavors to persuade her to wait. She is inflexible, until surprised by the re-appearance of de Rohan, who, instead of perishing as supposed, has been rescued, unknown, by-Corse de Leon, a stern, wild, yet withal, generous sort of a brigand, with whom he had become accidentally acquainted on the frontiers of Savoy. As the stolen marriage of the lovers has been revoked by a royal edict, it is neces- sary that the ceremony should be repeated. A week hence is named for the wedding, but before that time arrives de Rohan not only fights—unavoidably of course—with hi rival, which the monarch has for- bidden, but is accused by Masseran of the murder of Isabel's brother in a remote province of France. De Rohan is tried, found guilty and condemned to die; but on the eve of execution is rescued by his good, genius, the brigand. He flies his country, and in dis- guise joins the army in Italy, where he greatly dis- tinguishes himself. Finally, he storms and carries a castle, by the assistance of Corse de Leon, which Meyrand, now an outlaw, is holding out against France; at the same time rescuing his long lost bride from the clutches of the count, into which she had fallen by the sack of a neighboring abbey. In the dungeon of the captured castle Isabel's brother is discovered, he having been confined there by Masseran, prior to charging de Rohan with his murder. After a little farther bye-play, which only spoils the work, and which we shall not notice, the lovers are united, and thenceforth “ all goes merry as a marriage bell." This is the outline of the plot—well enough in its way; but partaking largely of the common-place, and marred by the conclusion, which we have omitted. and which was introduced only for the purpose of introducing the famous death of Henry the Second, at a tournament. \ The charpcters, however, are still more common- place. De Rohan and Isabel are like all James” lovers, mere nothings—Father Welland and Corse de Leon are the beneficent spirits, and Meyrand and Masseran are the evil geniuses, of the novel. The other characters are lifeless, common, and uncharac- teristic. They make no impression, and you almost forget their names. There is no originality in any of them, and save a passage of fine writing here and there, nothing to be praised in the book. Corse de Leon, the principal character, talks philosophy like Bulwer’s heroes, and is altogether a plagiarism from that bombastic, unnatural, cut-throat school,—besides, he possesses a universality of knowledge, combined with a commensurable power, which, although they get the hero very conveniently out of scrapes. belie all nature. In short, this is but a readable novel, and a mere repetition of the author’s former works. '. '1 v ‘a ,p' g 4% ' ‘1'" '7 a :1 '1. ', 12??" l - v; '1’ I ¢ .1 "0:" I ~ ‘ r' 1' - . 1'” 1 7' J77 ." 1 ‘ .7" '- . w "I -~ ~- '~ I I _ , ‘ t _ w a -H , .. . I I I ,- L mm»; ’51 '22" L¢'