The Lady's Book 1831-04: Vol 2 Iss 4

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THE LADY’S BOOK. ee 5d a ee > wa APRIL, 1962. ~>— PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS FOR APRIL, 1831. » b-) First Fieure.—A walking dress of changeable gros de Naples, trimmed down the front with leaves of the same, somewhat increasing im size as they descend.. The pelerine trimmed with four rows of small piping, and a deep frill, either of worked muslin or blond lace. Bonnet of apple green satin, ornamented with lilac flowers and lilac gauze ribbon. Seconp Ficure.—An evening dress of gros des Indes. ‘The corsage fluted in front, ahd finished at the top with narrow blond edging and white satin. The skirt trimmed round the bottom with biaS folds of the same material as the dress, edged with narrow blond, and finished with bows of gauze ribbon. Short beret sleeves, over which are loose full sleeves of blond. Hair in large bows and plaits on the top, and in loose full curls on the temples. Flowers blue and silver. LYRICAH WRITING. You are so obliging aé to offer to accept a song of mine, if I havyg@one by me. Dear sir, I have no more talent for writing a song than for writ- ing an ode like Dryden’s or Gray’s. It isa ta- lent per se, and given, like every other branch of genius, by nature alone. Poor Shenstone was labouring through his whole life togvrite a per- fect song, and in my opinion, at Jeast, never succeeded ; not better than Pope did im a St. Cecilian ode. I doubt whether we have not gone a long, long way beyond the possibility of writing a good song, All the words in the language have been so oftén employed on simple images, (with- out which a song cannot be ee such reams of bad verses have been pr in that kind, that I question whether true simplitity it- self could please now ;{@f'M@msGwe are not likely to have amy such thing: Our present choir of poetic virgins write in thé other extreme. They colour their compositions so highly with choice and phrases, that their own dresses are tic. Their nightin- as Italian singers. the subject; and, while I ‘ what I could not do my: you what others do ill. I will yet one other opinion, though rela- tive to composition in general, There are two periods favourable to poets; de age, when a genius may hagard any thibg, and when nothing has been forestalled; the 6ther is, when, after ages of barbarism and incorrection, a master or two produces models formed by purity and taste :- Virgil, Horace, Boileau, Corneille, Racine, and Pope, exploded the licentiousness that reigned before them. to write in contradiction to the severity esta- blished ; and very few had abilities to rival their masters. Insipidity ensues, novelty is dan- gerous, and bombast usurps the throne which had been debased by a race of faineans.—Wal- pole’s Letters. ¥ What happened? Nobody dared | ; = : DISTINGUISHED CHARACTERS. Epictetus, the celebrated Stoic Philosopher, was born a slave, = many years of his life in servitude. was the fact also with sop,.Publius, Syrus, and Teréfice. * The Abby Hauy, who died in Paris, a few years since, celebrated for his writings and dis- coveries in Chrystallography, attained his dis- tinguished elevation in spite of every disadvan- tage of birth. Winckleman, one of the most distinguished writers on classic antiquities andthe -finé arts, that modern times have produced, was the son of ashoemaker. Hgcontrived to keep at college, chiefly by teaching some of his younger fellow students, while at the same time he, in pat, supported his poor father at a Pill Arnigio, an Italian poet, of the sixteenth eén- tury, of considerable genius and learning, 7. ed his father’s trade, that of a shoemaker; i the course of his life published a very elaborate work on the “ Shoemaking of the Ancients.”»; pes The celebrated Italian writer Gelli, when holding the high dignity of Council of the Flo- rentine Academy, still continued to work at his original profession of a tailor. Metastasia was the son of a common mechgnic, and used when a little boy to ‘sing his r- raneous verses about the streets. The father of Haydn, the great musical com- poser, was a wheelright, and filled also the hum- ble occupation of a sexten; while his mother was at“the same time a sérvant in the establish- ment of a neighbouring nobleman. The father of John Opie, the great. English portrait painter, was a working carpénter in Cornwall. Opie was raised from the bottom of a saw-pit, where he was employed in cutting wood, to the Professorship of Pajnting, in ite ‘Royal Academy. The parents of Castallio, the elegant Pos translator of the Bible; were poor peasants, who lived among the mountains Sperhiny.

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THE SKY LEAPERS. From the Winter's Wreath. THE SKY LEAPERS. Mucu of the strong excitement, felt on be- holding a chain of lofty mountains, arises from the conviction, borne upon our hearts by annals of all tongues and people, that on lands such as these, the foot of the invader has seldom rested, and has never long tarried. We view these gigantic ramparts over all the known world, as limits placed by the Creator, to the unruly am- bition of man. Wherever they rear their ancient heads, they are proud in the recorded defeats of leaders, whose fame “ hath filled the ends of the earth,” often by a mere handful of peasantry dwelling amongst them. And on hearing of the subjugation of a moun- tainous country, we feel as though the warders of God’s forts had been unfaithful. So often, from the pass of Thermopyle to the heights of Morgarten, have the brave proved their own hills to be impregnable, that no tale of over- whelming numbers will counteract the feeling that a mountain-land, so won, has been betrayed by the cowardice of the inhabitants. Of this cowardice, history unfortunately gives us some proofs. But these few instances of weakness and treachery only serve to give the force of strong contrast to “ the bright examples” of multitudes of higher and nobler spirits. These reflections apply more especially to Norway (or in the old writing Norroway) the scene of the tradition which now awakens them; and which often rouses the warm Norse blood, when told by some of the older peasants to the wders round a cottage hearth, on a long winter’s evening. In 1612, there was a war between Norroway and Sweden, distinguished from a mass of the forgotten conflicts, almost perpetually raging between these rival and neighbouring countries, by the tragic fate of Sinclair’s body of Scottish allies—celebrated, as many of our readers will remember, in a fine Norwegian ballad. It is well known that the Scots landed on the west coast of Norway to join their allies the Swedes, went along the only valley-pass leading to Sweden, and were annihilated in the deep defile of Gul- brandsdale by the peasantry. At the time when they should have arrived at Sweden, a small body of Swedes, encamped in Jemptland, resolved to meet their allies, of whose movements they had intelligence; and escort them over the frontier, crossing by the hill passes, and uniting with the Scots on the other side. This band, towhose fortunes we attach ourselves, numbered but three hundred warriors; but they were the very flower of Sweden. They resolved to penetrate the barrier at the most inaccessible point; believing that the Norse would collect in the southern country where they were opposed by a Swedish army, and rest secure in the deep snows, which ren- ° dered the hills impassable for the defence of their mountain frontier. So they came, says the legendary story, to the foot of the wild pass of Ruden; a spot fated to be dangerous to the Swedes, and since sewn with the frozen corpses of the hosts of Labarre and Zoega, who perished there. Their company filled the few cottages of the small hamlet on the Swedish sides of the barrier; where they arrived early in the day. They were eager in their in- quiries for a guide, being resolved to pass the hills ere night, lest tidings should reach the Norsemen of their approaching foes. But all their search proved fruitless. Many of the Swedes ef the village had been over these moun- tains; but none were on the spot possessing that firm confidence deriyed from certainty of know- ledge, and from conscious intrepidity, which could alone make them secure or willing guides in an expedition of so much peril and importance. At last, old Sweyne Keping, the keeper of the little inn which was the Swedes’ head-quarters, shouted with the joy of him who has at once hit upon the happy solution of a difficulty. “ By the bear!” cried he, “ could none of you think of the only man in Jemptland fit for this enter- prise; and he, here on the spot all the while? Where is Jerl Lidens ?” A hundred voices echoed the eager question; and the leaders were told, to their regret, that they must wait perforce, till the morrow, for the only man able or willing to guide them. Lidens had gone forth upon a journey, and would not return that day. * Well,” said Eric Von Dalin, the chief of the Swedish ‘detachment, “there is no help for it. To-da$ we must depend upon the kind enter- tainment of our hasta§but beware, my brave men all, beware of deep horns of ale or mead. Re- member,” pointing to the rugged peaks glitter- ing in the snow—* remember, that all who would sleep beyond those to-morrow, will need firm hands and true eyes. And, good Sweyne,” (ad- dressing the innkeeper, who was the chief person of the hamlet.) “ look well that n@$ound of our coming reach these Norse Sluggards. There may be some here, who for*their country’s safety, would cross the hills this night with warning.” “Thou art right, by Manhem’s freedom!” cried the host, “ here sits Alf Stavenger: he knows these hills better than his own hunting- pouch, and would think little of carrying the news to his countrymen. [ am sorry,” he con- tinued, turning to Alf, ** verily I grieve to make an old friend a prisoner; but you must abide here in some keeping, till our men are well for- ward.” “I care not if I stay here to-night and for ever,” replied the Norseman. Eric now looked for the first time upon the speaker, and confessed that he had never beheld a finer looking man. In the prime of the beauty of northern youth,

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171 > Alf Stavenger was remarkable for a cast of fea- tures bearing traces of a higher mind than can often be discerned in the cheerful lusty faces of his countrymen. “ Does the valley marksman speak thus?” said the host. “ Aye,” answered the youth, “when you are thrust forth from the fireside, you can but seek another roof. If your own land casts you out, you are fain to cling to the stranger —the enemy.” “ Has Emlen’s father been rough ?” inquired Sweyne. ** Name hifh not!” replied the young peasant angrily. ‘* They have heaped refusal and insult upon me, let them look for their return! Aye, Skialm Harder may one day wish that I had wed his daughter—my name shall yet be fearfully known throughout Norroway. Swede, I will myself guide your troop this night over the Tydel. Trust me fully, and you shall be placed to-mor- row beyond those white peaks.” “ He will have a fearful passage first,” said an old peasant, “ there is ho moon now; and it will be pitch dark longere you cross the Naeroe.” “ The night is to us as the noon day,” cried a spirited young soldier; “ for your crags we fear them not, were they high as the blue heavens. Our life has been amongst rocks, and in our own land we are called the Sky leapers!” “I will trust the young Norseman,” continued their chief, “wounded pride, and slighted love, may well make a man hate the land that has spurned him, were it his own a hundred times.” As the day was fast wearing over, small time was lost in preparation. Each man carried with him his fir skates, to be used when, after climb- © ing the rough ascent, they wound along those narrow and difficult parts which skirt the face of the cliffs, crossing the mountains. Their guide told them that he should lead them when it grew dark, by lighted torches, procured and uséd as he should afterwards show them. During their slippery and rugged journey, Alf and his followers could not help alternately ad- miring the spirit, coolness, and activity shown by each party in scaling the dangerous rocks; and they felt insensibly drawn one to another, by that natural, though unuttered friendship, which binds together the brave and high-souled. Still few words passed between them, though many of the Swedes spoke Norse well, and Alf knew Swedish as thoroughly as his own tongue. On both sides were hosts of feelings which led them to commune with their own thoughts in silence. After some hours of hard and successful climb- ing, they halted, at the close of day, for a few .Moments, on the snowy summit of a ridge which they had just ascended, to fasten on their skates. They had now to traverse the long slippery deg files so peculiar to Norway, where the path runs upon narrow ledges of rock, at an awful height, winding abruptly in and out along the rugged face of the hills. Here they formed in single file; and their guide taking the lead of the co- lumn, kindled by rapid friction, one of the pine branches, of which each had, by his orders, ga- thered in abundance on their way. He said, in a few brief and energetic words, “ that here must they tempt the fate of all who would conquer Norway—unless they chose to return: now were they really to win their proud name of the Sky Leapers.” He bade them move along rapidly and steadily, following close the light of his torch. Every man was to bear a blazing pine, kindled from his; and thus, each pressing close on the light before him, the track would not be lost in the abrupt turns and windings. He placed the coolest and most active in the rear; that they might pass lightly and skilfully over the snow, roughened by the track of their leaders; and keep the line of lights, which was their only hope of safety, compact and unsevered. What a change from toilsome climbing which had wearied the most elastic limbs, and tried the most enduring spirit. They flew over the nar- row slippery paths, now in a long straight arrow- course of fires, now lost, and then emerging, in the sharp turnings of the cliffs. The dangers of the Naeroe, which make eten the natives shudder at the giddy narrow path and awful depths, were half unseen in the darkness, and all unfeared by these brave men, who darted exultingly, like winged Gods, through the keen bracing night- breeze of the hills. At every step the windings became more ab- rupt ; and it seemed to his nearest follower, that even the guide looked anxious and afraid: when almost coming close to him at a turning, he saw, by the joining light of their torches, the counte- nance of Alf turned back towards the long line of flying snow witha troubled and sorrowful look. To encourage him, he cried in a bold and cheer- ful tone, “ No fear! no danger! On, brave Sta- venger! The Sky Leapers follow thee!’&“ On!” shouted back the guide, with a cry that echoed through the whole band, and quickened their lightsome speed. Their torches now flew along in one straight unbroken gleam of fire, till a wild death-scream arose, marking the spot where light after light dropped in the dark silence. The depth was so terrible that all sound of fall was unheard. But that cry reached the last of the sinking line, and their hearts died within them : there was no stopping their arrow-flight— no turning aside, without leaping into the sheer air! Alf Stavenger shuddered at the death-leap of these brave men over the edge of the rock. His soul had been bound to them in their brief jour- neying together, and had they not come as his country’s invaders, he would have loved them as brethers for their frank courage. But Alf was at heart a true son of Norroway;,it is true he had resolved, in the desperation of his sorrow, to leave his father-land for ever: still, when he saw this band coming to lay waste the valleys which he knew to be undefended, his anger was ina moment forgotten, and all his hot Norse blood was stirred within him. He was detained, as we have seen, from crossing the hills to warn his countrymen; and he knew that when Jerl re- turned, he would be well able and willing to +

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172 A PASTORAL SOVEREIGNTY. guide the Swedes over the pass. He soon plan- ned his daring scheme. ‘ Aye,” thought he, while the waving train followed his leading torch, “I told them that Aere they should earn their proud name of Sky-Leapers!—that- here those who warred with Norroway should brave their fate! I said that Skialm Harder should wish he had given me his fair daughter—that my name should be known over my land for a deed of fear and wonder! I promised they should sleep to- night on our side of the hills! Now will I well keep all that I have sworn! ‘Tis pity for them too,so brave,so young, so unsuspecting; but two words have made my heart iron—Emlen and Norroway !” Alf well remembered one point, where a long straight path ended suddenly in a peak of rock, jutting far into the empty air. The road was continued round so sharp a re-entering angle, that much caution and nerve were needed, even by one well aware of all the danger, to wheel rapidly and steadily round the face of the abrupt precipice; and avoid shooting straight on over the ledge of rock. He fixed upon this spot for the death-leap; indeed, the Swedes never could have passed it in safety, without having been fully warned of the peril, and afterwards cau- tioned at its approach. When he looked back—as he led the line ra- pidly to their unseen and dreadful fate; he shud- dered to think on what a death the brave and light-hearted men who followed him were rush- ing. A word from the nearest follower roused him; he shouted to hasten their rapid flight, and darted boldly on, throwing his leading torch far over the point where they should have taken the sudden turn. He had nearly fallen into the ruin of his followers; with the sounding speed of the flyers pressing hard upon his footsteps, all his nerve was barely sufficient, after flinging his blazing pine straight forwards as a lure, tocheck his own course, and bear him round the point which severed life from death. His speed was slacked by turning; and, for a second, he fell giddy and senseless: every nerve had been strung for the decisive moment, and his brain reeled with the struggle. He awaken- ed to consciousness, to see the last of the line of torches dart into the empty space—then sink for ever; and he listened, with a cold thrill of awe and terror, to the echoes of the death-scream of the last of the Sky-Leapers! ——EEEE A PASTORAL SOVEREIGNTY. Art times resting near the margin of some limpid stream, and, as appetite prompted, joining fellowship with some simple mountaineer at his humble board, we pursued our downward course from Anzeindaz, trudging lustily for at least twelve hours. Our walk was no longer beguiled by the varying scenery of the day before. In proportion as we left the majestic loftiness of the mountains behind us, the immense masses of granite, which had hitherto crossed our path ~ through mead and forest, gradually disappeared; the vallies glowed luxuriantly in their gay attire of green, and the highlands frowned with their forested crests. We climbed a mountain, which our guide called the Liauson ;* he told us that down its spacious acclivity ran a beautiful ex- tent of pasture land, which the commune to which it appertained were in the habit of farming out to the Ruler of a Pastoral Confederacy of own- ers of flocks, each of whom contributed his pro- portionate yearly tribute for the grazing of his sheep. The ruler’s office is no sinecure, for he is the only party who directs the movements of the flocks and holds sway over their custodians. “ They proceed in a very curious way,” conti- nued our informant, “ when they make choice of their warders; and I must‘tell you something about the deliberations that attend the solemn occasion of anclection. It occurs on the fifteenth of June, when the head-man or sovereign, ma- king use of the trunk of some tree by way of a pulpit, collects his conntrymen around him, and calls over the names of those to whom he is dis- posed to give the preference. The proprietors of this joint fiock severally exercise the right of assigning, without the smallest reserve—nay, with a most sonorous independence of tone—the reasons which may chance to sway them in re- jecting any particular individuals among the candidates. One is pronounced a sleepy hind; another falls under the lash because he is more intent upon filling bis own stomach than that of his flock; a third is of a choleric complexion of soul, and would be apt to give it vent on tLeir backs ; and a fourth has too great a relish for the pleasures of the chace to wait upon their whims and wants. The debate being closed and the election fi- nally adjusted, they proceed with no less gravity of purpose to the appointment of certain coun- sellors, on whom devolves the duty of advising the sovereign in cases of emergency, as well as the choice of a knot of representatives, without whose votes no new law can be added to their rural code. These three classes of deputies do not take any remuneration for their labours, until the autumn comes on, and their flocks are safely housed under the covert of the chalet; and even then, their wages are paid not in coin, but in cheeses, of which they carry a stipulated num- ber away with them. By the time the man bad completed his picture of primitive manners, my imagination was wan- dering with the patriarch, “ rich in flocks, and herds, and tents,” and as we sauntered on, the sight of a lonely chalet still more endeared me to scenes “ Where content Dwells with the mountain boy, whose alpine note, So wild, so sweet, at twilight heard to float Where the free herd wind, pasturing, to and fro, ‘Thro’ ice-crowned vales, the wanderer recalls, Home-carolling the way ’mid crystal waterfalis.’’ * In the Pays d’En-haut Romand ; canton de Vaud, Swit- zerland.

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DECAY OF THE MAGNIFICENT. DECAY OF THE MAGNIFTCENT. Ir seems a mysterious anomaly in modern manners and customs, that while we are startled on all sides by the increase of wealth, luxury> elegance, and refinement, the magnificence which was formerly regarded as an adjunct to these endowments has gradually disappeared from the land. Stateliness is now regarded as a most superfluous pretension, even in the courts of our kings; and throughout the noble man- sions of England, commodiousness, and even puerile frippery, is preferred before the solid grandeur of our ancestors. Objects of luxury are fraught with merely superficial splendour ; and “ Barbaric gold and pearl”’ are replaced with hollow tinsel and glass beads. It would appear that all taste for the sublime and magnificent had departed. Our avenues are cut down to make way for little fiddle-faddle plan- tations of larch; our castles are forsaken for pic- turesque cottages, constructed after the model of a fashionable pastille-burner; the majestic alley is torn up from our gardens, the holly-hock from our parterres; the blood-hound and the stag- hound are dismissed from the court-yard to make way for a yelping Scotch terrier; the peacock’s neck is wrung off, and the ponderous granite fountain, whereon he was wont to suspend his glorious plumage, cast aside, to be replaced by a squirting jet d’eau; the stately Flanders mares are assigned to the cart, and the family coach is inflicted on two rat-tailed bits of blood; the running footman is at rest—the link extinguish- ed; my lady’s chamber is garnished with Wor- cestershire match-pots instead of the agate cha- lice and the embossed missal stand;—all the pomp and circumstance of glorious wealth has subsided into a few conveniences of patent fac- ture—a few trumperies of unmeaning glitter :— the Magnificent, alas! has passed away. Look at our cathedral churches :—is there an architect of the present day presumptuous enough even to dream a plan of such stupendous vastness as those specimens of the infancy of art? Is there a monarch who would not be reviled upon his throne for projecting such a monument of national magnificence as St. Paul’s? Waterloo Bridge, the only piece of granite grandeur of the present century, is a bitterly repented instance of expenditure; the beauty of our bridges has been proportioned to their tolls—the architecture of our churches to the revenue of their pews. But if a necessary economy of the popular purse has limited the altitude of columns, and the extent of porticos, in the vast mass of public edifices recently arisen in the metropolis, the private dwellings of the aristocracy are subject- ed to no such restrictions. And where are the Burghleys—the Warwick Castles—the Kedles- tones—the Longleats—the Moor Parks of the present century? Can Lowther, or Eaton, or Ashridge, compare with their stately dignity ? Can even modern Belvoir, with its melodramatic men in tinsel armour guarding the entrance, vie with the rude grandeur of the ancient structure? How would the Baron of beef and the massy flagon appear in the modern eating-room, with its patent dining tables ? But, say the lovers of modern effeminacy, the days of the baronial joint and the tankard are at an end; amd cutlets and needle-stemmed claret glasses have usurped the field:—nor do we deny the fact: we only contend that modern refine- ment is incompatible with real magnificence. We admit that satin-wood may bea more grace- ful material than oak—or-molu than pewter-—- aerophane silk than brocade; that a miniature may be a more commodious family memento than one of Vandyke’s stately groups; a diamond edi- tion a more portable instructor than a musky folio :—that a shrubbery may afford a more vary- ing lounge than an avenue—a ferme ornee than a deer-park—a conservatory than a pleasaunce; —but we assert, that all the sublimity of patri- cian life has vanished with the obsolete solidity of the olden time! The Earl of Chesterfield, attired in a frocle coat and Wellington boots, in a tilbury, is probably a much happier individual than the Earl of Chesterfield with a peruque, a velvet coat, a sword and buckles, in his chariot- and-six ; but he does not one half so well assume in the vulgar eye the abstract dignity of the peerage. Lady Grace in a blouse and a mob cap may be far more at her ease than Lady Grace in her brocaded stomacher and feathers ; but she must not flatter herself that she is an ob- ject half so glorious in. the estimation of the mul- titude. This self-resignation of the higher classes— who seem to have disencumbered themselves of a cumbrous appanage, rather from weariness of the labour of representation than a preference for graceful simplicity—received its stamp of authenticity in the first French revolution; al- though it has been invariably admitted on all hands, that one of the principal causes of that national convulsion was the banishment of ¢ti- quette from the court—of dignity and self-respect from thé habits of its courtiers. In England, we feel persuaded that the change is irrevocable ; that magnificence is a lost Pleiad to our times and country—driven, by rail-roads, steam car- riages, and Bernasconi’s cement, from the skies of Britain. It remains to be proved whether the general enlightenment supplying its place, and equalizing high and low, in seeming, if not in truth, will afford a permanent advantage to the classes thus heterogeneously huddled together.— London Court Journal. —_—_—_——_ Wealways fancy there is something ridiculous about those sentiments which we ourselves have never felt—still more about those which we have ceased to feel.

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174 A FATHER’S ADVICE. A FATHER’S ADVICE TO HIS DAUGHTER. A young lady in acquiring an education, should strive to cultivate those faculties, and obtain those accomplishments, which the character of the times demand. Hence, you will observe, that the greater advance of refinement, and the improved spirit of the times, demand more exer- tions in order to go the whole round of the sci- ences. Once it was sufficient in our country for a young lady to know how to read and write ; but these two acquisitions woull not now entitle her to that standing which she would covet. The truth is, all of us, male and female, have double the quantity to learn that our parents had; and when I see the vast amount of necessary know- ledge, and a prolific press, I am almost tempted to give up in despair. But experience teaches one, that no person is capable of judging of his abilities to obtain a given amount of knowledge till he has made an attempt. I apprehend every young lady who lays claim to any ambition, will feel desirous of a general acquaintance with the literature of the day. A love of reading of course should be cultivated. A thousand reasons I might suggest for creating a love of books. They pass off evenings agree- ably; they beguile the idle hours that every young lady has; they destroy a relish for scan- dal, by giving nobler purposes to the thoughts; they make home pleasant, and keep young ladies from the street; and often they furnish topics for conversation, comparison of thoughts, re- views of others’ opinions, and materials for fur- ther improvement. But I need not stop to be- stow a eulogy on books. I should only labour to prove what every body would grant without any proof. There is, however, great danger thata young iady may not read the right kind of books. There is danger of pedantry, of affectation, of elevation above the duties of life, of engrossing too much upon the time due to other occupations ; and, above all, of feeding the imagination with a sickly food that unfits it for society or domestic enjoyment. I know not how or why it happens, but novels are the order of the day. In our pub- lic ‘and private libraries they are in great de- mand. In all our libraries it will be found that novels are used, worn, and thummed, while works of greater value, and oftener of far deeper interest, are totally neglected. There is no rea- son in all this. Novels are useful in their place; but a well regulated taste will find’more fascina- tion in the discovery of some truth heretofore unknown, or more delight in the history of real life, than in any romance. Besides, I question much whether such nourishment for the mind does not enfeeble it: I doubt whether the in- tellect that is fed upon fiction, has that nerve which will qualify it for any useful purpose: I doubt whether the imagination is not too much enkindled, so that the consequences are exhi- bited in an increased sensibility that deranges the system, and .excites the nerves. Too much horror cannot be expressed against that system of education, which allows young ladies to de- vote whole nights to the perusal of some new novel; or which, during the day keeps them in an alarming excitement, and leaves their nerves when retired to bed in so much agitation as to take away all sleep. In our fashionable board- ing schools, it is too often the practice with young ladies to sit a great part of many nights in alarming proximity to some highly heated fire, or to take some favourite novel to their beds, and to read it through there. I have seen beau- tiful and once intellectual girls, whose minds were wholly disordered by such practices as these. Reason had deserted its throne,.and a sickly sensibility reigned in its stead. Domestic life, domestic occupations, or historical facts, were too common-place for their attention. They were like the opium eaters, and could not be wrought upon but by extraordinary excite- ment. But there is romance in history. ' There isa charm mingled with profit. Tell me where there is more interest than in the history of Asia, or in the history of Greece and Rome, or in the history of the Crusades, or in the settlement of our own country, or in the wars that have agitat- ed Europe for centuries past? There is Roman chivalry, patriotism—whatever you wish—of deeper and more stirring interest than the best wrought tale that ever carried over its front the stamp of probability. In sciences there are other motives of equal interest. Every thing is full of interest: the air we breathe, the earth we trample over, the food we eat, the construction of our bodies, the sea about us, and the sky over our heads. A well regulated taste will find enough to read and to think of here, without re- sorting to artificial stories. I am, however, not so much of a puritan as to condemn all novels; I advise you to read some of them, but to make your selection with great care. Among the superabundant productions of the press, which throws one or more novels into the market every week, it is often very difficult to make a selection. Perhaps the better course is to take the advice of some friend, whose supe- rior acquaintance with books gives him the ability to judge of their merits. By adopting such advice, you will save the trouble and ex- pense of much useless reading; and not incum- ber your mind with matter of no earthly use. And remember here, that it is not the quantity you read, which is to give you instruction, but the manner—a remark which is more applicable to historical and scientific works than to novels. Think, think, think, and do not be the mere re- ceptacle of others’ thoughts, for it is thought that ennobles the mind, and gives power to the reader. Yet have none of that ostentation, and oddity of mind, which many so foolishly affect, merely to distinguish themselves from others—a distinction

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HONOUR—CHURCH-YARDS—BEAUTIFUL STREAM. 175

which they covet, but which they are unable to attain by any pre-eminent excellence, and hence they resort to extraordinary means, the common essay of a vulgar soul. _———_—_——— SENSE OF HONOUR. SELF-RESPECT is the most powerful, and one of the most useful of our méntal habits; it is the principle to which the noblest actigns of our nature may be most frequently traced—the nurse of every splendid and every useful quality. How far it may be occasionally abused, or how far it may be itself consistent with the principles of our holy religion, are questions which have long been disputed with violent and fanatical acri- mony. The first objection 1 am neither prepar- ed nor inclined to deny. To imperfection every human invention is liable; nor cah it be consi- dered as a subject of blame, that e¥en our best institutions are only a chance of evils. But that asense of honour is contrary to the spirit of reli- gion, though Mandeville (perhaps insidiously) admits the charge, appears, to say no more of it, a hard and hazardous assertion. It will, in- deed, be readily allowed, that there is only one motive which can deserve the name of virtue; but to condemn as illegal or impious every other desire or principle, would be in opposition to all the wants and feelings of mankind; and would by an inevitable inference, lay the axe to the root of civil government itself. Like every other law, the laws of honour are occasioned by the wants and vices of the world: like them, too, they must derive their influence from the weak- ness of our nature. The perfectly virtuous man, if any such there be, needs no such stimulus or restriction; but for our sake, for his own, let him not withdraw from us, who are not so for- tunate, those salutary restraints and penalties which fence onr virtues by our passions, and unite in the case of human happiness the powers of this world and the next. For a politician nei- ther must nor can destroy the propensities he at- tempts to guide. He must take mankind as he finds them—a compound of violence and frailty; he must oppose vice to vice, and interest to inte- rest; and, like the fabled Argonaut, accomplish is glorious purpose by the labour of those very monsters who were armed for his destruction.— Bishop Reginald Heber. . —_—_— EPITAPHS AND CHURCH<-YARDS. Wuo does not love to wander among the habi- tations of the dead, and read their varied i inscrip- tions? Volumes of instruction and of curious information may be gleaned from grave-stones; but it is melancholy to observe the little care that is taken in our own country to preserve these, perchance the only memorials of the de- ceased. Our church-yards are, indeed, enclosed by ornamental and substantial palings—the grass waves green and luxuriant above the ground, unprofaned by the footstep of the brute creation; but where is the pious hand to protect the tomb

itself from the ravages of time, the vicissitudes of the seasons, and the dilapidations by accident? Where do we behold any of those simple, yet toueh-" ing tributes of affection, which, in other countries, are paid at the shrine of departed genius or worth? It is a cold, cold philosophy that teaches to neglect such acts as useless and unavailing— that demonstrates that the body is but the prison- house of the soul—the soul only immortal—that when she quits this curious workmanship, and life no longer animates it, that then should cease all those feelings of veneration and respect with which before we were wont to regard it. If such be the effect—and we fear it is so—of modern philosophy—then may we well question our boasted superiority over the ancients—for they thought it not unworthy of the departed soul to embalm the body in which had dwelt that soul, and to preserve it in splendid mausoleums as the once sacred deposit of a precious treasure. ———E——————EEE For the Lady’s Book. THE BEAUTIFUL STREAM. Beautiful stream! Thou comest from thy mountain home of snow, And passest by grey rocks with silent flow, Not yet awakened from the quiet dream Thou had’st below In caverns deep in earth! And in low sounding founts, and gushing atte, Where with unwakened mirth, The water to all winds, a low peal rings, Chanting its birth. Then, thou dost leap Away from borders of down-trailing grass, And so far sounding, wide-awake, dost pass Into dim caverns and great gullies deep ; Then thro’ a mass Of mighty forests whirled, Comest upon, and rollest thro’ the plains Like southern winds unfurled, Or like the rushing noise of summer rains On leaves, sun-curiled. With mighty gush, Then comest thou upon the abundant sea ; High-tossing ocean throws, oh, stream! around thee His foam-crowned myriads, with a whelming rush : Thou shalt be Unknown amid the waves, Yet shalt thou rise beneath the full-eyed sun, And, when the dim night leaves The hill-peaks, shalt come lightly there, and run Into the caves. How much like life! All peace, and joy, and dreams, at early days; Then leaping into dark unhallowed ways, Of care, and discontent, and wee, and strife, Till, where the gaze Of the dull death sea, keeps Freezing the blessed hight that falls from heaven Upon its brow, it leaps Into great whirlpits, and so, horror-driven, Sinks in the deeps. But as the mist Goes from the sea, to ride upon the sky, So shall the soul float up, to dwell on bigh ; And as the ancient streams, by sunlight kissed, Doth ever fly Unto the hills again, So shall the dry and worthless cerement change, And, like a risen rain, Assume new forms, most wonderful and strange, Of life again. A. P.

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BATES? LONDON PASHBIONS-CAPS AND Bowva?s. — — : Philadelphia=Published by Le A: Godey & Co. for the Lady’s Book for April, 1831.

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TO LAURA—THE KNIGHT, &c.—ORNAMENTAL ARTIST. * - o TO LAURA. Lavra bids me telbmy love, That I may her beauty flatter; But its warmth words cannot prove— Words that every wind may scatter: *Tis in deeds that [ would show How my warm affections glow. Should I call her loveliest, Say her charms like brilliants glisten, Swear she is my dearest, best— Language that might make her listen— I should swear what I before Oft have sworn to mapy more! Lovers’ -vows are only air, Forgotten with the ease they’re spoken ; Chains of flowers, light as fair, Easy to be made and broken: Leave such things to girls and boys— Only children play with toys! But a heart that loves her well, With a warm and lasting fire, Though it have no songs to tell How it pants in soft desire, By my deeds shall brightly show How my warm affections glow ! La Basie. TBE KNIGHT WITH A ‘SNOWY PLUME. Tuere came from the wars on a jet black steed, A knight with a snowy plume ; He fled o'er the heath, like a captive freed From a dungeon’s dreary gloom. And gaily he rode to his lordly home— But the tow’rs were dark and dim ; And he heard no reply, when he called for some Who were dearer than life to him. The gate, which was hurl’d from the ancient place, Lay mouldering on the ground: And the knight rush’d in—but saw not a trace Of a friend, as he gaz’d around. He flew to the grove, where his mistress’ lute Had charm’d him with love’s sweet tune— But "twas desolate now, and the strings were mute, And she he ador’d was gone. The wreaths were all dead in Rosalie’s bower, And Rosalie’s dove was lost, And the wintry wind had wither'’d each flower On the mnyrtle she valued most. But a cypress grew where the myrtle’s bloom Once scented the morning air, And under its shade was a marble tomb, And Rosalie’s name was there. THE ORNAMENTAL ARTIST. Pastesoarp baskets, in a variety of forms, may be constructed on the same plan: as’ the boxes. One of the best shapes is that of an in- verted — this merely requires consider- ably less of the corners to be removed than in making a rec- #| tangular box. Cut the corners as shown by the dotted lines, fig. 7; fasten the sides in the same manner as those of the SJ boxes. The handles may be either single or double, and made to spring from the corners, or the middle of the sides; if only one be preferred, it should always spring from the middle: they are gene- 8 rally made of a narrow slip of card board, co- vered either with gold paper or narrow riband, gathered very full on each side of it; the same kind of riband should be gathered equally full round the upper part of the basket, and small bows should be added to each of the corners. The basket may be lined and covered with co- loured paper or silk, or its sides decorated by drawings, embossed gold ornaments, or other- wise, according to the taste and fancy of the art- ist (Fig. 8, pasteboard basket). CHINESE PAINTING. A variety of articles, such as work-boxes and Zz baskets, screens, and small ornamental tables, may be procured at the fancy shops, made of a beautiful white wood, quite plain, for the purpose of beigg ornamented, by ladies, in the Chinese style. The subjects generally represented are Chinese figures and landscapes, Indian flowers, or grotesque ornaments. Patterns on paper, and the colour, which is black, used in the operation, are‘dlso supplied at the same places. Tracing paper is to be laid over the pattern, and the outline drawn with a pencil. The trac- ing is then placed with the pencilled side down- wards on the wood, and the pattern, which will plainly appear through, is rubbed with the handle of an ivory folder, or of a penknife, so as to transfer the pencil lines to the wood. This out- line must then be sketched in with a pen dipped in the black colour to be used for the ground. All the shades and lines in the design should be correctly finished by the pen, after the manner of line engraving; and the whole of the ground, or space surrounding the outline of the figures, must be covered with the black colour, laid on wid a camel’s-hair pencil. When the painting is dry, the whole article should be finished a transparent varnish; to perform which, ever, it should be observed, that a thin coat of isinglass size is te be passed over the wood pre- viously to the tracing. The varnish to be used’ is white mastich. The general effect is very pleasing, and resembles ebony inlaid with ivory. It is also an art very easy of attain- ment, and requiring but little profici in drawing.

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ALFRED AND ETHELWITHA. ALFRED AND ETHELWITHA. Tue character of the great and favourite King Alfred, M. D’ Arnaud, the Richardson of France, contemplates with a degree of enthusiasm, which bespeaks the goodness of his own heart. The following anecdote, which is mentioned by some of the more ancient English historians, he has given ina manner peculiar to himself; but which, while it diffuses a sweeter charm over the whole composition renders it almost untranslatable :— “ In Alfred, the most renowned of the Saxon dynasty in England, with what delight do we contemplate the benevolent and equitable man! He was the worthiest monarch that ever swayed a sceptre, and nothing was wanting to his glory but to be born in a more enlightened age, and to have an historian of genius. He was at once the conqueror, the legislator, and the great man. He scattered in England the first seeds of talent, virtue, love of order, and patriotism.” This prince so effectually established the go- vernment by justice and salutary laws, that if, in the night time, a vessel of gold had been left in the highway, the proprietor would have found it again the next day. Hume, in a few words, gives this rare panegyric of him, that “ he seems indeed to be the model of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in the hope of ever seeing it really existing.” A single act of justice, however, which we now proceed to relate, has secured him immortal fame; —better far than all his feats of arms*which, ages ago, have been forgotten. The reign of Alfred was in that period (the ninth century) when sovereigns were only the first men in their courts. The great lords that surrounded them enjoyed those privileges which were derived from the feudal system. A private nobleman was admitted into the company of his master, and lived with him in the most intimate familiarity. He would even invite him to his country retreat, which he called a castle, and entertain him with all the hospitality of the times. Alfred was making a tour through his domi- nions, accompanied by Ethelbert, one of his general officers, when, the day declining, he de- termined to take up his abode for the night at the castle of a nobleman, named Albanac;—one of those incorruptible men, who can preserve their integrity in the midst of all the seductions of opulence and grandeur. He had followed Alfred in numberless battles, and had retired, covered with wounds and with glory, into the bosom of a family that adored him. This family was composed of a wife, who was never men- tioned but as an example of virtue; of two sons, who promised never to disgrace their father’s name; and of three daughters of exquisite beauty and uncommon merit. Earl Albanac received his royal master with every demonstration of joy. He ran to his con- sort and children, and hastened to present them to his sovereign. Alfred was instantly smitten with their charms ; but it was to Ethelwitha that he surrendered his heart.—Beautiful as they were, she eclipsed her sisters, as the radiant ruler of the day eclipses every other star. She ap- peared like the young flower that blows in the earliest rays of the morning sun; and modesty painted her cheeks with a rosy hue, that was heightened in proportion as the king seemed to notice her. The supper was prepared, and Albanac was desirous that the three enchantresses should par- ticipate in the honour of waiting upon Alfred, who never ceased to contemplate their charms. Albanac, still flattered with the remembrance of his military’exploits, was impatient to remind his sovereign of the glorious victories by which the Danes were driven out of England; but the king’s attention incessantly returned to Ethel- witha. He wascontinually extolling her delicate and easy shape, her rosy mouth, her fair tresses, flowing gracefully down her shoulders, her ala- baster forehead, and the elegant roundness of her swan-like neck. Albanac spoke with kindling ardour of ‘Hastings and Lef—two famous Danish Chiefs, whom they had often defeated in battle; but the monarch found no pleasure in any sub- ject in which the name of Ethelwitha was left out. On rising from the table, Ethelwitha was » charged to conduct the king to his apartrnent; and from her charming hands he received the cup of repose.* When Albanac, however, re- tired to his consort’s apartment, she could not refrain from observing his pensive and gloomy air. “ What distresses you, my dear Lord?” said she. “ Your face is overspread with melancholy, while we are enjoying an honour we ought to be proud of! The kirg is dear to us on many ac- counts !” Albanac continued silent. “You do not speak my Lord!” continued the countess. “And will you refuse to open your heart to me?—you seem greatly agitated !” **] have reason to be so,” replied the earl. “ Did you not observe that the king fixed jj eyes continually upon our daughters? I thay err in my apprehensions—bnt, if Alfred has gon- ceived a design to bring dishonour upon our house! Should he come hither to seek amuse- ment in our infamy! My honour—I am distract- ed at the idea—I would rather suffer an hundred deaths—my whole family should perish with me!” * Vin du coucher, a composition of wine and honey, a kind of hippecras, or medicated wine. In that age, when they were desirous of rendering every honour to the strangers admitted into the castle, a beverage called le vin du coucher, was brough#’in the evening to them ; and this office was ge- nerally performed by the lady or her daughter. This custom is one of the remains of the most remote antiquity.

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NEW-YEAR’S DAY. The eyes of a vigilant father were not de- ceived—Alfred indeed loved—most passionately loved one of his daughters. Ethelwitha was the enchanting object that had inspired the prince with the most violent passion. “* Ethelbert, my friend,” said he to his compa- nion, “ it is not a mortal—it is an angel of beauty, innocence, and modesty, that we have seen! Did you not observe her? What joy—what in- toxicating transports must be his who can obtain the first sigh from this young and ingenuous heart! Speak, my dear Ethelbert, speak: I am consumed by the flames of love—whatever it cost me, I must, I will be happy. Could she but love me!” “Can you doubt, my lord,” replied Ethelbert, “ whether she will meet your tenderness? King, as well as lover, a hero crowned with laurels, of an age formed to inspire a mutual ardour; in a thousand respects you may be certain of suc- cess.” * Early in the morning a servant attended at the king’s apartment, and requested to know whether he could be seen. “Who would enter at this hour?” answered the monarch with some peevishness. “I, my lord,” exclaimed a voice, which Alfred soon recollected ; and he was instantly surprised by the appearance of Albanac, holding a drawn sword in one hand, and with the other leading in his three daughters, who were in deep mourning, and in an attitude of the most poignant grief. “ What deI sée,” exclaimed the king. “A father whose honour is dearer to him than life itself,” replied the earl, ‘ My motive for: this intrusion 1 can soon explain. You are a king, and I am your subject, but not your slave. You must be sensible from how illustrious a house I am descended ; and it now becomes me to speak my sentiments freely even to you. I may possi- bly be deceived: but I thought, last night, that I saw, on your grace’s part, a particular attention to my daughters. If you have conceived the idea of dishonouring my family, this sword shall in- stantly prevent my shame! I will plunge it into the bosoms of these unfortunate, but willing vic- tims. But, if a pure and honourable flame be kindled in your breast; if an alliance with my house be not deemed unworthy of royalty, choose, name her whom you would wish to honour.” Alfred was for 2 moment thunder-struck and silent, but soon recovering himself, addressed Albanac with a magnanimity that displayed his exalted soul. “ Noble Albanac,” said he, “ you recal Alfred to. himself. I might have gone astray; but you teach me my duty, and I will obey its dictates. My choice is fixed. Beautiful Ethelwitha, here is my hand. Can you accept it? With pleasure | place my crown upon your head. I seat virtue and beauty upon my throne.” Ethelwitha threw herself at the king’s feet : he raysed her and embraced her with transport. He then embraced Albanac. “ Your virtuous courage,” said he, “ well deserved a recompense. I glory in having the noblest man in my domi- nions for my father-in-law.” Bthelwitha was soon afterwards publicly pro- claimed queen; nor did she wait till the nuptial ceremony was over, to confess to the enraptured monarch, that she had given her heart to him the very moment he had entered her father’s castle. The happy pair long participated in the glory of one of the noblest reigns of which England can be proud.* * This is that Ethelwitha, who accompanied Alfred to hia retreat in the Isle of Athelney, when he had taken refuge there, till he could again make war against the Danes. Alfred had, by his wife, three sons and three daughters. The eldest son, Edmund, died without issue in his father’s life time. The third, Ethelward, inherited his father's pas- sion for letters, and lived a private life. The second, Ed- ward, succeeded him in his power, and passes by the appel- lation of Edward the Elder, being the first of that name who sat on the English throne. ooo NEWs=+YEAR!®S DAY. To the credit of the kindly and amiable feel- ings ef the French, they bear the palm from all other nations in the extent and costliness of their New Years’ Gifts. It has been estimated that the amount expended upon bon-bons and sweet- meats alone, for presents on New Year’s Day in Paris, exceeds £20,000 sterling; while the sale of jewellery and fancy articles in the first week in the year is computed at one fourth of the sale during the twelve months. It is by no means uncommon for a Parisian of 8,000 or 10,000 frs. a year to make presents on New Year’s Day which cost him a fifteenth part of his income. At an early hour of the morning this interchange of visits and bon-bons is already in full activity, the nearest relations being first visited, until the furthest in blood and their friends and acquaint- ance have all had their calls.. A dinner is given by some member of the family to all the rest, and the evening concludes, like Christmas Day, with cards, dancing, or other amusements. In Lon- don, New Year’s Day is not observed by any public festivity; the only open demonstration of joy is the ringing of merry peals from the bel- fries of the numerous steeples late on the eve of ~ the eld year, until after the chimes of the clock have sounded its last hour. We may have done well todrop what Prynne, in his Histrio Mastix, calls “a mere relique of paganisme and idolatry, derived from the heathen Romans’ feast of two- faced Janus, which was spent in mummeries, stage-plays, dancing, and such like enterludes, wherein fidlers and others, acted lascivious effemi- nate parts, and went about the towns and cities in women’s apparel;” but, however the celebration of New Year’s Day may have been disfigured in the earlier ages by pagan associations and super- stitious rites, nothing can be more truly Christiar than to usher it in with every cheerful a ance that may express gratitude towards H and promote a kindly and a social feeling among our friends and fellow-creatures.

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A DREAM. Brachiaque intendens, prendique et prendere certans Nil nisi cedentes infelix arripit auras. — As 1 sat musing upon the fame which many great characters had acquired, and which they so well deserved, I fell into a deep slumber. My thoughts, however, flowed on in the same chan- nel, but became more fanciful as they found themselves no longer awed by reason, nor re- strained by truth. I dreamed that I was seated in a gallery, above a long table, upon which was to be given a feast to all the great men of genius and learning whom Time, in his career, had exhibited to the view of a grateful and admiring world. The hall, which was spacious and lofty, was supported by pillars moulded in the varying archi- tecture of different ages, their bases ornamented with the full-sized statues of far-famed sages and of heroes. Below me I saw the statues of Brutus and Cassius, their faces fronting towards the top of the table, their right hands extended towards each other, and firmly united together. Opposite to them I recognised, by his mutilated right arm, and the enthusiastic spirit of defiance with which he ‘seemed to threaten a warlike group which surrounded him, the spirited and youthful figure of Mutius Sczvola, one of the devoted band of three hundred Romans. Next followed a figure of gigantic height: his dress seemed nearly Ro- man, but, by the great length of his basket-hilted sword, and the rampant lion on his shield, I knew him to be the famous Scottish chief, Sir William Wallace. His undaunted look suited well with those around him, and his frame seemed formed for endless hardships and fatigues. Near him, and as if contemplating the latter, stood erect the figures of Hampden and Sydney. The expres- sive energy of a statue, in white marble, of the great Spartan chief, Leonidas, was strongly con- trasted with the milder air and more placid dig- nity of Euclid, of Archimedes, and of Plato, whose countenances, in succession, seemed to gaze with awe and reverence upon a long line of aged Egyptian philosophers, whose colossal sta- tues appeared to rise in magnitude towards the end of the hail. Scarcely had 1 time to gaze in silent: wonder upon these time-worn monuments of Egyptian grandeur, when, suddenly, dinner being an- nounced, I thought I beheld Homer and Shak- speare advance towards the head of the table. Homer seemed at first at a loss whether to take possession of the highest seat; but, when laying his cap and mantle aside, when Shakspeare be- held his silver beard and reverend appearance, he at once assisted him into the chair; at which the old bard seemed more flattered than by the tumul- tuous acclamations of all the rest. Shakspeare then seated himself opposite to him. Sir Isaac Newton next entered, composed and benignant ; then Pope, who placed himself behind Homer’s chair, until the reverend ancient, who was look- ing for him round the table, seated him, with the greatest attention, next to himself. Thompson next entered, leading in Milton. Horace, Ana- creon, Le Sage, Cervantes, Swift, Ovid, Addison, Prior, Dryden, Virgil, Burns, Ferguson, Ram- say, Goldsmith, and Gay, had found -each other out in the ante-chamber, and entered altogether in a lively and rather noisy manner; but, upon seeing Homer and Shakspeare, they were much embarrassed. Horace first recovered himself, and, having made himself known, in a graceful and polite manner introduced each of them indix vidually. Homer received them with the great- est respect, and an arch nod of recognition from Shakspeare put them again entirely at their ease. Next followed a long train of hjstorians, headed by Hume, Gibbon, Buchanan, and Ro- bertson, each carrying a pencil and memorandum book, by which I understood, that they came rather to-listen than to speak. Although silent themselves, they were treated with the greatest respect by the rest of the company. I was sur- prised to see that each historian, as he sat down, : inclined his head in salutation to Shakspeare, as if for some benefit or favour received. After these entered Smollet and Sterne; and next a few dramatic writers, Otway, Home, Moliere, Farquhar, Garrick, and Sheridan. These, upon their entrance, were saluted by a loud cheer ° from the windows of the hall, which, upon inspec- tion, were found to contain a great number of starving comedians, amongst whom the veteran Macklin was so busy in bis plaudits that he at- tracted the attention of Shakspeare, who re- quested he might be brought down amongst them. This so enraged a few of the more emi- nently seated among the rest that a slight hiss was heard; at which awful and well-known sound the knights of the burning lamps were seen to disappear in the greatest consternation. Le Sage first perceived it, and, having explained the phe- nomenon to the rest, a loud laugh was heard from every one at table, excepting Homer and Sir Isaac Newton ; for, just at that moment, Sir Isaac had pushed a skewer through the centre of an orange, to represent the motion of the earth round its own axis, and also round the sun, at which discovery Homer seemed much astonished, and was going to describe it in suitable verse, when a hint from Pope, that it would require translation, prevented him. The feast was composed of a variety of dishes from various parts of the earth, and of various ages and nations; and the scene that now lay stretched before my wondering imagination was beyond measure fanciful and imposing. The

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HISTORY OF A DIAMOND--INCREASE OF MANKIND. splendour of the banquet, the brilliancy of the lights, the dignity of the guests, the astonishment and silent attention of the spectators, conspired to fill my mind with delight, mixed with a kind of fearful expectation. Scarcely had I time to contemplate it, when suddenly I beheld Homer rise up, supported by Pope. A solemn silence ensued, when the hoary poet, whilst. the laurel trembled on his brow, toasted “ Liberty.” A general burst of admira- tion resounded from every corner of the room. A tear which had long trembled in Burns’s eye, now ran rapidly down his cheek. The conversation became spirited and particular. Pope and Ho- mer, Horace and Burns, Shakspeare and Le Sage, Ferguson, Goldsmith and Gay, Thompson, Ramsay, and Milton, Anacreon and Ovid, now retired into social converse. Wit and humour flowed freely. Shakspeare was wild, Horace gay, Milton sublime, Virgil descriptive, Pope polite and easy, Burns fanciful, Le Sage keen. The goblets were quickly passed. Shakspeare toasted “ Genius,” Horace “ Taste,” Sterne “ Sensibility,” and Burns, although Ferguson pulled him by the sleeve, could not be restrained from toasting “his native land;” upon which Homer shook him. by the hand, and swore that poetry and patriotism ought never to be divided. The joy and happiness of the party were com- plete; when I thought I beheld two sweet female figures arrayed in loose white robes, enter the hall. A wreath of ever-living laurel was bound round the brows of the one, the other carried in her right hand a slender branch of. the green olive tree. By these symbols I recognised the forms of Fane and of Peace. Having advanced, hand in hand, into the middle of the hall, the former, smiling graciously upon Pope, exclaimed, “ Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days, Th’ immortal heirs of universal praise, . Whose honours with increase of ages grow, As streams roll down enlarging as they flow; Nations unborn your mighty names shal! sound, And worlds applaud, which must not yet be found.”’ The hum of admiration which followed these words roused me gently from my slumber, and gradually before my awakened senses the vision melted away. ————EE HISTORY OF A DIAMOND. Tuere is a diamond at present, we believe, forming part of the Crown Jewels of England, which has a singular history appertaining to it. It formerly belonged to Charles the Bold, the last Duke of Burgundy, who wore it in his cap at the battle of Nancy, where his army was totally routed and he himself killed. This was in the year 1477. The diamond was found among the spoils of battle by a Swiss soldier, and by him sold toa French gentleman named Sancy. The family of this gentleman preserved the diamond for nearly aycentury, and till the period when Henry IIl. of France, after having lost his throne, employed a descendant of this family, who was commander of the Swiss troops in his service, to proceed to Switzerland for thé purpose of re cruiting his forces from that country ; and, having no immediate pecuniary resources at command, he persuaded the same gentleman to borrow of his family the Sancy diamond, in order to deposit with the Swiss government as security for the payment of the troops. Accordingly, the dia- mond was dispatched for this purpose by a confi- dential domestic, who disappeared and could no where be heard of for a great length of time. At last, however, it was ascertained that he had been stopped by robbers and assassinated, and his body buried in a forest. And such confidence had his master in the prudence and probity of his servant, that he searched and at last discovered the place of his burial, and had the corpse disin- terred, when the diamond was found in his sto- mach, he having swallowed it when attacked by the robbers. INCREASE OF THE NUMBERS OF MANKIND. ’ On the supposition that the human race has a power to double its numbers four times in a century, or once in each succeeding period of twenty-five years, as some philosophers have computed, and that nothing prevented the exer- cise of this power of increase, the descendants of Noah and his family would haye now increased to the following number : — 1,496,577,676,626, 844,588,240, 573, 268, 701 ,473,812,127,674,924,007, 424, The surface of the earth contains, of square miles Mercury, and all the other planets, contain about 2... cece The sun contains ...... 196,663,355 46,790,511 ,000 2,442,900,000,000 2,489,887,174,355 Hence, upon the supposition of such a rate of increase of mankind as has been assumed, the number of human beings now living would be equal to the following number for each square mile upon the surface of the earth, the sun, and all the planets, 61,062,000,000 000,000,000 ,000,009, 000,000,000,000 ; or, to the following number for each square inch— 149,720,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000. This last number alone is infinite with relation to human conception. Merely to count it would require an ineredible iod. Supposing the whole inhabitants now “a ine surface of the globe to be one thousand millions, which is believed somewhat to exceed the actual * number, and supposing that this multitude, in- fants and adults, were to be employed in nothing else but counting, that each were to work 365 days in the year, and [0 hours im the day, and to count 100 per minute, it would require, inorder to count the number in question, 6,536, 500 millions of years.—-Quarterly Journal of © Abriculture. ;

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THE BRIDE. THE BRIDE. BY THEODORE HOOK. “ Barve! upon thy marriage-day, When thy gems, in rich array, Made the glistening mirror seem As a star-reflecting stream ; When the clustering pearls lay fair Midst thy braids of sunny hair ; And the white veil o’er thee streaming, Like a silvery halo gleaming, Mellow’d all that pomp and light Into something meekly bright; Did the fluttering of thy breath Speak of joy or woe beneath ? And the hue that went and came O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame, Fiow’d that crimson from th’ unrest, Or the gladness of thy breast ?’’ Blackwood's Magazine. From the greatest bard of England to the last and least, all have sung the uncertainties of the lover’s life; the vicissitudes of feeling which he is doomed to experience, and the inevitable sor- row and anxiety which attend the progress of passion, however pure, and however eventually successful. That this must be always so, he well knew who denied the smoothness of true love’s course; for if fate and fortune happily abstain from raising obstacles and obstructions in his path, the ingenious sensitiveness of the lover him- self most surely conjures up strange chimeras and fancied miseries, even in the midst of bliss and sunshine. What then must be Ais happiness, who, devot- edly attached to a lovely girl, through a long petiod of years, has been separated from her by the vast waters'of the deep; and who, month after month, and summer after summer, has lived upon the recollections of hours in which their mutual faith was plighted! What must be his happiness, when returning triumphant from the field of honour, enriched by the course of events, and ennobled by his valour and his conquests, he is received with exultation in the house of his beloved, whence, in earlier days, his want of fortune had excluded him! How great must be his, joy, his pride, his rapture, in finding himself thus welcomed to the bosom of that family, into which, of all that exist in his native land, he most ardently and anxiously desires to be admitted! Such a moment repays whole years of sorrow, care, and toil: the grief of the past is forgatten in the joy of the present, and all that is to be seen is bright and gay for the future.—Such were the feelings of Sir Frederick Ryland, as he was met and welcomed at the door of Dorrington Hall by the owner of that noble mansion. Frederick Ryland was born the third son of a barofet, with whose honourable descent the nicest genealogist alive could not have found fault; but, at a period when two brothers stood between him and the title and estates of his father, Sir George Dorrington did not conceive him to be an eligible husband for his only daugh- ter Maria, in whom were centered all the beauty of the female branches of the family, and all the worth and wealth of the males. Long had the young soldier and the beauti girl loved in secret; and the continued inter- course between the families gave constant op- portunities for that association which, between two such beings, could not fail to produce a mutual affection. Atlength,encouraged by some friendly remark made after dinner by the father of his beloved, Frederick confessed his passion, sought permission to address Miss Dorrington formally, and was the next day, in due form ex- cluded (for ever, as it was thought) from Dorring- ton Hall—as if, old and knowing in the world’s ways as he was, Sir George fancied, that sepa- rating two such hearts would weaken the feelings which possessed them; or that the arbitrary mea- sure, of thus suddenly terminating an intercourse, which had so long subsisted under his own sanc- tion, would obliterate a passion, to the birth of which he himself, by his tacit concurrence in their constant association, had been negatively if not actually, at all events, a party. Frederick Ryland, after this dismissal, left the country, and joined the regiment in which he had recently been placed by his father, who, quite agreeing in the policy of his neighbour, Sir George, sent him forth to the field, as he told him, to cut his way to fame and fortune with his sword. These parting instructions, however, the worthy baronet did not long survive, for in less than a month after his son’s departure, in the ar- dour and anxiety of pursuing an unhappy fox, and in the full hope of riding home with the tail of the said fox stuck in his hat (according to his custom whenever he got the brush), he attempted a leap, wider than was convenient, or agreeable, to his half-tired horse, and coming off, head fore- most, gave up the ghost in the middle of a muddy ditch, sincerely lamented by the whole of his sporting friends, who contended then, and do contend to this minute, that the horse was to blame and not the rider—a matter, the debating of which must be much more interesting to them- selves than any part of the respectable family which was thus suddenly deprived of its very “ head and front.” The natural and sometimes the most important result of a baronet’s death is the consequent suc- cession of his heir apparent to his title; and ac- cordingly the family dignity descended upon the young Sir William, who did, I believe, live long enough to receive the announcement of his mis- fortune and honour, and to receive the addresses

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THE BRIDE. 183 of mingled condolence and congratulation’‘from his friends. He was in the south of France at the time of his father’s death, and survived the eyent only long enough to send for his next brother Henry, to close his eyes, and receive at his hands his affectionate adieu. Sir Henry, im- mediately after the funeral of Sir William, re-- turned to England, and proceeded to instail him- self in the ancient house of his fathers—he, like his venerable parent, having what is called a passion for the sports of the field, and being, like the old gentleman, somewhat insensible to any of those softer allurements, which minds of gentler mould discover in the society of those by. whom we are soothed, exalted, and refined. ; During the progress of these changes in the Ryland family, Maria Dorrington would sit and listen to the recapitulation, in hopes that some change might bring her Frederick back, or at least place him in such a situation that his want of wealth might no longer be objected against him. News had arrived of his having distin- guished himself in action—his name was men- tioned in the despatches. Why was he not the bearer of them? A thousand times did she read over the lines in which his personal bravery and {intrepid conduct were described, and her eye. lingered on the one loved name, which seemed to blaze in letters of fire amongst the list of gal- lant heroes who, as well as himself, had so per- formed their duty as to merit the honour of being particularised in the narrative of the day’s fight. Except, however, a courteous remark on the part of Sir George Dorrington, that “ poor Fred. Ryland seemed to be doing very well in the army,” Maria heard nothing of him; and her heart revolted at the pity of her obdurate parent, which was indeed no kin to love. At this juncture the lovely girl was doomed to severer trials; the sufferance of quiet sorrow and unmolested grief was soon denied her, and a suitor, armed with her father’s patronage and recommendation, came forward with an apparent determination not to be repulsed. Pride, arro- gance, and self-love, seemed to be the chief in- gredients of this nobleman's character—for noble he was, and gentle he was not. ln temper hasty, in manner petulant, in conversation dictatorial, Lord Pavonden approached the timid Maria Dorrington, as if he were conferring a favour upon her and her whole race by the association; and the supercilious, sensual manner in which he cast his unquiet eyes over her lovely person, be- spoke too plainly the character of the feeling by which his notice had been attracted to her; and although his affection for her, if it deserved the name, was ardent and all-engrossing, still it was impossible not to perceive in his handsome yet fiendlike countenance, the ceaseless struggle between his animal desire and his worldly pru- dence, the continued conflict between his passion and his pride. Before he had taken the ordinary pains to dis- cover Maria’s sentiments—and it must be admit- ted she took very little trouble to conceal them —he had arranged, not only in his own mind, but in interviews with her father, the programme of the whole affair; they had even descended to par- ticulars, and sums were actually named as settle- ments and jointures: his lordship believing that, her declaration was a mere piece of formality, as necessary, it is true, for the completion of the match, as aconge d’elire tothe making of a bishop, and about as certain in its result as the king’s recommendation which accompanies that liberal, document. Lord Pavonden, amongst his other’ intellectual qualities, happened not to possess that nice distinctive faculty which can properly appreciate the hidden feelings of a woman by her external conduct; and he construed the easé and familiarity of Maria’s manner, when with him, as expressive of pleasure in his society. To one more versed in human nature, and less blinded by vanity and conceit, these symptems would have infallibly declared her indifference. Had Frederick Ryland appeared, were his name even mentioned, were an allusion to any event which had occurred in his presence, a remark on his family, or the part of the world in which he was, on the arn#p in which he served, or the cause in which that. army was engaged, Maria’s heart beat, her cheeks flushed, and her hands trembled. None of these signs were present when Lord Pavonden was near her: arestless good humour, an affected gaiety, to avoid if possible any seriots avowal of the feelings which she was informed by her officious and envious female friends, that his lordship entertained for her, characterized the sweet girl’s conduct; and upon such harmless encouragement as this the noble baron built the hopes which a few days were doomed to dis- sipate. “ What an unfortunate family are the Ry- lands!” said Sir George Dorrington, as he entgr- ed the drawing-room where the few visitors were waiting the announcement of dinner} “ it seems as if a fatality hung over them.” Inquiries burst from every tongue, except Ma- ria’s, who sat like a statue motionless. “ Sir Henry is dead——” ** Dead!” exclaimed the astonished auditors. Thank Gop it was not Frederick—Maria burst into tears—the attention of every body was directed to her; and she was led into the ante+~ room, where the air and restoratives soon revived her. “ Poor girl,” said Sir George, “ she is too sen- sitive for this world. Yes,” continued he, re- turning to the circle, “ he was .shooting this morning, and in passing through or over a hedge, the trigger of his gun got entangled with the briars, and he was dead in an instant.” “ How rapidly that baronetcy changes own- ers,” said Lord Pavonden: “ this is the third death in the family in less than eighteen months: who gets it now ?” Maria had just sufficiently recovered to return tothe room as the question was asked, and heard her father answer, as indeed she knew, that Fre- derick, the third son, was now the head®f the fdily. e “ A forward sort of person, I think,” said Lord

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184 Pavonden; “ I scarcely recollect him: I know he had got the character of a lady killer, in the Eighteenth—I suppose, this event will bring him _eto England.” Matiarfelt all her agitations renewed, and felt ‘ more remarks would again drive her out’ of the room; when the announcement of dinner cut short the conversation, terminated the ntations of Sir George Dorrington and his “friends, released his daughter, and put an end to the sympathy which some more ancient ladies on the sofa were about to exhibit. All that passed at table was lost to the heiress of the house, and although in accordance with her father’s desire she actually presided, she was guilty of the most flagrant inattentions, commit- ted the most glaring solecisms, and withdrew the female division before Miss Angelica Amadou had half finished her quantum of dried cherries. The drawing-room afforded her littlé more re- lief; and she flew to her boudoir, to indulge in a flood of tears, which were ready to burst from her eyes. “ I am conscious,” murmured the agi- tated girl, “ that the feeling of joy%t what has happened is sinful, is criminal; but, God forgive me! no circumstance, no accident could have presented a hope to my distracted mind, of ex- trication from a destiny worse than death itself, but this; now no obstacle is opposed to the com- pletion of that scheme of happiness which my beloved Frederick and I have marked out:— wealth and rank are his—at least rank equal to my own, and wealth superior to my father’s. Admired artd esteemed by all who know him, even by my parent himself, whose rejection of him was founded solely on his want of fortune, and whose decided exclusion of him from our house was caused by the apprehension of his winning qualities, what objection can be raised to the fulfilment of all my hopes on earth ?” Thus did the elated happy Maria give utter- afice to the generous sentiments of her heart; and having in some degree composed herself, she rejoined her friends; theirconversation had taken a totally different turn, and Miss Dorrington, still thinking of but one subject, continued to talk fen others, until the arrival of the gentlemen i the dinner-rooms. And, oh! who shall de- scribe the repugnance, the horror, with which she now received the abrupt, supercilious, yet ardent advances of Lord Pavonden? Who, but a girl devoted to one, and assiduously assailed by another, can understand the feeling? It baffles my power to describe it—it was not quite unper- ceived by his lordship, who found the free and artless manner of the young lady, upon which he had founded his certainty of success, and which she had in her helplessness adopted, in order to convince him of the contrary, changed into a more distant reserve; for now, confident-as she was in Frederick’s fidelity, and satisfied that his claim npon her hand in right of her heart would now be acceded to, by her father, she saw no reason for affecting a manner towards Lord Pa- vonden, who,f repulsed, would be suffered™to depart by Sir George, and who, if piqued by the alteration of her conduct to make her a direct offer, might be repulsed at once, and, according to the established rules of society, expelled from the house altogether. By one of those singular coincidences, which in works of fiction appear improbable and over- strained, but which in real life are occurring every day, the object of all. Maria’s affections was brought to the scene of action much sooner than could have been expected. Another vic- tory had graced the triumphant arms of the illus- trious Wellington, under whose command the youthful soldier fought; again had Ryland dis- tinguished himself: he was now selected as the bearer of the details of the conflict in which he had borne so honourable a part; and actually reached London within little more than four-and- twenty hours after the occurrence of that fatal accident, which bereaved him of a brother, and bestowed upon nm the baronetcy. To the house of mourning did the promoted officer speed as soon as his official duty was trans- acted; and in the midst of his grief for the loss of his near and dear relation, is it unnatural to suppose that he wrote to his Maria? Whether natural or not, I cannot say, but that he did so is most true, and not clandestinely or diguisedly, he wrote to his beloved, and inclosed her letter in another, addressed to Sir George, evincing in the hour of trial and sorrow that devotion to the object of all his earthly hopes which neither time nor space could alter or deteriorate. His visit- ing them was at the instant impossible, but he could not allow a moment to escape without claiming the promise which Sir George had given, at least by implication, and making the first step of his new life, that, which was to ensure his life’s happiness. But as the great Bard and every little bard haS said in different ways, what are not fond hearts doomed to suffer! Without consulting his daughter, Sir George Dorrington had actually pledged himself to Lord Pavonden. He had never cast a thought towards the extraordinary advancement of Frederick Ryland, nor had he imagined the possibility of a refusal on the part of Maria to comply with his commands. Lord Pavonden had already made arrangements con- nected with the marriage. Lawyers were al- ready employed on the drafts and deeds of settle- ment, and every thing in short was in a forward state of preparation, except the Brive. The question now with Sir George was, whe- ther he should open all the circumstances to his daughter, delivering Henry’s letter to her, and stating exactly how he was situated, or send the letter to his daughter back to Ryland, inclosed in an explanatory letter to him. The doubt was easily solved: he admired Frederick’s character and qualities; he knew the extent of his fortune, the amiability of his disposition, and the proximity of their property, his future influence in the county, his daughter’s avowed affection for him, his approved constancy to her. All these weigh- ed heavily against the pretensions of Lord Pa- vonden, whom Maria hated, whose title was

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o ar OS BS SO -~ THE BRIDE. - Irish, whose estates were, for the most part, situate and lying in the ** Green Isle,” and whose funded property was insignificant compared with Ryland’s (for Sir George had not been idle in acquainting himself with the contents of the late baronet’s last will and testament), and whose manner even to himself was arrogant and over- bearing: but then he had gone so far in the pre- liminaries of the treaty, or rather so far beyond preliminaries, that he did not at all see the possi- bility of breaking off; indeed, unless Lord Pa- yonden’s heart could be touched, and his gener- ous spirit roused, the thing appeared impossible. At all events, Sir George, who truly loved his daughter, made up his mind to be the bearer of the letter from her lover, and thus sanction openly, what he must, under the unexpected change of circumstances, always secretly have approved. The sight of Henry’s weil known writing in the hand of her father produced a sudden re- yulsion of nature in Maria, and she fell senseless at the feet of her parent, who raising and sooth- ing her, eventually restored her to something like serenity: he then gave her the letter, spoke can- didly and unreservedly of his feeling towards Ryland, explaining to her at the same time the difficulties in which he had involved himself with his rival. * But J have not involved myself in any diffi- culty,” said Maria; “ I, sir, am no party to this treaty, which, even if Frederick had died on the field of battle, never could, and never should have been ratified by me. The accidental ac- quisition of wealth and title may, by rendering Frederick Ryland worthy in your eyes, afford me the happiness of uniting my fate with one, who is all excellence and kindness ; but no reverse of fortune, however severe, no poverty, however abject, no distress, however humiliating, could have compelled me to link myself to a man whose manners I dislike, whose temper I dread, whose conversation even I donot comprehend, and whose character I never can respect: tell him this, sir, and surely he will not persevere in claiming my hand from you, when he never can receive a heart from me.” “ What I fear,’ said Sir George, “ is, that Lord Pavonden will attribute the change in your determination to the change in Ryland’s circum- stances, for rumour is not so idle but that he is aware of his attachment to you.” “* He cannot attribute the change in my deter- mination,” said Maria, “ to any extrinsic events; in fact I never was consulted, I never was asked to make a decision; if J had——” “ But I, my dear Maria,” said Sir George, “ have in your name expressed a readiness, by a desire for the union and——” “ Forgive me, sir,” said Maria, catching her father’s hand; “ why, why do this, without con- sulting the child you love, the daughter who lives but in your affection ?” ‘“‘ [ thought by your manner,” said Sir George, “that Pavonden was not so disagreeable to you.” “Qh, sir!” cried Maria, “ do you know so a2 little of my heart and feelings as to believe that I could marry with a negative affection for my husband? Did you think that I would consent.to _ share my existence with one, while the . another ranking yet higher in my know I loved Frederick; you ply’ our union till a period, which, throu pensations of an all-wise Providence, has rived. ” “ Maria,” said Sir George, eae daughter to his bosom, “ veo, fone be your husband—I wave sam ow to dis- entangle myself from the embarras with Lord Pavonden I do not yet exactly see, but your happiness is paramount—it must be done.” * Be that my task,” cried the half frantic girl. “T will appeal to his generosity, to his pride, to his feelings—if he have any—you must not risk an altercation with such a man: on me let his vengeance fall, if vengeance is to fall: with you a disagreement might be fatal; his well-earned reputation in what is called the field of honour renders him a dangerous adyersary: on me these chivalrous qualities have no effect. I will be candid with him, take all upon myself, and rescue you, I hope and think, from difficulties in which, had I been previously consulted, you never would have been invoived.” “I trust more to his pride than his generosity, I confess,” said Sir George; “ however, take your own course, Maria; I feel that I, person- ally, am too deeply pledged to stir in this Matter further.” The permission was enough. The certainty Maria felt that an appeal, as her father said, to his pride, if not to his generosity, would release her from the claim of Lord Pavonden, inspired her; and having hastily acknowledged the wel- come letter of Frederick, she proceeded to ad- dress the noble baron in the following terms :— Dorrington Hall, B~. “ MY LORD, “ For the first time since I have had the ho- nour of your lordship’s acquaintance, my father, this morning, has informed me of the ulterior object of your lordship’s constant association with our family, and your unremitting attention to myself. “ Not vain enough to imagine that I could be the object of attraction here, 1 have hitherto re- mained in ignorance, not only of the motives, which induced your lordship to devote so much of your time to our very limited domestic circle, but of the steps which I now find have been taken towards the completion of that measure, upon which, however important it may be thought te me, I have only this day been consulted. “ Aware, my lord, of the apparent indelicacy of venturing to address your lordship upon such a subject, I considered before I took the step. But I have resolved to do so, and to risk all the censure or ridicule which my conduct may ingur, for the sake of checking in the present stage those pretensions to my hand, which I am now, authoritatively informed it is your intention to

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THE BRIDE. prefer : it is to avoid the pain of giving pain I do this; and it is in the hope of remaining upon ami- cable terms with your lordship, that I entreat you not to assume a character, which, while it terminates our friendship, must most unplea- santly end our acquaintance. “ When I candidly tell you that, however pleased may be to see you amongst my father’s guests at Dorrington, and however anxious I may have appeared to contribute my trifling efforts to make your residence amongst us as a friend of his, agreeable, my heart has been long, long engaged, I am quite sure I shall not vainly appeal to your generosity, nor uselessly seek to prevent a refusal on my part, which, however painful it may be to me, cannot be less irksome to your lordship. “« My father tells me candidly, that he has had several conversations with you on the subject of an alliance between us; his implied certainty of my consent, 1 fear, has deceived you; and I cannot but deeply regret that I was not earlicr apprised of the subject of your deliberations ; since it would have been more agreeable to my feelings, for many, many reasons, to have put a stop to them much sooner, by convincing my father of their total uselessness, and my determi- nation never to bestow my hand where my heart could not accompany it. “ Forgive me, my lord, this distinct declara- tion; receive it in the spirit in which I make it; see in it, the effort of a being, whose affections have been for years devoted to one object; anx- ious to prevent a proposal which must be reject- ed, and which could only have the effect of de- stroying her peace of mind, and wounding the pride and sensibility of another. “Your lordship will forgive me for adding, that, although this letter has not been seen by my father, he is aware of my resolution of writ- ing it, and that I have no desire that its contents should be concealed from him. In the hope that you will feel for me, pity me, and continue to regard me as your friend, I remain, my lord, * Yours most truly, ** Marra DorrincGTon.” Two days elapsed after the despatch of this letter, and on the third (the day of Sir Henry Ryland’s funeral), Miss Dorrington received the following lines from her ndéble correspondent. “ Lord Pavonden presents his compliments to Miss Dorrington, in acknowledging her letter on Tuesday; he cannot but express his deep regret at her anticipated refusal of his proposal. Lord Pavonden trusts that he possesses sufficient discrimination as well as delicacy, to prevent his forcing his attentions where they cease to be agreeable. Yet he cannot but regret, that the negotiations between himself and Sir George Dorrington should have been carried so far as they have been, if that gentleman was then aware of the state of his daughter's affections. * Lord Pavonden has made a communication to Sir George Dorrington, which will terminate their negotiations; and in the hope that Miss Dorrington will not suffer the circumstances which have eccurred to agitate or annoy her, he has, he thinks, best consulted both her feelings and his own, by quitting the neighbourhood of Dorrington, and proceeding to London ; when, at some future period, he hopes to have the honour of finding himself included in the list of Miss Dorrington’s sincere friends.” “‘ There, Maria!” said Sir George, when he had read this note: “ what is your opinion of Lord Pavonden now ?” “ T think,” said Maria,“ that one ought never to judge by appearances, or, at least, not to as- cribe to natural causes, manners and habits which, after all, may be adopted under the abso- lute dominion of fashion, even at the sacrifice of natural feelings. I rejoice in his decision, I ad- mire his generosity, and I promise him my friendship, for he has deserved it.” A few words will suffice to detail the proceed- ings of the family party, after this occurrence. Sir Frederick Ryland, having been warmly and affectionately received by Sir George, as soon as all the mournful ceremonies connected with his brother’s death had terminated, became the con- stant inmate of his future father-in-law’s resi- dence. And if it were possible for human beings to enjoy perfect happiness on earth, Frederick and Maria, in the constant enjoyment of each other’s society, looking back with interest upon the past, and picturing increasing joy for the future, were in the full possession of it: every day developed some new trait of excellence in the character of the lover, every day produced some new evidence of Maria’s excellence of dis- position, purity of mind, and goodness of heart; when, to crown all their hopes, the wedding-day was fixed—that day which was to terminate all the little anxieties which “ love is. heir to,” and out of which spring half its delights; that day which was to change the character of their affec- tion, hallow the passion which possessed both their hearts, and join them in that sacred bond of union, whence flows all earthly happiness, all worldly comfort. Then came the discussion about bridemaids, and lace, and carriages, and favours, and who should be at the wedding, and who should marry them, and where they should be married, and the thousand little delicate points which are so very, very important, upon such occasions; in all of which, Maria was constantly supported by her two female cousins; while Frederick generally con- trived to inlist Sir George on Ais side; until at length it was arranged, that the marriage should take place in London, and that the young couple _ Should, according to the established routine of the Morning Post, “ immediately after the cere- mony quit town in a new travelling carriage and four, to spend the honeymoon.” It was abso- jutely essential that a journey to London should be undertaken, to purchase such necessaries of life as country milliners and provincial dress- makers could not contrive to invent or even con- struct; and therefore with good reason they came

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DR. SELDEN. 187 unanimously to the conclusion, to marry in the, metropolis, and return to the shady groves and sylvan scenes to reap the rich harvest of their constant love. It would be impossible to describe the happi- ness which these devoted beings enjoyed, during the month or six weeks preparatory to the cere- mony ; indeed, the attempt to do so would be ab- surd, since, besides the inadequacy of language to do justice to their feelings, such details are as little interesting to general readers, as the practice of love-making itself is to the indifferent spectator; suffice it to say, that time, which never stops, seemed to fly, and in the midst of joy, Zai- ety, hope, anxiety, and agitation, the evening arrived which was to be the last of her “ single blessedness.” It seemed to Frederick like a bright vision—he was on the brink of happiness which for years he had been taught to think never might be his. He pressed his beloved to his heart, and print- ed a glowing kiss upon her flushing cheek.— “ Good night!” was whispered by the fond lover, and echoed by the trembling maid; but oh! parting is such sweet sorrow, that they lingered on, in their dream of happiness; and when they separated, the magic word “‘ To-morrow!” hung on their lips and sunk deep into their hearts. That Maria slept much, or tranquilly, I cannot _affirm ; certain it is that Frederick did not. The night, however, wore away, and the sun rose in all its brightness to greet the blooming bride. The establishment was seen hurrying to and fro, and making preparations for the banquet, which was to regale the guests invited, and astonish those in the newspapers who were not. The bridemaids arrived, and Maria came forth from her chamber, bright and sweet as the morning, pure in her mind as the white robe in which she was decked, her blue eyes melting with love and modesty. In her fair hair, parted on her snowy forehead, there were pearls which Frederick had given her, and the veil thrown over her (as the sweet poet says, whose lines are taken as the motto for this tale,) seemed like a halo mellowing all the pomp and light Into something meekly bright. With pride and exultation did her father lead her into the room, where already had assembled the numerous friends who were to grace the ce- remony. The carriages were drawn up to the door, the clock had struck the appointed hour, yet one was absent whose presence was most essential, and who began to be most anxiously expected. Sir Frederick Ryland, the ardent, happy bride- groom, had not yet arrived. Maria inquired for him, and heard with wonder, and not without some little displeasure, that he had not yet made his appearance. Even strict punctuality seems negligence in love; and here, on the auspicious day, when all his doubts and fears were to end, and his sum of earthly happiness was to be com- passed, when a Carriage was driven to the door, and from it sprang hastily one not bidden as a guest, nor dressed as if he were coming to join the festive party—it was not Frederick—it was a stranger muffled up in a cloak, w d appa- rently just arrived from the conte a few moments Sir George was summouéd ffom the party; then the stranger was seen rt, and then one or tw6 of the visiters were called from the drawing-room. The prelate who was there to sanctify the happiness of the young couple was summoned from the side of the now trem- bling bride: her colour came and went, she shook from head to foot, she saw horror painted on the countenance of one who had returned from her father: a scream from one of her bridemaids announced some horrible communication: the light vanished from her eyes, and without know- ing the cause of her dread and agitation, or even that it was well founded, she fell senseless into the arms of those near her. Well was it for her that Nature at that mo- ment robbed herof hersenses. Frederick, after he had quitted her the night before, had proceed- ed to one of the Clubs, of which he was a mem- ber, to write some notes of business, necessary to be despatched before he quitted town in the morning; there he encountered Lord Pavonden. Excited by wine, the angry feelings of offended pride, which, under the mask of dignified sub- mission te Maria, had smouldered for months in his lordship’s breast, burst forth at the sight of his triumphant happy rival. Premeditated insult, and a blow, were the fruits of this hateful ex- plosion of rage and mortification. There was no alternative—no question as to the result. A meeting was arranged at daylight at Wimbledon: they met—they fired—and Frederick Ryland fell:-—he lived in agony for two hours, and then expired. This sad history was poor Maria doomed to hear, so soon as reason returned to her. When she recovered sufficiently to comprehend any thing, she found the scene of gaiety changed, the guests departed, and her father kneeling at her side: in a moment-she understood the worst :— Frederick was dead—she knew—she felt that nothing but death could have kept him from her ---he was gone for ever—and the bright star of her existence had set eternally. DR. SELDEN, Tue renowned author of “ Titles of Honour,” was once in an assembly of divines, who were discussing, with all the force of critical acumen, the distance between Jerusalem and Jericho; when one said it was twenty miles, another ten, and at last a profound theologian concluded it was only seven, for this solid reason, that fish was brought from Jericho to Jerusalem market. Upon which Selden gravely observed, “ that pleted, to find her lover lingering on his way | probably the fish in question was salted,” and wounded her deeply. Another quarter of an hour elapsed—no Frederick; another had nearly | so silenced these learned doctors of scriptural research.

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STANZA&—THE SKYLARK—CONJUGATING A VERB. STANZAS. O come, fair maid, at this evening hour, The dews are (alien on tree and flower; And calm and bright as the stars above, Are the eyes below which beam with love! But flowers may bloom—stars beam on high, Yet stars will set and flowers will die: But woman's love to the silent tomb, Is beyond all light, and beyond all bloom! O come, fair maid, for the pale moon beam Is light on earth, and chaste on stream; But far more light is that radiant eye, And far more chaste that virgin sigh! For moons, alas! will set with night And eyes grow dim which once were bright! But woman's love to the silent tomb, Is beyond ali light, and beyond all bloom. O come, my love, ‘tis thy love calls, The form he adores, from the banquet halls, To the bower of roses, the silent grove, To the bosom of peace and the arms of love! For banquets cloy, which once were gay, And bowers which flourish will soon decay ; But woman's love to the silent tomb, Is beyond all light, and beyond all bloom ! THE SKYLARK. FROM “SONGS BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.”’ Birp ef the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy—love gave it birth, Where on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven—thy love is on earth. O’er fell and mountain sheen, O’er moor and mountain green, O’er the red streamer that heralds the day ; Over the cloudiet dim, Over the rainbow’s rim, Musieal cherub, soar, singing away ! Then when the gloaming comes Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Embiem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! CONJUGATING A VERB. Dicx Orrop and his brother Giles were fine specimens of the bumpkin boys of the West of England: their father, who was a flourishing farmer, sent them to pick up a little learning at an expensive academy, in a large town about twenty miles from the village where he lived. The master had but recently purchased the school from his predecessor; and, stranger as he was to the dialect of that part of the country, he could scarcely understand above one half of what Dick and Giles Orrod, and afew more of his pupils, meant when they spoke. “ I knowed, 1 rinned, and I hut,’ were barbarisms, to which his ear had never been accustomed; and it was only by degrees he discovered that they were translations, into the rural tongue, of “ I knew, I run, and [hit.” But there were few so rude of speech as Dick and Giles Orrod. Fraternal affection was a virtue that did not flourish in the bosoms of either of these young gentlemen. Dick's greatest enemy on earth was Giles ; and if honest Giles hated any human being except the master, it was Dick. They were ex- cellent spies on each other’s conduct: Giles never missed an opportunity of procuring Dick a castigation; and Dick was equally active in making the master acquainted with every pun- ishable peccadillo that his brother committed. One day an accusation was preferred against Master Richard, by one of the monitors, of hav- ing cut down a small tree in the shrubbery; but there was not sufficient evidence to bring the woffence home to the supposed culprit. * Does no young gentleman happen to know any thing more of this matter?” inquired the master. Giles immediately walked from his seat, and, taking a place by the side of his brother, looked as though he had something relevant to commu- nicate. “ Well, sir,’ said the master, “ what do you know about the tree ?” “If yeu plaze, sir,” growled Giles, “ if you plaze, sir, I sawed un.” “ Qh! you ‘ sawed un,’ did you?” “ Iss, I did:—Dick seed I saw un.” *“ Ts this true, master Richard?” * Iss,” said Dick; and Giles much to his asto- nishment, was immediately flogged. At the termination of the ceremony, it occur- red to the master to ask Giles, how he had ob- tained the saw. ‘“ About your saw, young gen- tleman,” said he, “‘ where do you get a saw when you want one ?” Giles had some faint notions of grammar float- ing in his brain, and thinking that the master meant the verb, and not the substantive, blub- bered out— From see.” ** Sea !—so you go on board the vessels in the dock, do you, out of school hours, and expend your pocket-money, in purchasing implements to cut down my shrubbery ?” * Noa, sir,” said Giles, “ I doant goa aboard no ships, nor cut down noa shrubberies.” *“ What, sirrah! did you not confess it ?” “ Noa, sir; I said I sawed brother Dick cut down the tree, and he seed I sawed un, and a’ couldn't deny it.”’

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FOLLOW ME—A MOORISH ENCAMPMENT. “ [ didn’t deny it,” said Dick. , “Then possibly you are the real delinquent, after all, Master Richard,” exclaimed the mas- ter. Dick confessed that he was, but he hoped the master would not beat him, after having flogged his brother for the same offence: in his way, he humbly submitted that one punishment, no matter who received it—but especially as it had been bestowed on one of the same family as the delin- quent—was to all intents and purposes, enough for one crime. The master, however, did not coincide with Dick on this grave point, and the young gentle- man was duly horsed. ** As for Master Giles,” said the master, as he laid down the birch, “ he well merited a flogging for his astonishing—his wilful stupidity. If boys positively will not profit by my instructions, I am bound, in duty to their parents, to try the effect of castigation. No man grieves more sin- cerely than I do, at the necessity which exists for using the birch and cane as instruments of liberal education ; and yet, unfortunately, no man I verily believe, is compelled to use them more frequently than myself. I was occupied for full half an hour, in drumming this identical verb into Giles Orrod, only yesterday morning: and you, sir,” added he, turning to Dick, “ you, I suppose, are quite as great a blockhead as your brother. Now attend to me, both of you :—what’s the past of see !” Neither of the young gentlemen replied. **T thought as much,” quoth the master. “ The perfect of see is the present of saw—Srer, Saw.” “ See, Saw,” shouted fhe boys; but that un- fortunate verb was the stumbling-block to their advancement. They never could comprehend how the perfect of see, could be the present of saw ; and days, weeks, months—nay, years after —they were still at their endless, and, to them, incomprehensible game of SEE-saw. FOLLOW ME! A sUMMER morning, with its calm, glad light, Was on the fallen castle : other days Were here remembered vividly ; the past Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more— For that we do not pause to think upon. First, o’er the arching gateway was a shield, The sculptured arms defaced, but visible Was the bold motto, ‘‘ Follow me :”’ again I saw it scrolled around the lofty crest Which, mouldering, decked the ruined banquet-room : A third time did I trace these characters— On the worn pavement of an ancient grave Was written “ Follow me!”’ Follow me !—’tis to the battle-field-— No eye must turn, and no step must yield ; In the thick of the battle look ye to be : On !—'tis my banner ye follow, and me. Follow me !— tis to the festal ring, Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing; Hark! to our name is the bright wine poured : Follow me on to the banquet-board ! Follow me !—’tis where the yew-tree bends, When the strength and the pride of the victor ends ; Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom : Follow me on to the silent tomb! A MOORISH ENCAMPMENT. FROM AIRD’s “ CAPTIVE OF FEZz.”’ ——— [r was 2 goodly sight To see those tents beneath the setting light, Engircling round with deep pavilioned pale, A little hill in middle of the vale. Fair trees, with golden sunlight in their tops, In leafy tiers grew up its beauteous slopes. Green was its open summit, and thereon O’er battle plains the mighty captains shone ; West, through the vale, delicious lay unrolled The lapse of rivers in their evening gold ; And far along their sun-illumined banks, Broke the quick restless gleam of warlike ranks. North, where the hills arose by soft degrees, Stood stately warriorsin the myrtle trees, And fed their beauteous steeds. From east to south, Armed files stood onward to the valley’s mouth. From out the tents, the while, and round the plain, Bold music burst defiance to maintain, And hope against the morrow’s dawning hour ; Nor the gay camp belied th’ inspiring power: From white teethed tribes, that loitered on the grass, Loud laughter burst—fierce jests were heard to pass; Around the tents were poured the gorgeous throngs Of nations, blent with shouts and warlike songs : Nor ceased the din as o’er the encampment wide, Fell softly dark that eve of summertide. is9--

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THE MIRROR OF THE GRACES.

MIRROR OF THE GRACES. ApvocaTE as I am for a fine complexion, you must perceive that it is for the real and not the spurious. The foundation of my argument, the skin's power of expression, would be entirely lost, were I to tolerate that fictitious, that dead beauty, which is composed of white paints and enamelling. In the first place, as all applica- tions of this kind are as a mask en the skin, they can never, but at a distant glaace, impose for a moment on a discerning eye. But why should I say a discerning eye? No eye that is of the commonest apprehension can look on a face be- daubed with white paint, pearl powder, or ena- mel, and be deceived for a minute into a belief that so inanimate a “ whited wall” is the human skin. No flush of pleasure, no shudder of pain, no thrilling of hope, can be descried beneath the encrusted mould; all that passes within is con- cealed behind the mummy surface. Perhaps the painted creature may be admired by an artist as a well-executed picture; but no man will seriously consider her as a handsome woman. White painting is, therefore, an ineffectual, as well as dangerous practice. The proposed end is not obtained; as poison lurks under every layer, the constitution weans in alarming pro- portion as the supposed charms increase. What is said against white paint, does not op- pose, with the same force, the use of red. A little vegetable rouge tinging the cheek of a delicate woman, who, from ill health or an anx- ious mind, loses her roses, may be excusable; and so transparent is the texture of such rouge, (when unadulterated with lead,) that when the blood does mount to the face, it speaks through the slight covering, and enhances the fading bloom. But, though the occasional use of rouge may be tolerated, yet my fair friends must un- derstand that it is only tolerated. Good sense must so preside over its application, that its tint on the cheek may always be fainter than what nature’s pallet would have painted. A violently rouged women is one of the most disgusting ob- jects to the eye. . The excessive red on the face gives a coarseness to every feature, and a gene- ral fierceness to the countenance, which trans- forms the elegant lady of fashion into a vulgar harridan. While I recommend that the rouge we spa- ringly permit should be laid on with delicacy, my readers must not suppose that I intend such advice as a means of making the art a decep- tion. It seems to me so slight and so innocent an apparel of the face, (a kind of decent veil thrown over the cheek, rendered too eloquent of grief by the pallidness of secret sorrow,) that I cannot see any shame in the most ingenuous female acknowledging that she occasionally rouges. It is often, like a cheerful smile on the face of an invalid, put on to give comfort to an anxious friend.

There are various ways of putting on rouge. French women in general, and those who imitate them, daub it on from the bottom of the side of the face up to the very eye, even till it meets the lower eye-lash, and creeps all over the temples. This is a hidious practice. It is obvious that it must produce deformity instead of beauty; and, as I said before, would metamorphose the gen- tlest looking fair Hebe into a fierce Medusa. For brunettes, a slight touch of simple carmine on the cheek, in its dry powder state, is amply sufficient. Taste wilk teach the hand to soften the colour by due degrees, till it almost imper- ceptibly blends with the natural hue of the skin. For fairer complexions, letting down the vivid red of the carmine with a mixture of fine hair powder, till it suits the general appearance of the skin, will have the desired effect. The article of rouge, on the grounds I have mentioned, is the only species of positive art a woman of integrity or of delicacy can permit herself to use with her face. Her motives for imitating the bloom of health may be of the most honourable nature, and she can with candour avow them. On the reverse, nothing but selfish vanity, and falsehood of mind, could prevail on a woman to enamel her skin with white paints, to lacker her lips with vermillion, to draw the meandering vein through the fictitious alabaster with as fictitious a dye. Pencilling eye-brows, staining them, &c., are too clumsy tricks of attempted deception, for any other emotion to be excited in the mind of the beholder, than contempt for the bad taste and wilful blindness which could ever deem them passable fora moment. There is a lovely har- mony in nature’s tints, which we seldom attain by our added chromatics. The exquisitely fair complexion is gtnerally accompanied with blue eyes, light hair, and light eye-brows and lashes. So far all is right. The delicacy of one feature is preserved in effect and beauty by the corres- ponding softness of the other. A young crea- ture, so formed, appears to the eye of taste like the azure heavens, seen through the fleecy clouds on which the brightness of day delights to dwell. But take this fair image of the celestial regions, draw a black line over her softly-tinctured eyes, stain their beamy fringes with a sombre hue, and what do you produce? Certainly a fair face with dark eye-brows! But that feature, which is an embellishment to a brunette, when seen on the forehead of the fair beauty, becomes, if not an absolute deformity, so great a drawback from her perfection<, that the harmony is gone; and, as a proof, a painter would immediately turn from the change with disgust. Nature, in almost every case, is our best guide. Hence the native colour of our own hair is, in general, better adapted to our own complexions than a wig of a contrary hue. A thing may be beautiful in itself, which, with cer-

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THE MIRROR OF THE GRACES. tain combinations, may be rendered hideous. For instance, a golden-tressed wig on the head of a brown woman, makes both ridiculous. By the same rule all fantastic tricks played with the mouth or eyes, or motions of the head, are ab- surd and ruinous to beauty. They are solecisms in the work of nature. In Turkey, it happened to be the taste of one of its great monarchs to esteem large and dark- lashed eyes as the most lovely. From that time, all the fair slaves of that voluptuous region, when nature has not bestowed “ the wild stag eye in sable ringlets rolling,” supply the deficiency with circles of antimony; and so, instead of a real charm, they impart a strange artificial ghastliness to their appearance. * Our country-women, in like manner, when a celebrated belle came under the pencil of a fa- vourite painter, who exhibited to her emulative rivals the sweet peculiarities of her long and languishing eye, they must needs al have the same ; and, not a lady could appear in public, be her visual orbs large or small, bright or dull, but she must affect the soft sleepiness, the tender and slowly-moving roll of her subduing exem- plar. But, though the painter’s gallant pencil deigned to compliment his numerous sitters by drowning their strained aspects after the model of the peerless belle ; yet, in place of the nature- stamped look of modest languishment, he could not but often recognise the disgraceful leer and hideous squint. Let every woman be content to leave her eyes as she found them, and to make that use of them which was their design. They were intended to see with, and artlessly express the feelings of a chaste and benevolent heart. Let them speak this unsophisticated language, and beauty will beam from the orb which affec- tation would have rendered odious. Analogy of reasoning will bring forward simi- lar remarks with regard to the movements of the mouth, which many ladies use, not to speak with or to admit food, but to show dinfples and display white teeth. Wherever a desire for exhibition is discovered, a disposition to disapprove and ridi- cule arises in thespectator. The pretensions of the vain are a sort of assumption over others, which arms the whole world against them. But, after all, “‘ What are the honowrs of a painted skin ?” I hope it will be distinctly understood by my fair friends, that I do not, by any means, give a general license to painting; on the contrary, that even rouge should only be resorted to in cases of absolute necessity. A woman of principle and prudence must be consistent in the style and quality of her attire; she must be careful that her expenditure does not exceed the limits of her allowance; she must be aware, that it is not the girl who lavishes the most money on her apparel that is the best ar- rayed. Frequent instances have I known, where young women, with a little good taste, ingenuity, and economy, have maintained a much better appearance than ladies of three times their for- tune. No treasury is large enough to supply in- discriminate profusion; and scarcely any purse is too scanty for the uses of life, when managed by a careful hand. Few are the situations in which a woman can be placed, whether she be married or single, where some attention to thrift is not expected. High rank requires adequate means to support its consequence ; ostentatious wealth, a superabundance to maintain its domi- neering pretensions; and the middle class, when virtue is its companion, looks to economy to allow it to throw its mite into the lap of charity. Hence we see, that hardly any woman, how- ever related, can have a right to independent, uncontrolled expenditure; and that, to do her duty in every sense of the word, she must learn to understand and exercise the graces of eco- nomy. This quality will be a gem in her hus- band’s eyes; for, though most of the money- getting sex like to see their wives well dressed, yet, trust me, my fair friends, they would rather owe that pleasure to your taste than to their pockets ! Costliness being, then, no essential priaciple in real elegance, I shall proceed to give youa few hints on what are the distinguishing circum- stances of a well-ordered toilet. As the beauty of form and complexion is differ- ent in different women, and is still more varied, according to the ages of the fair subjects of in- vestigation ; so the styles in dress, while simpli- city is the soul of all, must assume a character corresponding with the wearer. he seasons of life should be arrayed like those of the year. In the spring of youth, when all is lovely and gay, then, as the soft green, sparkling in freshness, bedecks the earth, so, light and transparent robes of tender colours should adorn the limbs of the young beauty. If she be of the Hebe form, warm weather should find her veiled in fine muslin, lawn, gauzes, and other lucid materials. To suit the character of » her figure, and to accord with the prevailing mode and just taste together, her morning robes should be of a length sufficiently circumscribed as not to impede her walking; but on no ac- count must they be too short ; for, when any de- sign is betrayed of showing the foot or ankle, the idea of beauty is lost in that of the wearer's odious indelicacy. On the reverse, when no show of vanity is apparent in the dress—when the lightly-flowing drapery, by unsought acci- dent, discovers the pretty buskined foot or taper ankle, a sense of virgin timidity, and of exquisite loveliness together, strikes upon the senses; and Admiration, with a tender sigh, softly whispers, “ The most resistless charm is modesty.” —— GrEAT men, like comets, are eccentric in their courses, and formed to do extensive good by modes unintelligible to vulgar minds. Hence, like those erratic orbs in the firmament, it is their fate to be miscomprehended by fools, and misrepresented by knaves; to be abused for all the good they actually do, and to be accused of ills with which they have nothing to do, neither in design nor execution.

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SUPERFLUOUS HAIR. SUPERFLUOUS HAIR. Ovr attention has been directed to thissubject | These are most generally present at birth, though by a correspondent, who is desirous of knowing how the hair may be prevented from growing on those parts of the face which are ordinarily free from it. Though we confess ourselves unable to give any satisfactory reply to’ this question, we are persuaded that the following remarks will be interesting to the individual alluded to, in com- mon with the generality of our readers. The surface of the body would appear to be liberally supplied with bulbs or roots, which, when excited into action, are capable of pro- ducing a growth of hair over the whole of the skin, with the exception, perhaps, of that cover- ing the inner surface of the limbs, the palms of the hands, and soles of the feet. Of the particu- lar circumstances, however, which render these roots, over a great part of the body, ordinarily inert, or which cause them, in some individuals, to produce hair in situations where it does not usually appear, we are entirely ignorant. It is seldom that what is termed superfluous hair, is met with in young persons, or during the prime of life; it is usually not until after the middle period of life that it occurs. This cir- cumstance has been attempted to he accounted for, from the two constituent parts of the hair, phosphate of lime and albumen, being, also, The principal substances which enter into the forma- tion of the bones; hence it is supposed that when the latter have completed their growth and firm- ness of structure, the albumen and phosphate of lime contained in the blood, are prevented from accumulating in excess, by being appropriated to the production of an increased amount of hair. This explanation, however, though plausible, is entirely hypothetical, and does not account for the fact, of the almost infinite variety in the amount and extent of the hair on the surface of different individuals. With our present know- ‘ledge of the human economy we are, in fact, unable to trace satisfactorily, the causes of the hair being in some cases, from birth, too low ont he forehead, or so irregularly cover- ing the face as to be in the hignest degree detrimental to beauty. We are unable, also, to explain the reason why in one the eye-brows should present merely a curved line, while in an- other they are thick, coarse, and over-hanging: nor why, in some instances, they should be separated by a considerable space from each other, and in others be united into one; which latter, though now looked upon as a defect, was esteemed by the ancient Romans a mark of beauty. One of the most unsightly and disagreeable forms under which superfluous hair makes its appearance on the face and neck, is in the form of large hairy moles: large tawny blotches, also, thickly studded with a coarse hair, are frequently met with upon the cheeks, forehead, or chin. | ‘with them. occasionally they make their appearance subse- quently. Various methods have been proposed and prac- tised from the earliest ages, with the view of re- moving superfluous hair. The female Jews, by whom a high forehead, free from hair, is con- sidered indispensable to beauty, use, we are in- formed, as a depilatory,* a bandage round the forehead, of scarlet cloth. How far the means has been found successful, we cannot say. Numerous depilatories are in common us@ among the natives of the East; while the toilet of the European is likewise plentifully supplied They consist, in general, of a pre- paration of quicklime, or of some other alkaline or corrosive substance. In some, even arsenic enters as an ingredient, as in the rusma of the Turks, and the Egyptians. All such articles, though no doubt many of them effectually de- stroy the hair, should, we conceive, be carefully avoided ; the injury which their use occasions to the skin, being often very considerable. They give rise occasionally to troublesome, and even dangerous sores, and cause at times a scar, still more unsightly than the defect they were em- ployed to remedy. Those which contain arsenic, can never be-resorted to without the utmost risk to health, if not to life. At first sight, one of thé most effectual means of getting rid of the offending hair, would appear to be to pluck it out by the roots. By this pro- cedure, however, which is productive of not a little pain, besides irritating and inflaming the skin, and endangering the production of pim- ples, and sores, the growth of the hair, is but in avery few instances prevented. Thousands of roots, always réady to produce a new crop of hair, still exist in the skin, and they appear (in fact) to be roused into action by the rooting out of the hair already existing. With respect to the hairy moles, and blotches, which have been alluded to, these may frequently be removed, in early life, by the knife of the sur- geon, with but little pain, and without the least danger being incurred. But, at a more advanced age, too much caution cannot be observed, in avoiding every means capable of irritating or in- flaming them. They ought never to be meddled with. Ulcers of a most unmanageable charac- ter, productive of deformity, and even death, are liable to result in certain constitutions, from the slightest injury inflicted upon them. Under all circumstances, therefore, we be- lieve it to be far better to put up with the de- formity arising from the superfluous hair, than to endanger the occurrence of a greater evil by attempting its eradication.—Journal of Health. * Depilatory, isa term applied to any means calculated to eradicate the hair. '

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¢ TO THE EARTH—8IR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR. 193 - TO THE EARTH. BY J. F. HOLLINGS. My mother! from whose fostering breast This weak and fleeting substance came, And where these limbs are doomed to rest When thou reclaim’st the dying frame ; Within thy regions lone and deep What wiid and sullen horror dwells, And how doth shapeless Mystery keep His watch beside those viewless cells! There slumber they, the sons of might— Titanic forms—thine earliest mould, Who dared the vollied thunder's flight, And cleft the towering hills of old; And chiefs who marked the battle bleed When Time his infant course began ; And they, the Atsyrian Hunter's seed, The shielded kings, whose prey was man. There in its tideless fury shed For ever on those steadfast shores, Bituminous and darkly spread, The eye enduring ocean roars ; And mutters, bound and fettered fast, The earthquake in its sullen ire ; And lurks the power whose sulph'rous blast Enrobes the rending mount with fire. Thou hast thy treasures—jewelled caves, With sanguine rubies richly dight, And emeralds green as ocean's waves, And diamond rocks like veins of light, And sapphires whose unshaded blue Seems drank fron. summer's cloudless skies, And opals, as the iris hue, Where morn’s deep tinctured glances rise. Thou hast thy beauties—realms unknown, Where murmuring music soft and low, O’er onyx, and the sardine stone, . The cold petrific waters flow ; And sparry chambers dimly lit, ‘ And shining groves and fretted bowerz, Where dreamy Silence loves to sit, And Fancy proves her myriad powers. Thou hast thine habitants—the horde _ Of swarthy gnomes in vesture bright, And elves who forge the mystic sword And ebon panoply of night ; And black-winged dreams whose legion sweep Embattled through the realm of rest; And Phantasy, dim child of Sleep, The Proteus of the slumbering breast. Yet not for these thy sacred name I breathe, and on thy presence call, For thou dost boast a higher claim, Time hallowed aid and home of all! Thou pourest forth thy golden birth, As heaver’s own quickening influence free, « And ,in thy bounteous mirth, The meanest hand that waits on thee. The shades which mark this fleeting lot, Man's trust or pride, with thee are vain ; The weak, the low, thou scornest not, The feeble limb and captives chain : Thou callest, and our feverish woes, Scared at thy parent voice, depart, And hushest in thy deep repose The weary and the worn in heart. And whe shali view thee, even as now, While fraught with life thy features lie, With verdure on that sunny brow, And gladness as a vejl on high ; Nor think of what must briefly be, In that stern hour of good or ill, When Thou shalt urge the dread decree, And whisper to the breast—be still ! B2 SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR. BY THE AUTHOR OF “ LILLIAN.”’ To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas, the clarion’s note is high ! To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas, the huge drum makes reply! Ere this has Lucas march’d with his gailant Cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter on our ears: To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas, white Guy is at the door; And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor! Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief and broken prayer, And she brought a silken standard down the narrow turret- stair; Oh ! many were the tears those radiant eyes had shed, As she worked the bright word ‘‘Glory” in the gay and glancing thread ; And mournful was the smile that o’er those beauteous fea- tures ran, As he said, “ It is your Lady's gift, unfurl it in the van !” _It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride— Through the steel-clad files of Skippon, and the black dra- goon of Pride ; The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebei lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my Lady’s gew-gaw flaunt bravely on their wing, And hear her loyal soldier’s shout—for God and for the King. ‘Tis noon—the ranks are bro! along the Royal line ; They fly—the braggards of the Court, the bullies of the Rhine! Stout Langley’s cheer is heard no more, and Astley’s helm is down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown ; 3 ‘ And cold New®astle mutters, as he follows in the flight, “The German boar had better far have supped in York to- night!” Knight is all alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain— His good buff jerkin crimsoned o’er with many a gory stain ; But stiJl, he waves the standard, and cries amid the rout “ For Church and King—fair gentlemen, spur on, and fight it out!” And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he felis a knave. Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no though: of fear; Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful odds are here The traitors ring thee round, and with every blow and thrust, ‘* Down, down,”’ they cry, “ with Belial—dowa with him to the dust !” “1 would,” quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial’s trusty sword This day were doing battle for the saints and for the Lord.” The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her bower; | The grey-haired warden watches on the castle’s highest tower— “What news, what news, old Anthony T”"—* Phe field is lost and won; The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun ; And a wounded man speeds hither—I am old and cannot see, Or, sure I am that sturdy step, my master’s step should be.” “I bring thee back the standard from as rude and red a fray, As e’er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay: Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum suff— l'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing out his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faithful wife. “ Sweet, we will Gill our money-bags, and freight a ship for France; And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm’s miechance : Or, if the worst betide me, why betier axe or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a King, and Peters for a Pope! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy ! out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with thy standard on foct from Marston Moor!”

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THE GOLD CROSS. — = THE GOLD CROSS. —_— Ir was late one cold and stormy evening in Autumn that a traveller, plainly dressed, and of middle age, entered a little village of Flanders. It was not sufficiently wealthy to be possessed of a comfortable inn, and after reconnoitering the miserable auberge, the pedestrian, who had left his carriage to explore the interesting scenery, resolved to seek in some one of the cottages the blessings of neztness and quiet. He passed se- veral whose noisy children or smoking.men did not coincide with his wishes, till the appearance of a small abode struck him with an aspect of comfort superior to apy he had beheld. The little garden was kept in neat order, and looking through the casement, he contemplated, unob- served, a scene which charmed a lover of nature. The wood fire blazed brightly, and cast its strong glare on the features of an old woman occupied in knitting. On the other side of the fire-place its light fell with a softer lustre on the profile of a young girl, who appeared to be making lace. She was dressed in the costume of the country, and one of its most becoming ones. The crown of her cap, whose material was of a snowy white- ness, was moderately high, and the front, placed rather far back, revealed her lovef¥ brow, and the dark chesnut locks parted simply on it. Her features were regular and soft; her long black eye-lashes, deep eye-lids, and the pale pure ex- pression of her face, might have formed a model for a Madonna, till she raised her bright blue eyes, speaking the simplicity and hilarity of her age; and her lips parted in a sweet and lively smile. Her form, laced in the picturesque corset, and shaded by her-lawn handkerchief, had all the graces of youth, and more than are generally found in a peasant. The unseen spectator re- solved here to seek hospitality. He knocked gently at the door, and the young maiden, with the fearlessness which marks the primitive man- ners of a retired place, came and opened it. ** Will you ask your mother,” said the Count de Larive, tgadmit a strange gentleman to a night’s lodging if she has a spare bed? I am much fa- tigued, and should prefer your quiet cottage to the bustle of an inn.’—* Willingly,” said the girl; and having mentioned to the old woman this request, she arose and advanced towards him, when he perceived she was not so old as he had thought before ; and after a few courteous inqui- ries frankly admitted the Count, who had no motive to conceal his name, to the hospitality he needed. Having divested himself of his travel- ling pelisse, he appeared to Madame Surville, who was not quite a stranger to the aspect of genteel persons, what he really was, a high-bred gentleman, and, as such, very easy and affable. **T fear Sir,” said she, “ we have not a supper to offer fit for you—some dried fish, fresh eggs, and bread, are all our cottage can afford, but my daughter will prepare them neatly and expedi- tiously.”.—** Good fare, madame, for a tired tra- veller,” said the Count, who was surprised at her civilized manners, “ and I shall be glad to par- take of any thing prepared by so charming a child as your daughter!” The Count’s age and that of the young girl, scarcely seventeen, ren- dered this compliment excusable, and the mo- ther took it in good part. “Yes,” said she, “ Rosalie is worthy of praise, for she is a good girl, and, since my poor husband died, my only consolation.”—* You are a widow then?’ ob- served the Count.—* Yes, Sir, several years; but I endeavour to be resigned to the will of Provi- dence, for her affection supports me; for,’’ added she, observing Rosalie was busy in hospitable . arraygements at the other end of the apartment, ** she will not marry, though she has a very goed offer from a respectable man, the baillie here: who has been very kind to us, out of pure friend- ship, as we thought at first, though it seems he wished to gain her for a wife; but he has not sufficient means to maintain me too, and Ro- salie declares she will not leave me, as, from a paralytic weakness in my hands, I am unfit for much work.” The Count was interested by this little narrative; and sat down to supper which was prepared by the white hands of Rosalie (for they were white and small), with a neatness delightful even to a fasti- dious eye, and as he gazed on her delicate and pe- culiar style of beauty, he thought her the pearl of cottage maidens. He had cares of his own which rendered his cheek pale and his eye thoughtful, but his rustic companions were struck with his fine and gentle countenance. “ I beg your par- don, Sir,” said Madame Surville, “ for looking at you so attentively, but 1 surely have seen one who strongly resembled you, though 1 cannot recal where.” Then after a pause, she suddenly, and as ifinvoluntarily,added—* Ah! now Iremem- ber!” But she stopped suddenly, and changed colour. The Count deemed that she recalled some painful recollections, and sought to divert the conversation, while he partook cheerfully of his simple repast—* Who plays on that instru- ment?” inquired he, pointing to a guitar which hung near.” —* My daughter,” answered Madame de Surville; “and if you please, Sir, she shall sing you the Evening Hymn as finish your supper.”-—“ I should be gratified indeed.” The obliging Rosalie, who had scarcely spoken, in- stantly fetched her guitar; and thotigh a faint blush streaked her fair cheek, sang, in a sweet but untaught voice, this EVENING HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. * See ! Evening sinks o’er hill and bower, Ave Maria! hear our pray’r, Pure as the dew-drop on the flower— As free from guilt, as free from care, May we thy guardian influence share. “ Bee! Winter’s Evening sets serene, Ave Maria! hear our pray’r; The snows that shine so dazzling sheen, May not with Virtue’s robe compare— This spotless vesture let us wear !"’

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THE GOLD CROSS. As Rosalie concluded, the Count observed her take what he thought a small cross from her bosom, and kiss it with much devotion. She then rose, and, hanging up her guitar, approached her mother, and tenderly embracing her, said she would go and prepare the gentleman’s apartment, and afterwards retire to rest. Her manner in saying this,and the modest curtsey with which she departed, delighted the Count. How supe- rior, thought he, is this simple maiden to most of our Paris Demoiselles. How soon a dancing- master and affectation would spoil that native elegance---yet how rare to find it in a cottage. “ You are then Catholics?” said he, turning to Madame de Surville.---‘* My dear Rosalie is, Sir, but I myself am a Protestant.”’---* That is rather surprising !’’ said the,Count, almost unconscious- ly.---His hostess sighed. ‘“* Yes!” said she, “ there is a good deal extraordinary in the events of my life, though they have been few and drawing to a close: for I am weakened by sorrow more than by age, and all that grieves me is to think I must leave my poor girl unprovided for.”---“ Have you no friends here ?” asked her pitying auditor. ---“* Scarcely any, Sir; for I have not been in this place many years. The baillie, indeed, pro- fesses love for Rosalie, but he is a widower, with children, and it is said he was not kind to his first wife. 1 should be loth to leave one so gentle to such protection.”—‘ True, indeed,” said the Count, “ she is a most interesting girl, and, from your account, very amiable. I wish I could be- friend her. I have a wife, a most excellent wo- man, who will arrive here probably to-morrow in our carriage. I think she will be extremely pleased with your Rosalie.”—‘ Any one might be pleased with her, though | say it who ought not, yet who has more right? She works day and night for my support, delicate as she has always been, and will work for the poor too, when she can do nothing else for them; but I must trust to Providence, who knows her virtues, to reward them !”—* All you have said,” replied the Count, “has excited in me much interest, and a desire to be of service to you both. Iam rich, and have, alas! little else to do with, my wealth than to make others happy. If you would confide to me, although a stranger, something of your situati and, if you feel free to do so, those peculiar circumstances to which you al- luded, if my power and good-will could assist you I should be inclined to offer both.”—‘ You are very kind, Sir; and there is something in your features,” added she, with a sigh, “ which almost makes me think I ought to confide in you, for in this lone place such an opportunity may never occur again of making a friend for my poor Ro- salie. 1 am sure I may trust to your honour never to reveal those’parts of my story I wish to remain secret, and which will still further affect your feelings for this excellent girl.” — Believe me,” said the Count, “as no idle curiosity, but a sin- cere wish to serve you, prompts my request, so with me your confidence will be sacred.” The good woman mused a little, wiped away some tears, and drawing her chair close to the fire, without further circumlocution, began her nar- rative in these terms :— “I will commence my tale at that period of my life which found me happy in the possession of all the moderate comforts of life, and still more so in the affection of an excellent husband, who owned a small competence, which, with his own industry and mine, sufficed our moderate wishes. We dwelt ina town of France, the name of which I need not mention. My husband was engaged abroad most of the day by his occu- pations, and my time was fully employed in su- perintending a school of young girls, the children of respectable, though not opulent parents, whom 1 instructed in the first rudiments of education. I may say with truth no couple bore a better cha- racter than ourselves, and my few scholars, (for I would not increase the number)were reckoned the best behaved, the healthiest, and most happy of all the daughters of our neighbours. It happened one evening, when they were all departed, and I was quite alone, my husband being detained later than usua¥; a sudden ring at the bell startled me, for my visitors were few and rare. Having but one servant I went to the door, myself, and was not a little surprised to see a lady of most neble appearance, well dressed, and leading a little girl, who appeared about three years old.” At this part of the narrative her auditor suddenly started. The good woman observed him not, but continued absorbed in recollection. ‘“‘ You may guess I made my best curtsey, not being used to see such fine Jadies in our town, and civilly inquired what business she would honour me with.— Allow me,’ said she, ‘ to speak to you a few moments alone in your parlour.’—-Though surprised, I of course assented, and led the way to an apartment I kept to cee any one who might call and wish to speak with me apart from my scholars. When | had offered the lady a chair she sat down, indeed she seemed scarcely able to stand, and, to my wonderment, began to be much agitated, and wept bitterly: for, though her veil covered her countenance, I could hear her violent sobs. At last she spoke.— Excuse me, Madam,’ said she; ‘I am a mothé?f, and my object here is to part with my little girl. Is the number of your scholars full ?’—Quite struck at the question from a lady of her consequence, I replied it was; and though honoured by her com- mands, I felt myself quite unequal to the task of bringing up a young lady who appeared of such high birth. At this my mysterious visitor seemed more distressed. Atlength, raising her veil, she discovered to my view a countenance—all my life will its surpassing beauty and sweetness be as it were imprinted on my very heart.— Ma- dam !’ said she, ‘ this is not what I meant to say; I have heard, from those who know you, of your extreme goodness of heart, your gentleness, your humanity to children. Unhappy circumstances, which 1 cannot explain, force me to join my hus- band, and leave our Only child behind me. I have, alas! no friends to confide her to—but the good are all friends ; those who act on the divine precepts of Christianity never can be strangers.

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THE GOLD CROSss. I have the means amply, liberally to recompense your care of her; but to the kindness, the up- rightness of your character, I trust, and do not wish to penetrate the mystery which must, alas! envelope an unfortunate wife forced to choose between the father and the child. Oh, Madam,’ she exclaimed, ‘ I am sure you feel for a distract- ed .mother; do not refuse my request! let me have the only consolation I can know in quitting this innocent—tender from her age and her sex —of leaving her with a worthy woman, one. who fears God, and who will therefore perform her duty to my child. I care not for accomplish- ments—teach her to be good and happy like your- self; judge by these tears whether I can covet external advantages for her when they have ren- dered her mother so unhappy.’—Seeing, by my silence, at once my emotion and indecision, the lady placed on the table a heavy purse of gold.— * This,’ said she, ‘ is to pay the first year of your charge—a similar sum annually shall be trans- mitted till the happy period when I may hope to claim her again.’—‘ Madam,’ said I,* suffer me to inform my husband.’— No,’ replied she, ‘ he- sitate not, pause not to do a good action—your ‘ heart telis you it is right. I swear before the awful Power, to whose protection I confide my child, I have told you the truth—more I cannot add. You shall hear from me. Accept this pre- — cious deposit,’ said she, looking at her lovely little girl, who smiled unconscious in her face; * by so doing, you will save a mother from despair —you will perform a deed which will sweeten your last moments, and no possible harm, but great benefit, may accrue to you and yours.’— Then, before I could prevent her, she threw her- self on her knees before me—she seized my hand, put into it the trembling one of the little girl, and was gone ere I had recovered from the stu- por of surprise.’”” The goed woman paused, much affected by her interesting account: for so it seemed by the sympathy of her auditor, whose deep-drawn sighs and pale cheeks now drew her attention. “ Proceed, I entreat you, Madam!” said he in a faint but eager voice, “‘ I have been a father, and your relation affects me.” Madame Surville bowed, and continued. “I will not dwell on my astonishment, or that of my husband, who was Somewhat displeased at the transaction, as, he said, no good could come from such mys- tery; but the sweet countenance of the little girl, and her grief for the absence of her mother, en- deared her to me, and I tried every means to console her. She had a little basket in her hand, containing afew plain but costly articles of cloth- ing. We were most perplexed as to what re- ligion we should bring her up in, being ourselves Protestants, though in a Catholic country. We had also some difficulty in accounting to our neighbours for this sudden increase of our fami- ly. As for making inquiries in the hope to dis- cover more of the child’s parents, we thought it both right and prudent to abstain. The little dear had received a severe and effectual caution herself against answering my questions; nor did there seem much to tell, but that she lived very retired in a small cottage, with her mother and an old lady, who was now dead. However, some of our doubts were ended in a few weeks, by the arrival of a packet containing more money, a letter, and some presents for the child. The letter was short—it thanked us in the name of two unfortunate parents for undertaking so im- portant a charge; committing her, with the strongest entreaties, to our tender care, and as- suring us we should be remunerated beyond our utmost expectations. One of the presents was a gold. cross, which, by her mother’s desire, has never since quitted Rosalie’s neck; she kisses it night and morning, and it is doubly the object of her devotion. We were told in the letter, ‘ her family’s religion was Catholic, and earnestly re- quested to bring her up in the same,’ which in- junction we have conscientiously followed. The other present was a miniature picture of a gen- tleman in uniform, whom we supposed to be her father: but this we were enjoined not to show her yet, as likely to raise too strong emotions in her young mind of wonder and regret, but to endea- vour to reconcile her to her situation, and bring her up at once with care and simplicity. Many a tear have I shed over the letter which breathed a mother’s love in every line—and the -picture, so noble, so manly. Excuse me, Sir, but I thought just now at supper it had some resem- blance to yourself.”—* Have you still that pic- ture, and will you let me see it?” asked stranger, in a hollow voice.—** Why, yes, Sir; it is so long ago, no harm can, I hope, come from showing it to a gentleman like you.” The good woman rose, unlocked a small closet near the fire-place, took out a little casket, and applying her finger to the spring, opened it, and discover- ed a miniature and aletter. She gave the Count both. He seized, and eagerly looked at the writ- ing of the letter, and it dropped from his nerve- less hand; then throwing himself into a chair, he covered his eyes, as though too much agitated to contemplate the portrait.—* Dear Sir,” said the widow, “‘ what moves you thus? Did you know our dear Rosalie’s parents? Can you tell me where they are?”—The Count raised his face, and bringing the picture nearer the light, “ Ex- cellent woman!” said he, “in this behold the image of what I was fourteen yearg ago, ere the sorrow of parting from an only child withered my youthful bosom.” Struck to the heart, Ma- dame de Surville first turned deadly pale, then directing her looks to heaven—‘t The Author of all Good be praised!” said she. “ If I must lose my dear adopted daughter, I shall at least place © her in the arms of her parents.’’—* Lose her!” exclaimed the Count, seizing her hand:—* No; you have been to hera mother too long to be less than a sister to me and my wife. With us and your dear Rosalie shall you end your life.” Let us pass over, however, these emotions of the first moments of surprise. When both parties had a little recovered composure, the Count de- clared his resolution to restrain his impatience, and defer declaring his affinity to his new found treasure until the arrival of her mother, by which

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THE GOLD CROSS. time Madame de Surville might have prepared Rosalie for the change. This worthy being could not repress her anxiety to be informed of the cixcumstances which had thus thrown his child on the protection of strangers. And as the Count felt it impossible for him to rest that night, he determined to satisfy her solicitude, though the ‘relation would prove a severe trial to his own feelings. “In me, my dear Madam!” said he, “ you behold one of the sad examples of the misery arising from ungoverned passions acting on an originally good heart, unregulated by priaciple. I was born to all the advantages of rank and luxury, the only and adored son of my father (for my poor mother died in my infancy, or her ten- der care might have softened my defects.) In- dulged, flattered, caressed, I became headstrong and impatient of control. My father, accustom- ed to gratify my boyish wishes, never reflected that a day might arrive when they would inter- fere with his own sentiments. With the same want of foresight he had brought up with me a female orphan, rather younger than myself, a distant relation of our family, and who being without fortune, was indebted to my father for an honourable education. Emelie de la Tour was—alas! I need not say what, for you beheld her—the unfortunate mother of Rosalie—when in the prime of her beauty, matchless as it was, ere grief had tarnished its splendour. To her extra- ordinary charms she joined sweetness, wit, and accomplishments. Yet my father never appeared to suspect it was impossible for me daily to be- hold without loving her. Her education, like my own, had been imperfect, gnd her feelings were strong though amiable. Neither of us seemed sensible that we had ™ right to dispose of our hearts and hands without consulting those who had a claim to our confidence. To shorten my painful tale, our mutual but innocent attach- ment was discovered by my father. Never shali I forget his displeasure—the thought of his son, the heir of all his honours, marrying a portionless orphan, seemed almost to drive him to madness. My poor Emilie was hurried away without my knowledge to a distant part of France, to stay with an old aunt previous to being immured in a convent. By extraordinary exertions I discovered her retreat, and managed secretly to correspond: with the idol of my soul. My father was pacified by her absence, and all might yet have been well, had not he unhappily proposed to me an immediate and illustrious marriage with another. Distracted at the bare idea, 1 however dissembled, but it was only to execute a plan which would render it for ever impossible fer me to marry any one but Emilie. By the plausible excuse of join- ing my regiment, I hurried to her, and thought myself the happiest of human beings when I had, by entreaties, and almost threats of ending my existence, prevailed upon her to consent to a private marriage, which I procured to be solem- nized. 1 afterwards returned to my father, while she continued with her aunt. What was my remorse for this hasty step, when, on my return, some disagreement between the two families had for ever broken off the dreaded match! Yet was Emily mine. We had won over her aunt to conceal our imprudence, and, through her con- trivance, we enjoyed many stolen hours of each other’s society, though empoisoned by conscious duplicity and disobedience to a parent. But when I became the father of a sweet little girl, my sensations were the most poignant—every smile of her’s was a dagger to my heart, and seemed to reproach me with my deceit towards the author of my days. But my earthly punish- ment was tocome. I adored my wife and child. In their caresses I tasted the only alleviation of my misery, when a sudden order of my regiment to a foreign and most unhealthy climate imposed on me the dreadful necessity of parting with all I loved—for to ask my wife to leave her Rosalie, or to take her to those pestilential shores, was im- possible. My aged, my injured father, too, I was forced to abandon, and this seemed to my re- pentant heart the severest stroke of all—for never might I again behold him—never make repara- tion for the days my unhappy passion had em- bittered. Thank Heaven! for his own peace, he knew not all my guilt—as for mine it seemed gone for ever. One consolation remained, I left my beloved and her child in the care of her ex- cellent aunt, and this a little reconciled me to my hurried departure, not even allowing me to breathe a painful adieu! What then were my feelings on learning by a letter that Emilie’s aunt lay a corse! Deprived of her only friend in her own country, she was determined to seek her sole protection in my arms, to share my dangers, and at least die together. Yet to expose her child’s tender age to the same dangers, wasmore than the heart of a mother could resolve. She happened to be well acquainted with one of your little pupils; had heard of your extreme kindness —the good character of your husband—and knowing no one else in whom she could confide, and the town where you lived being not more than ten miles from her abode, she fermed the wild plan of trusting her Rosalie to a good and benevolent stranger. Heaven has blessed her intention, and it will reward your fidelity. Let me briefly pass over the long, sad years we spent ‘abroad. My regiment was ordered home, and I returned with the resolution of throwing myself at my father’s feet, and confessing all, and en- treating forgiveness. Alas! I found him no more. With his dying breath he blessed my filial duty; and, at that awful moment, remembering the virtues of my Emilie, and believing her yet single, he left his consent to our union. My sor- row, and the deep repentance that accompanied it, [ cannet describe—my health, impaired by the climate, quite gave way. On my recovery from a severe fever, my first proposal was to set out immediately to claim that beloved child, who was the only tie we tloW possessed in our coun- try. Alas! how inestimably dear. Think then of the feelings of her doating mother, already faded by premature cares and regret—think of the anguish, of the remorse that rent my heart

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THE WONDERS OF PHYSIcSs. when on reaching the little town you had inha- bited, our utmost endeavours could find no trace of you. Three tedious years have been con- sumed in almost hopeless travelling through Franceand the neighbouring countries, in search of our lost treasure. And now, when my Emi- lie’s pale cheek and sunken eye tells the tale of hope deferred; when my spirits are so worn down by disappointment as scarcely to be able to cheer hers, Heaven, which has doubtless chastised us in its mercy, relents, and permits two erring, but sincerely penitent beings, to clasp to their bosom the pledge of early, sad, but mis- guided affection.”” The Count ceased, much affected, and evidently unable to continue.—* It is for me, dearest Sir,” said Madame de Surville, ** to fill up the blank in your narration, and ac- count for the mysterious disappearance of my little family. “ During a period of ten years we regularly reeeived your munificent allowance for the care of Rosalie. The last year of our remaining at F——, whether in consequence of the approach- ing removal of your regiment, or what othercause, you may perhaps explain, none reached us. It was indeed a year of calamity. [have mentioned our being Protestants, and we were now to find that to live in our own country and profess that religion was impossible. My scholars first drop- ped off; my husband’s employment was taken from him: we underwent numerous persecutions; and at last had cause to think our liberty, if not eur lives, in imminent danger. It was then we reaped the benefit of your generosity—the sums you had transmitted we had partly saved, intend- ing them as a little resource for the dear girl in case of our death. Necessity was urgent. We had, thanks to this store, the means of flight, but to do so with safety, it was necessary to leave no trace of oursteps. ‘This we felt very distressing on your account, but less so as not having heard for mearly two years, we feared you were no more, Our place of retreat was this village, where weghould have lived comfortably but for the villainy of an agent who robbed us of most of our treasure. My poor husband is gone, and I had no consolation left but the goodness of my adopted child, and the sweet thought, that should you ever claim her, she would be found in beauty, innocence, and virtue, worthy of any rank, ’ The evening following that which witnessed the arrival of the Count as a solitary traveller to ask the hospitality of Madame de Surville’s hearth, that hearth again blazed as brightly, but no longer were two figures alone seated be- side it. Next to his adored daughter sat the Count de Larive: she still wore the peasant’s cap, and simple bodice, but her cheek was bright with a joy it had never known before, and her eyes sparkled with an almost heavenly radiance as she leaned ‘on her fond father’s shoulder, and play- fully held up to him to kiss, the gold cross, which had never been absent from ‘her bosom since in childhood he had placed it there; and it had every day and night received the kisses of filial affec- tion when the dear donors were unknown. Op- posite them was the beautiful though faded form of the enraptured Emilie, as she gazed on the beloved pair, showing Madame de Sur- ville the well-known picture of her husband, now changed, but more endeared by time and sorrow. Imagination carried her back to former years, and though the remembrance of past errors and trials, caused a tear to dim the lustre of her eye, yet a smile beamed around her lip which told of hopes of Heaven’s forgiveness; and she felt its cheering influence confirmed as she saw her husband reverentially kiss, the symbol of the Gop Cross. EEE. THE WONDERS OF PHYSICS. Waar mere assertion will make any man be- lieve, that in one second of time, in one beat of the pendulum of a clock, a ray of light travels over 192,000 miles, and would, therefore, perform . the tour of the world in about the same time that it requires to wink with our eyelids, and in much less than a swift runner occupies in taking a single stride? What mortal can be made to be- lieve, without demonstration, that the sun is almost a million times larger than the earth ? and that, although so remote from us, that a cannon ball shot directly towards it, and maintaining its full speed, would be twenty years in reaching it, it yet affects the earth, by its attraction, in an in- appreciable instant of time? Who wouid not ask for demonstratigp, when told that a gnat’s wing, in its ordinary fight, beats many hundred times in a second? or, that th@e exist animated and regularly organized beings, many thousands of whose bo- dies, laid close together, would not extend an inch? But what are these to the astonishing truths which modern optical inquiries have dis- closed, which teach us, that every point of a me- dium through which a ray of light passes is affected with a succession of periodical move- ments, regularly recurring, at equal intervals, no less than 500 millions of millions of times in a single second! that it is by such movements, communicated to the nerves of the eyes, that we see; nay, more, that it is the difference, in the frequency of their recurrence, which affects us with the sense of the diversity of colour; that, for instance, in acquiring the sensation of red- ness, our eyes are affected 482 millions of mil- lions of times; of yellowness, 542 milliojs of millions of times; and of violet, 707 millions of millions of times per second. Do not such things sound more like the ravings of madmen than the sober conclusions of men in their waking senses? They are, nevertheless, con- clusions: to which any one may most certainly arrive, who will only be at the trouble of ex- amining the chain of reasoning by which they have been obtained.—Herschel’s Discourse on Natural Philosophy, in Dr. Lardner’s Cyclo- pedia, Vol. XIV,

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THE DEAD ENGINEER—TRUE BEAUTY. THE DEAD ENGINEER. Tue following anecdote, strongly illustrative of eastern superstition and eastern tyranny, is related in the MS. of Bishop Heber’s Journal. Some circumstances induced the editor to omit its publication, the prineipal of which was, that, as the king of Oude was then living, and was in the habit of making his aides-de-camp translate English books into Hindstanee for his informa- tion, she apprehended that the engineer, whose history it relates, might again fall under the power of the favourite. That fear having been removed by the king’s death and the immediate dismissal from power of Hukeem Mendee, the prime minister, she no longer hesitates to re- late it. ‘* Many whimsical stories are current in Lucknow respecting the foibles and blindness of the poor king, and the rascality of his favourite. His fondness for mechanics was very great. In trying some experiments of this nature, he fell in- with a Mussulman engineer of pleasing address and ready talent, as well as considerable though unimproved genius for -such pursuits. The king took so much delight in conversing with this man, that the minister began to fear a rising competitor, as well knowing that the mean- ness of his own birth and functions had been no obstacle to his advancement. He therefore sent the engineer word, ‘if he were wise to leave Lucknow.’ The poor man did so, removed to a place about ten miles down the river, and set up ashop there. The king, on inquiring after his humble friend was told that he was dead of cholera; ordered a gratuity to be sent to his wi- dow and children—and no more was said. Du- ring these last rains, however, the king sailed down the river in his brig of war, as far as the place where the new-shop stood: he was struck with the different signs of neatness and ingennity which he observed in passing—made his men draw into shore—and to his astonishment, saw the deceased engineer, who stood trembling, and with joined hands, to receive him. After a short explanation, he ordered him to come on board— returned in high anger to Lucknow—and calling the minister, asked him again if it were certain thatsuch a man was dead. ‘ Undoubtedly !’ was the reply. *I myself ascertained the fact, and conveyed your majesty’s bounty to the widow and children.’ ‘* Hurumzada,’ said the king, bursting into a fury— look there, and never see my face more!’ The vizier turned round and saw how matters were circumstanced. With a terrible glance, which the king could not see, but which spoke volumes to the poor engineer, he imposed silence on the. latter; then, a round again to his master, stopping his nose with many muttered exclamations of, ‘ God’ be _ Merciful! Satan is strong! In the name of God, keep the devil from me {he said—‘I hope your majesty has not touched the horrible object ?’— ‘ Touch him!’ said the king, ‘ the sight of him is enough to convince me of your rascality.’ ‘ Istu- firullah!” said the fayourife; ‘and does net your majesty perveive the strong smell of a dead car- cass!’ The king still stormed; but his voice fal- . faithful wife. tered, and curiosity and anxiety began te mingle with his indignation. ‘It is certain, refuge of the world!’ resumed the nvinister, ‘that your ma- jesty’s late engineer, with whom be peace! is dead and buried; but your slave knoweth not who hath stolen his body from the grave, or what vampire it is who now inhabits it to the terror of all good Mussulmans. Good were it, that he were run through with a sword before your ma- jesty’s face, if it were not unlucky to shed blood in the auspicious presence. I pray your majesty, dismiss us; I will see him conducted back to his grave; it may be that when that is opened he may enter it again peaceably. The king, confused and agitated, knew ndt what to say or order. The attendants led the terrified mechanic-out of the room; and the vizier, throwing him a purse, swore with a horrible oath, that, ‘ if he did not put himself on the other side of the company’s frontier before the next morning, if ever he trod the earth again, it should be as a vampire in- deed !’ This is, I think, no bad specimen of the manner in which an absolufe sovereign may be per- suaded out of his own senses.” pF TRUE BEAUTY. Ir is a low and degrading idea of that sex, «which was created to refine the joys, and soften © the cares of humanity, by the most agreeable participation, to consider them merely as objects of sight.- This is abridging themof their natural extent of power, to put them on a level with their pictures. How much nobler is the contempla- fion of beauty,-heightened by virtue, and com- manding our esteem and love, while it draws our observation ! ° How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, when compared with the real loveliness of innocence, piety, good humour and truth; virtues which add a new softness to sex, and even beautify beauty! That agreeable- ness which must have otherwise appeared no longer in the modest virgin, is now preserved in the tender mother, the prudent friend, and the Colours artfully spread upon can- vass, may entertain the eye, but not affect the heart; and she who takes no care to add to the natural graces of the person any excellent qua- lities, may be allowed still to amuse as a picture, but not to triumph as a beauty. When Adam is introduced by Milton describ- ing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel the impressions he felt upon seeing her at first creation, he does not represent her like a Gre- cian Venus by her shape or features, but by the lustre of her mind, which shone in them, and gave them the power of charming: Grace was in all her cnja, heav'n in her eye, In all her gestures dignity and love. Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair one ought to know, whatever. her glass may tell her to the contrary, that her most perfect features are uninformed and dead.

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STANZAS—THE APPEAL—ALPHONSINE. STANZAS. BY E. M. FITZGERALD. You ask me, gentle maiden, For a rhyme, as friendship’s boon, But my spirit is o’er laden, My heart is out of tune ; I may not breathe a poet’s vow, My music is a name, And it seldom breaks its slumber now, For beauty or for fame. Yet there are some who still can break * The spell that round it clings, And gleams of thought, that yet awake Sweet murmurings from the strings ; But then, with something of its old And long-forgotten art, Oh! there mingle tones that fall as cold As midnight on the heart. I hung it on.a blighted tree In a dream-remembered Jand, Where the waters ripple peacefully Tn their beauty to the strand ; Beside my own Ianthe's bower, Where I had traced her name, But from that most ill-omen'd hour, It never was the same. Yet, though its gayer notes be flown, My spirit doth rejoice, When I deem that visionary tone The echo of her voice ; For, like the voice of the evening breeze, When the autumn leaf it stirs, And a murmuring music is on the trees, Oh! just such a voice was her’s. Silent and sad, her tomb is there, And my early visions too ; But her spirit is lingering in the air, And her tears are in the dew : And the light of her maidenly mournful eyes On her bower hath never set, For it dwells in the stars, and it gleams from the skies, On a lonely bosom yet. THE APPEAL. By that power which in man The might of intellectual mind, Which all height and depth can scan, Still waves o’er that in woman shrined; The sky-aspiring sympathies That spurn this world’s realities, And from eager soul to soul Fly in fire without eontrol— Thee I summon to surrender To the hopes which in me burn, And drink feelings deep and tender Heart from heart, as from an urn! I listen to thy bird-like singing As to the music of some sphere, For in the depths of azure winging A hymning flight, which souls may hear That at midnight muse alone In a thought-world of their own; *Tis laden with ry deep, That falls like si w on me—and I weep! I look into thy deep blue eyes, And see thy soul reposing there, Like a rainbow in the skies; The creature of a smile and tear, -Arching o’er each azure sphere ; Oh! when shall love be closing there, Wearied with intense delight, As a blue flower in twilight ; Or star-fires when the moon doth peer ? I gaze upon them, till I sleep In an inebriate dream, and through my brain doth leap. A mighty torrent of imaginings, Full-starr’d with eyes and clothed with wings, All-seeing all-pervading— Excess of light my soul is shading! And unless thy heart accords That which love ne’er asks in words, ° My heart, even as my lyre, will lose its strings, And in dumb anguish die, like winter-stricken birds. T. W. For the Lady’s Book. ALPHONSINE. TRANSLATED AND ABRIDGED, WITH CONSIDERABLE ALTERATIONS, FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE GENLIs. BY MISS LESLIE. This story is the narrative of Diana, the mother of Alphonsine. I was born at Madrid, of an ancient and noble family, and was left an orphan and an heiress at the age of eighteen. In my twentieth year I married Don Pedro d’Almedor, with whom 1 lived in the mest perfect felicity for near sixteen months ; at which time my husband (who was an ad officer in the army) received orders to join his regiment in Flanders. Nothing could dissuade. me from accompany- ing him on his campaign,ithough I had an infant daughter but three months old. A battle took place immediately after our arrival at the’seat of war. I remained with my child and servants @t a village within view of the fatal field, trembling, and praying for the safety of my husband, who had taken leave of me in the morning, and before c2 noon was brought in mortally wounded. He was unable to speak, and expired in less than an hour, leaving me in an agony of affliction which can be better imagined than described. As soon as I was able to think, with any,thing like coherence, I resolved upon retiring to a castle that I possessed in the province of Cata- lonia, and which had been left to me by my ma- ternal grandfather; and in this retreat (which I had never yet visited) I purposed to devote my life to the care of my darling daughter, for whom my affection seemed redoubled since Lhad lost my husband. I had a cousin, the Count de Moncalde, a young nobleman whose extravagance had so im- paired his fortune, that he had little left except his title. He was heir to the estate of Montalvan, in Catalonia, and to the principal part of my

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ALPHONSINE. property, in case of surviving myself and my daughter. Shortly before our departure for Flanders, the Count de Moncalde had given some offence to the king, for which he was exiled from court ; and he requested us to allow him to live during our absence at the castle of Montalvan, which we intended to make our chief residence after our return, and he proposed to superintend the repairs that were necessary for that purpose. When I could compose my thoughts sufficient- ly to write, I sent a letter to the Count de Mon- calde, requesting him to.meet me at Brussels, and escort me on my melancholy journey back to Spain. He came; and by his persuasion I was induced to consent to return by sea, as he had heard of a vessel about to sail from Dieppe to Bilboa, from which port we could soon reach the castle in Catalonia. I was determined to go thither at once, as I could not then-bear the idea of revisiting my house in Madrid, and seeing again the place where I had enjoyed so much happiness with my lamented husband. We arrived safely at Bilboa, after a short pas- sage, in which, however, we encountered a vio- lent storm, and narrowly escaped shipwreck. I brought with me from Flanders, as servants, a young man and his wife, neither of whom could speak Spanish; but I was obliged to hire them, as I could get no others to accompany me, the women I had taken from Spain having chosen to remain, in consequence of marrying two Flem- ish farmers; and my husband’s valet had, soon after his master’s death, robbed me of some valuable jewels and ran away. When we landed at Bilboa, the Count de Moncalde proposed that I should rest there a few days, to recover from the fatigue of the voy- age, and till he had written to Leonora, the housekeeper at the castle of Montalvan, to have every thing in readiness for my reception. This Leonora had been placed there at the recom- mendation of the Count. She had been his nurse, and had always lived among his relations. I thought this delay unnecessary; but I was so dejected and dispirited, that I had not energy to offer any objection ; and, during the few days of our stay at Bilboa,I never went out of the inn at which we lodged. At length we proceeded on our journey in a carriage purchased at Bilboa—the Flemish man- servant following behind on horseback. We travelled slowly, and, passing through the north- ern part of Navarre, and Arragon, we entered Catalonia, which is bounded on the east by the Mediterranean, not far from which is situated the castle of Montalvan. On the last evening of our journey, we stopped to rest at a village which the Count told me was twelve miles from Montalvan. I was much fatigued, and very desirous of remaining at the inn till the next day; but the Count, to my great surprise, said that he had made his arrangements to reach the castle that night; and there was something in his tone and look that awed me too much to offer any further objection. The Count had that day, at the place where we stopped to dine, quarrelled with the coachman whom he had hired at Bilboa, and dismissed him upon the spot; determining to drive the carriage himself, rather than to run the risk of employing a stranger. The inn at which we took our supper, was a soli- tary wild looking place amid tremendous moun- tains, and the people about it seemed sunk in ignorance and stupidity; still, I felt so wretch- ed, that I would gladly have remained there till morning. We travelled on, and, as we approached the castle, my dejection increased. My child had long since gone to sleep in the arms of her nurse, the Flemish wornan. About midnight we perceived by the light of the stars, the battlements of the castle; but, in- stead of entering at the great front gate, we drove round to the back of the building, and stopped ata little door scarcely perceptible in the wall. The Count alighted, and first assisted Katrina to get out of the carriage, with the child in her arms. He told me to sit still, and he would come back for me in a few moments; and then desiring Martin, the man-servant, to follow, they all entered the castle—the Count having first shut the door of the carriage upon me. I sat there, bewildered, trembling, and dreading I knew not what. At last the Count returned, and lifted me from the coach. I inquired eagerly for my child. “ She is safe,” replied he, *“* Katrina is preparing to put her to bed.” I begged to be taken to her immediately. He led me into a dark narrow pas- sage, where a tall masculine woman, apparently about fifty, stood waiting with a lantern. “ This,” said the Count, “ is Leonora, my faith- ful nurse, and now your house-keeper.” He took the lantern from her, and conducted me to a chamber, where I found a handsome bed and acot. I again asked for my child. “I tell you once more,” said he, “ that she is safe, and with Katrina.” ‘“ But I must see her,” said I. * You cannot,” he replied. “ She is by this time asleep, and in another part of the castle. Content your- self without her till morning.” I implored him to have my infant brought to me, or to allow me to go toher. He was inexorable—exhorting me to compose myself, and endeavour to obtain a good night’s rest; and promising me that I should certainly see my child in the morning. He went away, and I threw myself on the bed, drowned in tears, and unable to taste any of the refreshments that Leonora had brought me. I entreated this woman to show me where ‘my child was, and to take me toher. She replied, that she had orders not to allow me to leave the chamber. In vain I pressed her to tell me the rea- son. She refused to answer my enquiries, but told me that she herself was to sleep in my room. I remarked at the other end of the chamber a door, that I tried to open, but could not. “ That door,” said Leonora, “ leads to a cavern that has an outlet into the garden. There are under the castle vast vaults, which were constructed ages ago as places of refuge in time of war. Do you

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ae + ALPHONSINE. 203 wish to see them? they are very curious. That door opens into a gallery, which will conduct us to a staircase, by whicly we can descend into these caverns.” At these words, she drew from her pocket a large key, tied with a blue ribbon, and advanced towards the door, as if to open it. I stopped her, for I was overcome with grief and fatigue, and had no desire to explore the vaults at that late hour. I again threw myself on the bed, and, in an agony of tears, implored Leonora to let me see my child. At last she said—“ You cannot see her. IfI must tell the truth, the Count has already conveyed Katrina, with the child, and Martin, to a little cottage which has been pre- pared for them in the forest beyond the castle, where they will live with the infant, (which is to pass for theirs,) and you must be satisfied to re- main in confinement. The Count has brought you here in secret, but he wishes every one to suppose that you and your infant perished in the storm on your voyage to Bilboa. Do you not understand, that at your death (whether real or supposed) your cousin, the Count, inherits this estate, and nearly all your other property? Is it then surprising that he should wish to put you out of the way?” I scarcely heard to the end of this dreadful communication, before my senses deserted me, and I sank into a fainting fit. When I recover- ed, I found that Leonora, who was standing beside the bed, had undrest me; and, in a pe- remptory tone, she ordered me to cease my com- plaints, and let her go to sleep, or that I should have cause to repent it. She then drew the cur- tains of my bed, and prepared to retire to her own. [ lay gazing at her through the curtains, but not conscious of any thing I saw, so much was I absorbed in my own grief, till I observed. her take out of her pocket the key with the blue rib- bon, and put it in the drawer of a small table that stood near her cot. I was suddenly struck with the thought, that if I cou! possess myself of this key, I might unlock with it the door that led to the vault, which 1 recollected her telling me had an outlet to the garden. Through these caverns I hoped to be able to make my escape ; intending to seek the cottage to which my child had been sent, and to endeavour to engage Mar- tin and Katrina to assist me in flying with my infant to some place of refuge, where we should be safe from the power of the Count. This plan once conceived, I revolved it in my miné till I had arranged it so that I could not but hope it would be successful. I saw Leonora light the night lamp, sit it in the chimney, and afterwards go to bed. In about a quarter of an hour I knew by her breathing that she was ina sound sleep. I then rose and drest myself as softly as possible, and opening one of my trunks, I took from it my money and a few jewels, and concealed them about my clothes. My large jewel-box had been seized by Leonora, Almost as soon as I arrived, and she had carried it out of the room on pretence of locking it up. 1 had with me a little dog, which had been given me by my husband, and which I now loved next to my child, and I could not think of leaving Azor behind. I awoke him by my caresses, and made signs that he must be perfectly quiet. The faith- ful animal understood me, and lay with his head upon his forepaws, watching me intently, but not presuming to move. I approached on tiptoe the table that stood by Leonora’s bed; my heart throbbing so violently that I could scarcely breathe. I opened the drawer, and took out the key. I went to the door that communicated with the gallery: I put the key into the lock, which opened easily, and without the least noise. I took a lighted taper in my hand, and my dog under my arm, and passed through the door, which I closed after me, and it made no sound whatever. After going down a flight of stairs, I found my- self in a long narrow gallery, at the end of which I saw another door that was fastened only by a hook and a loop of iron. I opened it without difficulty, and saw a long staircase, which I cau- tiously descended. It had more than two hun- dred steps; and when I reached the bottom, I found myself in a vault or cavern of prodigious extent, in which I hoped to discover the outlet into the garden. I wandered a long time about the lower part * of the cavern, but finding no opening, I direct- ed my steps towards the other extremity, which gradually ascended. I walked slowly, and looked round attentively on every side, when suddenly I heard the murmur of falling water. This sound made me start with joy, for I doubted not that it came from the garden, and that the outlet of the cavern was near. I turned to the right, and I entered a recess formed by walls of rugged rock. Here I found a cascade or fountain descending from an immense height near the top of the cave, and falling behind an enormous mass of broken rocks, where the water probably precipitating itself down a slope, opened a passage through the stones, and trickled out into the garden. All my search for an aperture through which I might escape, proving ineffectual, I left the re- cess and found my way to the fourth of these vast vaults. After walking some distance, I was sur- prised to find under my feet a straw matting, and to see that not only the floor was covered with it, but also the walls. I advanced, but my surprise was redoubled when I found a carpet spread over the matting. I hastened to the ex- tremity of the vault, and stood motionless with amazement on perceiving a bed, an easy-chair, (but no other seat.) a foot-stool, and a table, on which was placed a decanter of water, a goblet, a cup, a knife, fork, and spoon, a pile of plates, and a large basket filled with fruit and other re- freshments. At the foot of the bed was an enor- mous chest half open; I cast my eyes into it, and saw that it was full of clothes and linen: I was seized with a fit of trembling, and witha shaking hand I set my taper on the table. «I fell into the chair, exclaiming—* Oh! for whom has this gloomy dwelling been prepared? and I see | no opening to get out of the cavern—there is

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ALPHONSINE. surely none!” This conviction made me shudder. “ But,” I said, “I will search again.” } rose, and looking towards the table, I perceived a paper placed near the basket. My hair stood on end with horror as I fell back in the seat and read these words, written in the hand of the Count de Moncalde, and addressed to me :— “This cavern has but one single entrance, which is now closed, and will never open again for you. You will every day find your food at the foot of the stair-case, in a basket attached to a rope, by which it will be let down through a wicket made in the door at the top of the stairs. By this means the Count de Moncalde will be- come the possessor of nearly all your wealth.” I sat petrified with astonishment and horror. At this moment my taper burnt out, and the deep gloom that surrounded me added to my despair. I felt as if my blood no longer circu- lated in my veins, and as if all my faculties were suspended. I had but one thought, and that was fixed on these terrible words—“ The door of this cavern will never open again for you!” An intense thirst roused me from this state of stupor. I felt for the decanter of water, and drank with avidity; but in a moment I found myself so ill that I feared the water had been poisoned. However, I grew better after awhile, and my apprehensions of death subsided. I pressed the spring of my repeating-watch, and found that it was six o’clock in the morning. * Alas!” I exclaimed, “ day-light has long since appeared, but I shall see it no mcere. The sun has risen, but never again will it shine on me!” As I said these words, my dog, who had been asleep at my feet, awoke, and rising on his hind legs, began to lick my hands. I melted into tears when I thought that this poor animal was the only living creature from whom I could in future receive any tokens of affection, for I had no hope of ever seeing my child again. Still I believed, that wicked as the Count was, he could not have the heart to injure my innocent infant. I wept long and bitterly, and in consequence felt a little relieved, for hitherto the excess of my anguish had made me unable to shed a tear. At eight o’clock I again caused my watch to strike. A moment afterwards my dog, who was running about the cavern, began to bark. I trembled, and suddenly a loud voice resounded through the vaults. It was Leonora, who, with the aid of a speaking-trumpet, called me to the wicket I comprehended that she had brought me food; but, in this profound darkness I was a long time finding the door, though I was guided by my dog, who ran before me, and by the voice which several times repeated my name. Before I arrived at the wicket, I perceived with joy a faint light, and I began to flatter my- self that the door was open, and that perhaps I was about to be restored to liberty; but all was secured fast, and Leonora, on hearing me ap- proach, immediately hastened away. I found a basket fastened to a thick cord, and containing some food anda lighted lamp. Anxiously as I had wished for a light, this lamp at first redou- bled my horror, as it showed me my gloomy ha- bitation; and casting my eyes around me, I saw at one view the whole of my fatal destiny. How- ever, I took up the basket and carried it to the end of the cavern that contained my bed, and which I afterwards called my chamber. On examining the basket, I found a note from Leonora, in which she said not a word of my child; but desired me to tie, every evening, the empty basket to‘the ccrd. She informed me, also, that in future she would not call me; but, that every two days, at five o’clock in the morning, the basket, filled with provisions, would be de- posited at the foot of the stair-case. The style of this billet convinced me thatmy fate was irrevocably fixed. Indeed I could scarcely doubt it when I saw with what deliberate care the cavern had been prepared, and the vari- ous arrangements that had been made for my re- sidence there. This idea froze me with horro : and I sat motionless in my chair, looking with fix- ed eyes and a heart chilled with consternation on the bed where I was to sleep till my last hour. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “is it on this dreadful bed that I am in future to pass all my nights? How can I hope to sleep; and if I forget myself for awhile in slumber, how miserable will be my awaking! And my child, my Alphonsine, shall I never see her more? Shall I never again hold her in my arms, and press her to my heart? Must she pass her life in ignorance and obscu- rity as the child of two menials? or, rather, will she be allowed to live at all? And if she should be permitted to exist, she will grow up without knowing her unfortunate mother, unconscious of my sufferings and my fate. Far from my child I shall breathe my last sigh in this melancholy soli- tude. No friendly hand will close my eyes; and, perhaps, even my lifeless remains will moulder here, forgotten!” and at this thought a cold per- spiration covered my forehead. Thus passed my first miserable day. Towards evening I felt so much exhausted that I was obliged to lie down. I shed a torrent of tears as I placed myself on the bed: I felt as if I was taking possession of my tomb. I laid my dog Azor at my feet, and after a long time 1 sunk into a disturbed and feverish slumber. 1 did not rise till nine the next morning, for to me there was no longer any distinction between day and night. My lamp was still burning, as before 1 went to bed I had replenished it, for I had found in a sort of closet near my bed, several sorts of provisions that I had not discovered be- fore, with two large bottles of oil, and several pounds of wax candles. Though I had been informed that I should re- ceive my supply of fresh food only every other day, I could not help going to the wicket, and I saw that the basket had not yet been drawn up. I had no reason to expect any thing, and I had more than sufficient food for that day; neverthe- less, the sight of the empty basket filled me with consternation, and brought frightful thoughts into my mind. I trembled when | reflected that my existence depended on the will of an atrocious

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ALPHONSINE. - = man, or on the neglect of a mercenary woman who was devoted to him. ; I passed the day in thinking of my child, in lamenting my hard fate, and in anxiously exa- mining every part of the cavern. 1 lifted upa piece of the matting that covered the wall, and I felt a sensation like joy on discovering a vault which I had not yet seen. Again I hoped to find anoutlet. I had to descend about thirty steps to reach the bottom of this cavern; and before I could resolve to venture down, J went back to my chamber, where I procured from the closet a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, and two wax tapers. Then I returned to the entrance of this new vault; and, as I looked down into its depth, it seemed so gloomy, and its walls were so’black, that a feeling of terror made me stop on the first step of the staircase. But I summoned courage, and, on descending the steps, I found nothing in this vault but a deep well, which appeared to be now dry. I returned to my chamber, where I examined all the furniture, and discovered another closet containing drawing materials, books, music, and a guitar. To offer mea musical instrument in this dismal dungeon, seemed like a cruel mock- ery; however, this guitar became most precious to me in the sequel. But I was agreeably sur- prised to find writing implements in the drawer of the table. I determined immediately to ad- dress a letter to the Count de Moncalde, and place it in the basket that was to be drawn up next day. In effect I wrote to my persecutor a long let- ter, in which I implored him to give me my liberty, and restore to me my child; and to send us under a feigned name to France or Italy, pledging myself never to disclose the cause I had to complain of him. In this epistle I exerted all my eloquence; and I hoped so much from it, that after it was written I became more tranquil. I went to bed early; I slept quietly, and was awakened at five o’clock in the morning by the barking of Azor, which announced to me that Leonora was at the wicket. I rose hastily, threw on a wrapper, and ran to the foot of the stairs, where I saw the basket already let down and full of provisions. I emptied it, and put in the letter; but I expected to wait several days for an answer, and I allowed myself to hope that the door of the cavern would be opened for me about the end of the week. As the time approached when [ anticipated a reply, I felt my hopes diminish. At last I saw the basket descend, and a letter in it inclosed in an envelope, which 1 tore open, and found my own letter to the Count still sealed, and a billet from Leonora containing these words :— ** My lord, the Count, is at Madrid. He has forbidden me to send him any letter or communi- cation from you, not even the smallest message. He has ordered me to declare to you, if you make any attempt of this kind, that your fate is immovably fixed, and that nothing in the uni- verse can changeit. He has gone too far to re- cede, He will not give up your property, of which he is now in possession; nor will he run the risk of setting you at liberty, lest you should disclose what has already passed. It is now be- lieved that you and your infant perished at sea, and that Alphonsine is the child of the Flemish servants. She is well, and is still with them in the cottage. Consider her as dead to you, for you will never see her more.” Indignation and resentment for awhile sus- pended my anguish on reading this cruel billet; I called to mind with more bitterness than ever, the artifice which had allured me into entering the dungeon that had been prepared for me, and which was destined to be my tomb. J shuddered on reflecting how much I was in the power of Leonora. However, it was some consolation to me to recollect that I had money with me, and some valuable jewels; and I hoped that I might bribe her to write to the Count, and tell him what I had urged in my letter. I resolved to speak to Leonora, through the wicket; and the day after the next, I waited there at five in the morning. As soon as the basket descended, I called Leo- nora, and she answered me. The sound of her voice made me start. Still, after being a pri- soner for a week, and confined in this dreary soli- tude, I heard with pleasure the tones of a human being. Leonora told me that she had been or- dered not to speak to me, and that in future she would return no answer when I called her. 1 im- plored her at least to tell me something of my child, and she made no reply, and departed pre- cipitately. Iremained almost annihilated. How could I offer jewels or money to this pitiless goaler? I passed my days most wretchedly in thinking of my captivity, and in weeping for my separa- tion from my child. I tried to read, but I found it impossible. The books were all romances; and how could 1 be interested in the woes of fic- titious characters, when my own sufferings were so real and so great. Once I summoned cou- rage to take the guitar, for which there was a supply of strings and music, and placing before me a book of songs, 1 began to sing one; but as soon asI heard my voice resound through these dark and lonely vaults, I started and stop- ped. I felt as if it were sinful in my distress to sing any thing but sacred music. I commenced a hymn, but my tears soon choaked my voice. I walked about these vast caverns, carrying a small lantern that’I had found in the closet. When I became tired of carrying this lantern, I set it on the ground and walked in the space it lighted. Insensibly my walk extended far- ther; and thus, without intending it, I acquired the habit of walking in darkness. I went every evening to offer up my prayers in the cave of the fountain. The motion and mur- mur of the water rendered this the most agree- able place in my dungeon; and, independent of the cascade, the form of the rocks around it was striking and picturesque. I wrote to Leonora to send me some religious books, and to tell me if my child was well. Both these requests were granted; and I was happy to

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ALPHONSINE. hear that my unconscious babe did not suffer from being separated from her unhappy mother. Then I ventured to put in the basket five pieces of gold, with a billet in which I thanked Leonora, and gave her to understand that I had the means of rewarding still better, any kindness she might be disposed to show me. My present was very well received, and Leonora sent me a civil answer; in which, however, she repeated that she would always remain faithful to what she called her duty. But I pined incessantly to see my child, and in a few days, feeling myself extremely ill and fe- verish, I wrote to Leonora, entreating her to come down to me, and I accompanied this re- quest with a pearl-ring. I was lying on my bed when the barking of my dog announced her ar- rival at the wicket. I quieted him and listened, and in the deep silence of the cavern, I heard afar the steps of Leonora. The sound made my heart beat violently, for in a few minutes I should again seea human being. She appeared at last; and I was affected to tears, and held out my arms to her. She carried in one hand a lantern, and in the other a basket filled with biscuits, bottles of wine and syrups. Her coarse and masculine face looked more forbidding than ever; no ray of pity, no trace of feeling softened its cold and harsh expression. She seated herself by my bed- side, and in a severe tone enquired about my ill- ness. I could not answer her; my voice was suffocated with sobs. Leonora felt my pulse, and then said I had no fever. She rose to leave me, and I seized her gown to detain her. I then protested that I could not live in this dungeon, deprived of my child, and shut out from the light of day and the air of heaven. I besought her to take pity on me, and to give me my liberty and restore to me my infant, for which I would most amply reward her. At these words, Leonora fiercely interrupted me, as if I had proposed to her a crime. 1 still persevered in my entreaties, and promised to settle on her, when I resumed my property, a much larger pension than the Count would ever grant her, and to present her besides with an immense sum of money. ‘“ But,’ said Leonora, ** how shall I be sure you will do all this?” “ My gratitude,” reptied I, “* shall guarantee the cer- tainty of your reward.” ‘“ But even,” resumed Leonora, “ if it was possible for you to forget what you have already suffered, and that it was I that betrayed you into this dungeon, (in obedi- ence, however, to the orders of the Count,) how will you shield me from the indignation of the world. I cannot restore you now to liberty without risking the loss of my own, and without betraying the Count my master, and subjecting him to the punishment of the laws. Therefore, cease to cherish this foolish hope, and never again speak to me on the subject, or I shall be obliged to inform the Count, and then you will be treated with far more rigour than hereto- fore.” So saying, Leonora rose to depart. She left me petrifred with grief and disappointment. Suddenly an extravagant thought restored to me all my energy. I conceived the design of run- ning after my jailer, and escaping through the door by which she was to pass. I flew from my chamber; I heard the heavy step of Leonora, and I followed the sound. My dog, who ran after me barking, prevented Leonora from hearing me behind her, and my feet being bare, they made but little noise. I soon perceived the light of the lantern that Leonora carried, and speedily overtaking her, 1 arrived at the first door of the cavern at the same time that she did, being just behind her. With a palpitating heart I saw her take the key, apply it to the lock and open the door; then at the mo- ment she passed through, I sprung out with her, so impetuously that I threw her down on the stairs. Emboldened by this first success, I darted up the staircase with the rapidity of lightning, and in a moment I reached the door at the top. Alas! it was fast. In vain did I shake the lock; my feeble hands had not strength to force it open. Leonora, furious at my attempting to escape and enraged at her fall, ran up in a moment, and threw her- self upon me like a lioness seizing her prey. 1 made a desperate struggle which encreased her anger. She held me in her strong muscular arms, and tearing my handkerchief from my neck,-.she used it to tie my hands behind my back. I made the vaults resound with my shrieks, and over- come with despair I fainted on the shoulder of my cruel enemy. She carried me to my bed, untied my hands and left me to recover my senses as 1 could. On opening my cyes I found myself again in my frightful solitude. The profound silence of the cavern made me shudder. My dog slept tranquilly beside me. I was in such a deplorable state of nervous depression, that his sleeping while I suffered so much, seemed to add to my grief, and I awoke him. I felt myself bruised all over, and my hands bore the marks of Leo- nora’s brutality; I showed them to my dog: he licked the bruises, and while this poor animal caressed me and seemed to share my sorrows, * wept sadly but not vehemently, for I was now so weak and so overcome with fatigue that I could do nothing with energy. My mind seemed en- feebled with my body, and for several days I lay on the bed in a state of apathy. 1 had frujt, wa- ter, and lemon-syrup on the table, and during all that time I did not go to the wicket. When I visited it again, I found two baskets instead of one, but neither of them contained any thing but bread. In each was a note from Leonora. In the first, she said, that to punish me for abusing her condescension, she would give me nothing but bread for two weeks, and that no pretence of sickness on my part, should induce her to visit me again. In the second, she told me that the Count had returned from Madrid, and was so incensed when she informed him of my attempt to escape, that he was going to have the door that led to the cavern walled up, on pretence of its furnishing a retreat for thieves.

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ALPHONSINE. 207 She said nothing of my Alphonsine, and I crept back to my bed overwhelmed with despair. Next day, 1 heard my dog barking violently, and on going towards the stair-case, how was I shocked to hear the sound of workmen walling up thedoor. I now felt, indeed, as if I was to be buried alive. 1 had no longer any hope, and I sunk into a most deplorable state of melancholy, for several days passing nearly my whole time on my bed. The basket was now let down through a trap- door, and at the end of a fortnight I received again a supply of my former food, and a bottle of oil. “I bribed Leonora with a second sum of money to tell me how my daughter was, and to furnish me witly a crucifix and some more books, among which were the lives of the most noted hermits; and in reading of the piety and tranquil- lity of these holy men, secluded from the world in the solitude of the wilderness, I felt my mind somewhat calmed. But alas! they were not like me, deprived of an only and beloved child, and shut out from the light of day, and from the en- joyment of contemplating the lovely face of nature. I made an oratory of the grotto in which was the cascade. I placed there my crucifix, affix- ing it to the rock beside the fountain. I spread a straw mat on the ground before it, and there I knelt in prayer every morning and evening. I obtained from Leonora a large quantity of moss, with which 1 covered a low rock that formed a convenient seat; and there I sat and tried to read; but too generally my thoughts wandered from my book and dwelt only on my Alphonsine, and on my sad captivity. YetI felt that if my child could be with me, all the evils of my imprison- ment might be borne with patience; and it was my daily and hourly prayer that she might by some means be restored to me. At last, that prayer was granted. What was my rapture on receiving one morn- ing from Leonora, a billet, with these words. “ It _ is difficult to know how to dispose of the child, as her increasing likeness to you and to her fa- ‘ ther, must eventually betray her origin. Some of the servants at the castle have frequently seen you and your late husband, when they accom- panied your grandfather on his visits to Madrid, and there are . several families in the neighbour. hood, who knew you in that city. Beside which, there are in the saloon, portraits of yourself and Don Pedro, painted for your grandfather shortly before his death. Alphonsine already resembles both these portraits, and the resemblance has been remarked by persons who have happened to see her at the cottage in the forest. “ Her death would remove much uneasiness from the mind of the Count; and 1 will not dis- guise from you, that he thinks that event may be | accelerated, by immuring her in the vaults that | form your prison. She is now ‘0 healthy. He has determined to restore her to you, and this evening at eight o’clock, you will find her in the basket. The Count leaves the castle to-night, and returns to Madrid; but he will first go to the nearest sea-port, taking with him Martin and Katrina, for whose services he has no farther occasion, and whom he will ship immediately for their native country.’’ So great was my transport on finding that I was again to see my child and to have her with me, that I could scarcely read to the end of the note. Still, how bitter was my indignation at the cruelty of the motive that had at last induced the Count to make my infant the partner of my captivity. “ But she shall notdie,” I exclaimed, ‘“* T will watch her too carefully; and the bless- ing of Heaven will aid my efforts to preserve her existence in this dreary dungeon. We will be the whole world to each other, and even in this dismal solitude we may be happy.” How did I long for the approach of evening. The day passed in one continual thought of my child; and two hours before the appointed time, I was waiting in the outer cavern with my eyes steadily fixed on the trap-door. AtlengthI saw it open—the basket began to descend—I heard the cry of my Alphonsine—I saw her little hands extended—I flew to her—I held her again in my arms, and I was once more the happiest of wo- men. I thought not then of the sad privations this unfortunate child must endure, in these gloomy and lonely vaults—I thought only of the felicity of having her with me; and I kissed her a thousand times and bathed her innocent face with tears of joy. I found her considerably grown, and plump and rosy beyond my most san- guine hopes. I carried her to my chamber, and laid her on the bed, while I prepared some bread and milk for her; but I turned my head every moment to look at her as she gazed around in infant wonder, at the new and strange place in which she found herseli Her eyes were fre- quently fixed on me, and it grieved me to think that she was unconscious of my being her mother. * But she will soon know me,” said I, “ and she will know only me.” I fed her, and was delight- ed to find that she ate with an excellent appetite, and then, after I had a long time indulged myself in caressing her, I undressed her and put her to bed. I had found a supply of her clothes in the. bottom of the basket. That happy night I had no desire to sleep--I had too much pleasure in looking at her as she slumbered by my side. No words can express my felicity after my daughter was restored to me. I had now some- thing to attach me to life and to make every mo- ment interesting. I anticipated the delight of seeing her walk and play, and of hearing her innocent little talk. I already formed plans for her education, and for teaching her accomplish- ments that would diversify the monotony of her lonely and secluded life. At present I could only caress her, and devote my whole attention to her health and comfort. I held her on my lap as I ate; I walked with her in my arms; and if she was awake, I carried her to the oratory when I went there to pray. Having to leave her on the bed when I went to the outer cavern to get the basket of food, I hastened back imme- diately lest she should cry in my absence.

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208 ALPHONSINE. Devoted entirely to the care of my Alphonsine 1 had but little time to read or to draw, and I détermined not to play again on the guitar till she was old enough to take pleasure in the sound of music. I made one day in the cave of the fountain a discovery which transported me with joy. Being in my oratory, 1 wished to wipe off from the cru- cifix some stains caused by the vapour of the water. I held my handkerchief in one hand and my taper in the other, when I perceived the flame of the taper begin to waver, and I felt on my hand a blast of fresh air which came through the crevices of the rock. I was transported with joy at even this little symptom of communication with the upper world. My first thought was to run for my child whom I had left asleep on the bed, and to bring her to breathe this fresh air, which I supposed came from the fields or gar- dens, and passed over flowers and verdure. I was holding Alphonsine near the rock when Azor began to bark. I was much surprised, as it was not the hour of Leonora’s visit to the trap- door. 1 ran thither as soon as [ had laid my child on the bed. I found the basket as usual, and it contained a billet from Leonora. 1 open- ed it trembling, and read the following words. “ T have received positive orders from my lord the Count to allow you no more light. You have still some oil and wax remaining of your former supply. Manage it well, for it is the last you will ever have.” This terrible decree fell on me like a thunder- bolt. I supposed that the Count tired of the ex- istence of myself and my infant, and not being able to bring his mind or Leonora’s to the reso- lution of destroying us at once, had devised this mode of adding an insupportable privation to the misery of our captivity, in the hope that our sufferings from the want of light would slowly, but surely, put an end to our unhappy lives. At first, I could not conceive the possibility of living in total darkness; and supposing, even, that it was possible, what would such a life be for my unfortunate child. Without light how could I t@#ke care of Alphonsine? how could I bring her through the term of her infancy ? what would become of her if she should be sick! These thoughts seemed to tear me to pieces. However I recollected that the existence of my daughter depended on my fortitude and ingenuity, and | tried to sustain myself under this last dreadful blow. Instead of dwelling only on the horror of this new situation, I endeavoured to think of seeking the means to ameliorate it. 1 had only remaining six pounds of wax tapers and one bottle of oil. How bitterly I regretted that my child would in future be like a blind person, and that her eyes would never open but on total darkness. To prevent her from griev- ing after a blessing she could not hope to enjoy, I thought it would be best to let her know nething about the light she was never to see, and the world she was never to visit. How few then would be her ideas. And now that I could not have the happiness of teaching her to read, to write, to sew or to draw, I should have but scanty means of instructing or arnusing her. Nothing calms the feelings like the necessity of active employment, and I was obliged imme- diately to commence making preparations for a life of darkness. I arranged my chamber, my closets, amd my chest in such a manner that without a light 1 could find whatever I wanied. 1 could already go to the oratory in the dark, and I had counted the number of steps that descend- ed to the cavern of the well. I placed my table and my other furniture in such a way as not te impede my progress when I walked. I set aside in one of the closets the six poundsef wax-can- dles, determined to reserve them carefully for unforeseen emergencies when I should have in- dispensable occasion for them, and I proposed to use the oil to light me while 1 was making clothes for my Alphonsine, intending to cut them out of different sizes so as to last till she was four or five years old; and I made little shoes for her out of my own. Leonora had some time since refused to supply me with any articles of clothing for my child, as she said she could not get them made without exciting suspicion; and for the same reason she would not allow me to send up Al- phonsine’s things in the basket to be washed. My own clothes were washed with Leonora’s, and passed for hers. That night after I went to bed, my tears pre- vented me from sleeping when I thought that the infant who slumbered quietly and unconsciously beside me, was destined to pass her whole life in the cavern, and never again to see the light. With what anguish I reflected that in the morn- ing her eyes would open only on darkness, that when she began to walk I must guide her first steps trembling and in terror with no light to direct them; that she must receive my caresses without seeing me bestow them; and that she would listen to my voice without perceiving the tenderness and affection that would fill my eyes. In dwelling on these melancholy thoughts I shed a torrent of tears, and my heart seemed to break when I extinguished the lamp which was never more to be lighted for my child. The morrow was a dreadful day to me; Alphonsine cried almost continually, and her cries pierced my heart, for I supposed they must be caused by the darkness. I walked with her in my arms for hours. From this sad day my unfortunate child, till she was old enough to begin to speak, fretted almost incessantly; having no exterior objects to attract her attention and nothing to amuse her. However, her health was good; she was fat, and fed and slept perfectly well. Leo- nora always put a boitle of milk in the basket. For my part, I soon learned to wash and dress her nearly as well ip the dark as in the light. To make my oil last as long as possible, 1 only light- ed my lamp for about two hours every evening, after I had put Alphonsine to bed, and 1 then | occupied myself most industriously in sewing for her or in washing her clothes. I had obtained from Leonora some soap which I used very eco- nomically ; I did all these things in the cavern of

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ALPHONSINE. the fountain, that I might have the convenience ofthe water. Before I extinguished the lamp, I arranged in a basket, whatever things I should want for the next day, and then I returned in the dark to my chamber and my sleeping child, and went to bed for the night; having placed my basket on the table by the bedside, Time passed sadly on, and it was now four months since I had seen my daughter. I could not look at her while she slept, lest the light of the lamp should awaken her. My desire to see her was so great, that I determined one night when I put her to bed, fo tic a bandage over her eyes. When she had been asleep for some time, llighted my lamp, and trembling with joy and tenderness I approached the bed, and fell on my knees beside it. I placed the light on the table, and I fixed my eyes on the only object of my affection. The bandage concealed too much of her dear little face: her eyes, her eye-brows, part of her forehead, and part of her nose, were hidden. But all that I saw was beautiful. I could gaze on her cheeks fresh as roses, her sweet mouth, her white neck, and her plump and dim- pled hands and feet. I continued to look at her for more than an hour, and then extinguished the lamp with a sigh. How happy | was when she cut her first teeth (which she did with unusual ease) and when she began to return my kisses and caresses. She attempted to speak very early, for there was nothing to distract ber attention, when I took pains to teach her the words I wished her to.say. How can I describe what I felt when one morn-., ing as I held her in my arms, I heard her arti- culate distinctly, the words “ My God.” It seemed to me the voice of acherub. She was but ten months old? She spoke, and her first words were addressed to her Creator. I clasped her closely to my bosom; I fell on my knees, and I prayed mentally, but I could not then join my voice to that of this innocent child. Twice she repeated the words; and it seemed as if this pure and spotless infant was invoking for her moiher and herself, the compassion of the Almighty. After she had rendered to her Maker the ho- mage of her first accents, 1 taught her to cail me mother, and in a few days she pronouneed the word distinctly. She now seldom cried; she showed mueh in- telligence, and I contrived various means of amusing her. I knew always when she -was weary, for then she gave a gentle sigh ait let her Read fall on my bosom; but a kiss was suffi- cient to revive her. She was eleven months old, and I had never heard her laugh. Perhaps she often smiled, but alas! I could not know it. Azor having broken his collar, which was of silver and had three bells attached to it, 1 made a plaything of it for Al- phonsine, fixing it so that it could not hurt her. This little contrivance procured me the pleasure of hearing her laugh for the first time. But great as was my joy, 1 started and wept, to think how strange was the sound of laughter in this dismal place. Next day I asked Leonora for a D2 dozen little bells, which I arranged around an ivory pencil-case, and this little plaything made my poor Alphonsine very happy. ; I fougd it difficult to teach her to walk in utter darkness, She was very timi it was long before she ventured to take a step without hold- ing my hand, and if her foot faultered she would ‘start and catch by my dress. When her first birth-day arrived, I passed as much of it as I could spare from my daughter, in prayer, in the oratory. In the morning I had given Alphonsine a little fan, which seemed to charm her. She was delighted when I fanned her face; having never before felt any fresh air, but the little that came through the crevices of the rock, at the fountain. She kissed and em- braced me a hundred times; I then put the fan into her own hands and showed her how to use it,. and for a long while it was her favourite amuse- ment. That night I intended to indulge myself with a sight of my Alphonsine. But when I was tying on the bandage before I put her to bed, I heard hercry. I thought it barbarous todraw a single tear from her, to precure myself any gratifica- tion, however great, and I took off the bandage and laid her down in the bed; -but she still cried, and I found it difficult to pacify her. At last she fell asleep, and I seated myself by the bed-side holding one of her little hands. In about a quar- ter of an hour I twice felt that hand start, and it was soon burning with fever. I knew that she had a large tooth ready to pierce the gum, and I feared that she would have convulsions. I knew not what to do, and I prayed to be inspired with some.idea that would benefit my suffering child. She awoke and cried. 1 recollected having once read in a medical book, that when young children are threatened with fits, they should be immediately exposed to the air by opening a window. , Alas! I had no window to open; but lighting the lantern I ran with her to the cave of the fountain, and held her near the largest crevice of the rock. She was motionless; her face was deadly pale, and her pulse was almost gone; her lips had become blue, and her mouth was half open. I expected every moment to see her ex- pire in my arms, and I would have taken off the bandage that I had tied over her eyes before I lighted the lantern, only I feared that the sud- den glare would hasten her last moments. No words can describe my agony. At last she moved and stretched out her arms; I started, thinking it the struggle of death. I could utter but one word of prayer, and that word was heard. I saw on her cheeks a faint tinge of their natural red, and her pulse became stronger. I clasped her to my bosom and burst into tears. Before I took her from the cave, she put her arms round my neck: she kissed me, and she even smiled. Oh! how charming was this first smile after the terrors I had just endured. 1 carried my daughter to her bed, and she soan fell into a quiet slumber; I lay down beside her, but I was too happy to sleep. When I examined

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ALPHONSINE. her mouth next day, I found that the large tooth had come through, and in a short time my Al- phonsine was as well as usual. At twenty months old, my daughter tallked and walked, and comprehended every thing | said to her. She was not gay, (alas! how could she be so,) but she showed alreddy an extreme sen- sibility. She caressed me in the most affecting manner; her hand was almost always in mine; and if she did not feel me or hear me speak, she feared that I had left her. I could not induce her to play unless I held her on my lap. She frequently amused herself with Azor, whom she already loved, and I often heard her kiss him; but she seldom laughed, and her laugh seemed always followed by a sensation of sadness, for she would sigh and lay her head on my shoulder. One of her greatest pleasures was to hear me talk. I invented for her little stories adapted to her comprehension, and she listened to them with wrapt attention. And I taught her to repeat little verses, which she learned with surprising facility. Most fortunately her health continued good, and on her second birth-day I made her very happy by giving her some fruit, which she had never before tasted, and some new play-things that I had constructed for her. I accustomed my daughter to having a bandage frequently tied over her eyes, that in case 1 should find it necessary to light the lamp while she was awake, I might do it without fear of its distressing her. That winter was less mild than the winters of Spain usually are, and we felt it even in our cavern. My child caught a cold which afflicted me exceedingly, and as soon as she got well, I became myself indisposed-with the same: com- plaint, and the necessity of going every other day to the cave of the trap-door, much retarded my recovery. I implored Leonora to give me food, not only for two days, but, to furnish me with provisions that might last several months, and 1 accompanied this request with a bribe of ten ducats. Leonora consented with a tolerable grace; and for several weeks she came @very day to the trap-door, and instead of one basket she brought two. She gave me a large quantity of gingerbread, biscuit, dried fruit, sweetmeats, chocolate, sugar, wine, syrups, and a small ap- paratus for boiling, heated with spirits of wine. In this manner a large stock of provisions was laid in, but no entreaties could prevail on her to allow me light sufficient to burn all day. Now and then I had bribed Leonora to give me a little oil or a few wax-tapers, but she yielded with the greatest reluctance, telling me every time to use them only in case of absolute necessity, as they were the last I should ever have. And the fear that Leonora would become inexorable on this subject, induced me to persevere in keeping my unfortunate child ignorant of the existence of light. When Alphonsine had attained her third year, she was in many respects much more forward than children usually are at that age. Her ex- treme affection for me seemed to give her a dé- gree of intelligence, superior to that which results only from quickness of capacity. All children love their mothers, but my daughter could love no one else. She had never received any caresses but mine; mine was the only voice she had ever heard, and 1 was indeed the whole world to her. Fearful of afflicting me, she never now cried aloud; and when she wept, it was so softly, that I only knew it by feeling her tears. Often when I was a few minutes without speak- ing, she supposed that I also was crying in $i- lence. She would then pass her little hand over my face, and if she felt any traces of tears, she would throw herself on my bosom, and ex- claim, “ Oh! my dear mother, never cry again.” I had now inhabited the cavern four years: Heaven still blest my Alphonsine with excellent health, and sueh was the sweetness of her dispo- sition, that I never had occasion to inflict on her the slightest punishment. She never cried with- out a cause; but an expression from me less ten- der than usual, was to her a severe reprimand. I had accustomed her from her infancy to the most perfect obedience, and she could not con- ceive the possibility of doing any thing contrary to my desire. She never followed me to the trap- door. Before I went thither, I always placed her on oneof the large cushions in my chamber, and I was sure of finding her there when I re- turned. But if I stayed longer than usual, she always shed tears. As soon as she heard my returning footsteps, she began to call me by the tenderest names, and evinced the most animated and touching delight. One morning Leonora announced tu me that she felt herself il and feverish, and that it would probably be several days before she brought me any more food. I had plenty of provisions, but I was terrified at the idea that her illness might be long, that perhaps she might die, and that my child and myself must then perish, forgotten, in a dungeon; the Count having left Catalonia and gone to reside at Madrid, where, as Leonora in- formed me, he had married a widow of large fortune. After I had left the trap-door, Leonora called me back. ‘“ What do you wish to say to me?” said I. She hesitated for a few moments and then said—* Can you forgive me for all the suf- ferings I have caused you, and for still refusing to betray my master's trust ?”—“ I have long since tried to do so,” I replied, “ and I now for- give you as a Christian should.” —* Well, then,” said Leonora, “‘ promise to offer up a prayer ex- pressly for me, as I feel myself very ill.”—“ I will indeed pray for you,” I replied. She thank- ed me, and hastily departed. Her illness continued three weeks. [I had hoped that it would be over in a few days, like several former attacks. We had still plenty of provisions, but at the end of a fortnight, I began to fear that Leonora was dead, and that we should never be able to obtain any more food. From that moment I restricted myself to theesmallest quantity that could support life; and when I

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ALPHONSINE. gave my daughter hers, I thought with bitter tears, that perhaps, in a short time, sne would ask me for it in vain. If before her meals, she said to me, “ dear mother, I am hungry,” | felt my heart sink within me, and I pictured to my- self the dreadful moment when she might address to me those distressing words, and I should have nothing to give her. How ardently did I pray for the recovery of the woman whom I had such just cause to dislike; how precious had the life of Leonora become to me! At last, the happy day arrived, when on going to the trap-door, I found a basket full of fresh bread, newly-gathered fruit, and a bottle of sweet milk. With what transport, when I had carried this basket to my chamber, did I embrace Al- phonsine, with what eagerness did I prepare her breakfast. Never in my life had 1 thought a repast so delicious. My daughter was now five years old, and how did it grieve me that I could not teach her to read; and that I was even obliged to refrain from describing to her (except in general terms,) that world which she was never to see. But I told her of God, of Heaven, and of the Angels, and she was never tired of listening to me. Like those of blind people, her touch and hearing were exquisitely acute. We walked together for a long time every day, and I also gave her exer- cise by taking her hands and jumping her up and dqwn. One evening when I was trying to form an idea of her features, by passing my hand over her face, she asked me “‘ what was the use of eyes.”"—I could not immediately answer, and she exclaimed, “ Ah! yes, 1 know now—they are to weep with.” Alas! she had never used hers for any other purpose. My tears flowed fast, and to compose my feelings by occupation, I hastened to undress her and put her to bed. That night, I was wakened by the sound of Leonora’s speaking trumpet, and, rising hastily, I ran to the trap-door, where she told me that the Count had arrived from Madrid, but would depart again the next day. “ He himself,” said she, “ will bring you your food to-morrow morn- ing.” Here Leonora stopped, and her voice trembled. ‘“ Well then,” said I. “ Well,” re- sumed Leonora, “ eat nothing that you find in the Count’s basket. He is out of patience at you and your child continuing to live so long. I have now brought you bread and milk for to- morrow. Pray to Heaven for me. I hope that the efforts Iam now making to save your lives, will atone for all my sins against you.” “ Oh Leonora, my dear Leonora,” I exclaimed, “ do not abandon me.’’—* No, no, I will not, most unfortunate of women,” she replied ; “ this time you shall not die.”—I thanked her on my knees —“ The Count may remain here several days,” continued Leonora, “ and that he may ensure your fate, it is probable that he will make ano- ther attempt, and again bring poisoned food in the basket. After he is gone, and I bring your provisions as usual, you may know the basket to be prepared by me, if it has in it a bunch of grapes tied with blue riband. Whatever you find in the Count’s basket, you must throw away or destroy.” “Oh! Leonora,” I exclaimed, “what do I not owe you?”—* Were it not for me,” said she, “* you and your child would be poisoned to-morrow.”—With these words she left me, almost stupified with horror. I was too much agitated to think of sleeping again that night, and I remained till morning, seated, with the lantern beside me, on the stairs of the outer cavern. I trembled, when, about five o’clock, [ saw the fatal basket descend. I shuddered as I looked at the poisoned food, and I resolved to throw it down the well of the deep cave, to which I immediately hastened. My dog followed me. I trembled so that the bottle of milk fell out of my hand, and, as it broke, the milk flowed out on the ground. I then threw the bread and fruit into the well, and when I turned, what was my horror on seeing my dog lapping some of the milk, out of a piece of the broken bottle. I snatched him up in my arms and ran with him to my chamber, but I had nothing to give him as an antidote to the poison. I extinguished my light before I entered the chamber, as I heard Alphonsine calling to me. 1 took her up, and as I finished dressing her, I heard the poor dog whine faintly. He came to us and howled two or three times. Alphonsine, who was standing at my knees, took him up and laid him on my lap. Ina few moments he was dead. What did I feel at this proof of the poison when I thought, that had it not been for Leonora, I should have given that milk to my child. ~* Alphonsine was astonished that Azor did not move, and she asked me the reason. I answered in a voice broken by sobs, and tried to give her some idea of death. She listened to me with great attention, and then wept bitterly. [ carried poor Azor into the lower cavern, and w him into the well. This was a melancholy day to me, and at night I found it impossible to sleep. Two days after, I saw a basket descend with the bunch of grapes and blue riband in it, and I it to be Leonora’s. I begged her to speak to me, and she told me, that the Count had re- turned to Madrid. She said she had informed him that his attempt to poison his captives had not succeeded, and she had deelared to him, that if he took any other means to destroy us, she would denounce him before a magistrate and expose the whole extent of his crimes; but, that if he would permit us to live, shé would pledge herself to continue to keep the secret, and to stay constantly at the castle, and also to obey all his commands, unless they tended to make our im- prisonment more miserable than it was already. The Count was as cowardly as cruel; and the firmness of this woman had so much influence over him, that he departed for Madrid without any farther attempt on our lives. The day that Alphonsine was six years old, I determined that for the first time she should hear me sing and play on the guitar. After she had finished her morning prayer, I took her to my

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ALPHONSINE. oratory, and she fell on her knees before the crucifix as [ had taught her. I then began to sing a hymn, accompanying myself on the guitar. She uttered a cry of surprize and delight; and after listening a few moments, she burst fnto tears of rapture and threw herself into my arms. I made her touch the guitar, and I explained to her from whence the sound came. She begged me to sing again. I did so, and finished the hymn. When 1] had concluded, Alphonsine embraced my knees in transport, and caressed the guitar, for she could scarcely believe that it was not a living being. She asked me to sing again, and I did so for more than an hour. She entreated me to teach her to sing and play, and that day I began to instruct her in music; and we went every morning to sing a hymn in the oratory. I obtained from Leonora, a second guitar, smaller than the one I had, and a little tambou- rine. Alphonsine soon learned to play on both these instruments. She had an excellent ear, and evinced an extraordinary fondness and taste for, music. This amusement which she so much de- lighted in, inspired her with a vivacity she had never felt before. When we concluded our little concerts, she would kiss me and tell me she was happy. Poor child! how limited were her ideas of happiness. 1 taught her to count; I told her stories, and I devised little plays for her; I accustomed her to walk without me, and I sometimes sent her on little errands, to bring me things that I wanted, and at length, she was able to go alone to the cave of the fountain. When she returned, she always threw herself into my arms, and we were both as much rejoiced, as if we had just met after a long separation. By the time Alphonsine was eight years old, 1 had taught her to speak French extremely well, and to repeat a number of verses and hymns in that language, as well as in herown. In the monotony of our dark and lonely life, instruction was an amusement both to her and tome. I had an incessant desire to look at her, but I refrained from indulging it, except once in two or three months, when she was asleep. How did I long to see her eyes; I supposed them to be still blue from the golden colour of her hair, and the ala- baster fairness of her complexion, on which the sun hac never shone, since her earliest infancy. I did not allow her hairto grow, for I had heard that long hai weakens the constitutions of chil- dren ; but I had great difficulty in cutting it while she slept, with the bandage over her eyes. One of her beautiful curls I always carried in my bosom, and when at night I sewed for her in the oratory, I laid on a stone before me this beloved ringlet, that I might look at it from time to time, and feel as if something of Alphonsine was still with me. One of her pleasures was to comb and plait my hair, which she did with great dexterity, end I let it grow that it might afford her this amusement. Alphonsine had never inhaled any sort of per- the basket. The smell of these things gave her extraordinary pleasure. She rubbed them on her hands, and after she had eaten, she always kept a portion of some of the fruit, to regale her- self with its odour. I asked Leonora to give me a little flower-pot with a rose-bush growing in it. I had often told my daughter of flowers, and that they were among the most beautiful works of God; that they grew in the earth, and bloomed at certain seasons. I had particularly described to her the rose, the most lovely of flowers, and I told her also of its thorns, which were sharp as the points of pins. Alphonsine was very sorry that we had no flowers. I consoled her with the assurance that if we were very good, and submitted without murmuring to the will of God, he would in time send us some. Alphonsine earnestly desired them; often would she stoop down and search with her Tittle hands about the ground in our dark and dreary cavern, hoping that she might find and gather a flower. The evening that I received the rose-bush from Leonora, I took it to the oratory, and making a hole in the ground, not far from the fountain, I sunk the flower-pot down in it, covering the edges with earth. I then took the time and trouble carefully to pull off all the thorns, and while I admired the freshness and beauty of five full-blown roses, I sighed to think that my Al- phonsine would not see them. But I went to bed happy, for I knew the delight that was in store for her the next morning. 1 awoke earlier than usual. When my daugh- ter called me, I took her up and drest her, and filled with the sweetest emotion, I led her to the oratory. She had scarcely entered the cave of the fountain when she perceived the scent of the roses. As this grotto was our church, we seldom spoke when in it, except to pray, but now Al- phonsine pressed my hand, and said in a low voice,—** Dear mother, do you smell this deli- cious odour ?”—-“ Yes,” I replied, “ it is the scent of roses.” — Of roses !—Is it possible !— Then roses have come here at last?”—* They have,” answered I, “ but, let us first say our prayers, and then we will seek for these charm- ing flowers.”—At these words Alphonsine almost began to run, and as we approached the bush the perfume became more powerful. _ Al- phonsine pressed my hand again, and I said to her in a low voice—“ I am certain we shall find roses.”’ I felt her little hand trembie with joy.— ** Ah!” said she, “ God is very kind to us; how much I will thank him for having sent us roses.” She fell on her knees, and having said her pray- ers, and sung her hymna with great fervour, she rose and took me by the hand. I conducted her to the rose-bysh; I guided her hand to the flowers, and I made her touch them as well as the buds and green leaves. She irem- bled with delight.—** You may gather the charm- ing flowers,” said I, “ and enjoy-them all day in our chamber.”—*“ Dear mother, I am afraid of the thorns you described to me.”—“ The fuine except the scent of the oranges, lemons, | apples, peaches, and other fruits, that came in | are all gone.”—“ Ah! dearest mother,” she ex-

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ALPHONSINE. claimed, “I am sure you have pulled them off.” And forgetting the rose-bush, she threw herself into my arms, and seizing my hands, she exa- mined my fingers all over to feel if they had not been wounded. Finding by the extraordinary delicacy of her touch, a few punctures, she kiss- ed these dear scratches, as she called them, and bathed them with her affectionate tears. I told her that the pain of my fingers was trifling, and would be amply repaid by the pleasure I should have in knowing that she could gather the roses without wounding her own hands. “ Well then,” said she, “I have counted five roses: I will gather three; I will place one at the foot of the crucifix near our altar, the other shall be for my dear mother, and the third for myself. We will leave the other two on the bush, to make a sweet smell through the church. I added to the happiness of Alphonsine, by making her touch the buds that remaiffed on the bush; and I explained to her that in a few days they would be roses. When we returned to our chamber, I placed my rose in the hair of Alphon- sine, and she kept hers in her hand to feel and smell it. * Now we are in no want of flowers,” said she; “ we have even more than we can use. Oh! how kind God is to us! How many delight- ful things he sends us! How very great is our happiness !” While this innocent child thus gave vent to fhe fullness of her grateful heart, I thought how many people there were ia the world, who, though loaded with every thing that fortune could give them, still murmured and complained that their wants were not gratified. Alphonsine ceased speaking to smell her rose. She felt its smooth soft leaves, sbe held it to her lips, and she inhaled its perfume with rapture. After a long silence, I asked her of what she was thinking; and, contrary to her usual habit, she hesitated to answer. I pressed her to tell me, and with something of embarrassment she con- fessed to me that she wished to eat her rose. This desire, which at first surprised me, after- wards seemed perfectly natural, for she had always eaten the only things whose smell had pleased her; for instance, different sorts of fruit. I told her to try the experiment of eating the rose. She did so, and said that she did not find it very good. She then concluded that roses were only made for the touch and smell ; but she assured me that she would not love them any the less, because they were not agreeable to the taste like oranges and peaches. The next day Alphonsine found on the rose- bush four new flowers, and [ allowed her the pleasure of watering them. The following week | I procured for her from Leonora, a pot of migni- onette ; and when that was faded, it was replaced by others containing pinks and lilies. Alphon- sine was delighted with what she called such a wonderful variety of odours... When the flowers were over, I obtained from Leonora some large bunches of lavender, thyme, and bergamot. Al- Pp amused herself with breaking off the buds and seeds, and tying them up in little | rather than to run. bags which she made out of bits of muslin, secur- ed with strings of narrow ribbon. Time passed on, and my daughter at last was thirteen years old. I had long since resigned myself to the probability of wasting our whole lives in the cavern; but as Alphonsine grew up, I lamented her hard fate with more bitterness than ever. Still I was thankful to heaven for having given her health in this dreary abode, shut out from the light of day, and from the fresh air of upper earth. But I shuddered when I thought of the possibility of my own illness or death, and I trembled to reflect on what would then be the fate of my unfortunate child. For several months I had been unusually rest- less and nervous; and I had constantly an unde- finable feeling that something was going to happen. One day I heard the voice of Leonora calling me at an unusual hour. I went to the cave of the trap-door, and she let down the basket, which held, as usual, fruit, bread, and a bottle. -“ That bottle,” said Leonora, “ does not contain milk; it is a bottle of wine.” “Why,” said I, “ do you bring me wine to day?” “It will give you strength,” she replied; “ drink some, I entreat you, for you will have need c* it to support you.” “ Have you any thing dreadful to tell me,” I ex- claimed in a faint voice. “ No,” answered Leo- nora, * quite the contrary; but take some of the wine before [ proceed.” I drank a little of the wine, trembling with a mixture of hope and terror. Then I heard a strange voice, which said to me—“ This wine is sent to you by a friend.” I started, and repeated, “ A friend!” “Yes,” replied the voice, “I am the Countess de Moncalde, once well known to you as Isabella de Valdez, and now the widow of your cruel persecutor.” “Is he then dead?” I exclaimed. “ He is,” said Leonora, “ and you are free.” What words can describe my feelings at this moment! How rapturous were the thoughts that crowded instantly on my mind!. In a few minutes 1 was to recover my liberty: I should see again the sun, the heavens, the earth! My child was to share this felicity—she who had never known it before; and we were now to be recompensed for thirteen years of suffering. I flew to my daughter; 1 caught her in my arms, and tried to explain to her that our cap- tivity was over; but my sobs prevented me from speaking articulately, and she was tod much sur- prised and bewildered to understand what I said. I ran with her towards the outer cavern, ex- claiming “Oh! my Alphonsine, we are now going to be happy! You will enjoy a felicity of which you have never yet had any idea!” “ What,” said she, “are we both going to die— and shall we go to heaven together?” I could | not answer; my tears suffocated my voice, and, notwithstanding the darkness, I seemed to fly 1 felt Alphonsine tremble in my arms, and my tears dropped on her face. We approached the stair-case, and I heard the sound of the axes‘ demolishing the wall of my

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814 ALPHONSINE. prison-door. “Oh! my child,” I exclaimed, “Jet us thank God.” I stopped, and we fell on our knees. Alphonsine was confirmed in the idea that we were going to die. The noise of the axes redoubled, and then suddenly it ceased. My daughter threw her arms round my neck, and clasped me closely. The wall fell, the door flew open, and I saw a group of people beyond. I looked at my child. The light of numerous torches shone in at the entrance; and, flashing on the wonder-struck Alphonsine, she shriekea, covered her eyes with her hands, and fell faint- ing on my bosom. The Ceuntess de Moncalde, and a priest who stood beside her, ran imme- diately towards us, followed by her nephew Don Alvar de Sancello. I lost all consciousness, and sunk into their arms in a state of insensibility. Wherl revived, I found, myself on a bed in one of the splendid chambers of the castle, and my Alphonsine lying beside me; but she was still insensible, and I trembled lest her conscious- ness should never return. The Countess stood by the bed-side with a physician, anxiously watch- ing us. At last Alphonsine opened her eyes, and I gazed on her with rapture. “ My love,” said I, “ look at your mother.” “Oh! my dear- est mother,” she exclaimed, “are we now in heaven?” I found it difficult to divest her of this idea. She thought when she saw the first flash of the torches that she had received the stroke of a knife in her eyes, and that she had died of it. She could not at first comprehend the nature of sight. “ How is it,” said she, “that even when 1 do not touch you I know that you are beside me? But are you indeed my mother? Let me touch you, and I shall be convinced.” She kiss- ed my hand, and was so overcome that she nearly fainted again. The physician who, when my daughter began to revive, had withdrawn with the Countess to the other end of the room, now returned to the bedside, and gave Alphonsine some drops to compose her. He then requested the Countess to retire, and leave us to repose after our recent agitation. He closed the curtains of the bed, that the light might not injure the eyes of Al- phonsine, as they had nearly her whole life open- ed only in darkness. He had the windows shut, and ordered that the glasses, pictures, and all the brilliant objeots in the chamber should be covered with green gauze as soon as possible. The apartment was lighted only by a single lamp, covered with ashade and placed behind a screen. Inis, the niece of the Countess, insisted on watching all night in our room. Alphonsine was excessively agitated, and slept but little. Sometimes she sat up in the bed and gazed on me with delight; sometimes she open- ed the curtains to look round at the chamber, and the light of the lamp, dim as it was, appear- ed to her dazzling. Several times she clasped her hands, and exclaimed, “ Oh! how happy I am!” Early in the morning when the physician came in, she seemed afraid of him, and hid her face on my shoulder; but she caressed Inis, and asked her if she was not an angel. The questions of Alphonsine were innumera- ble, and her admiration was unbounded. As soon as she was up and dre-t, she went about the room examining every thing in it, and all was considered beautiful. When our dinner was brought to us, it was a long time before she be- gan to eat it,so much was she occupied in ad- miring every thing that was on the table—the china, the glass, the silver; and she said in her simplicity, “* What can there be in heaven that is more beautiful than these things?” 1 explain- ed to her that what she now saw was the work only of man, but that the works of God, and the beauties of nature, which she was yet to see, were far superior to all the wonders of art. Her idea of distance was so imperfect, that she extended her hands to reach objects that were at the farthest end of the room; and she could not recognize at sight the same things that had always been familiar to her touch. She showed a great desire to pass through the doors when- ever they were opened, but a word from me always checked her curiosity. Next day the Countess informed me of the particulars of the sudden death of her unworthy husband, who had made her extremely unhappy from the time she married him. He died in Ma- drid; and, shortly after, the Countess, with her niece and nephew came to the castle of Mon- talvan, to pass there the period of their mourning. They found the housekeeper Leonora sick ; and the physician said she seemed to have something on her mind. The confessor of the Countess went to visit her, and exhorted Leonora to un- burthen her conscience. She then with much agitation confessed that she had yielded to the bribes and persuasions of the Count de Moncalde, and had consented to join in his plan of immuring me and my child in the vaults of the castle, and reporting us to have perished at sea, that by this means he might enjoy our estates. But as Leonora possessed some sense of religion, she could not prevail upon herself to treat us with all the rigour ex- acted *y the Count, who hoped to shorten our existence by adding to our sufferings; for which reason he interdicted the use of light, thinking it impossible we could live long in total darkness. He also forbade Leonora to visit us in our dun- geon, or to see us at all, lest the sight of our misery should induce her to relent. For this reason, as much as to preclude the possibility of our escape, he had the door at the top of the stairs walled up; and the trap-door through which the basket passed, was at a distance from the stair-case, and every way inaccessible from below. Several years had elapsed, and the Count finding on one of his visits to the castle that his captives still lived, told Leonora that he would the next day prepare the Countess Diana’s food, and carry it himself to the trap-door. Leonora’s suspicions were immediately roused ; and in the manner I have related, she saved my life, by previously warning me not to taste any, thing that came in the Count’s basket : and the justice me Oe SO mae me Ul ee Ss”

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ALPHONSINE. of her apprehensions was proved, by the fate of the poor little dog, that died from lapping the poisoned milk. The Count was much disappointed when he found that his atrocious design had failed; and Leonora, knowing the cowardice of guilt, deter- red him from any farther attempt, by threaten- ing to make a public disclosure of all that he had already done, and delivering him up to the pun- ishment of the law. This was the substance of Leonora’s confes- sion to the priest. She professed great penitence for having so long concealed and abetted the vil- lainy of the Count; and begged that the confes- sor would immediately take measures to effect the release of the prisoners. After having made this disclosure, Leonora, whose illness had been caused by the remorseful goadings of an evil conscience, said sre felt herself so much better that she could leave her bed and guide the deli- verers of the Countess Diana to her dungeon. The priest then went directly to the Countess de Moncalde, and acquainted her with this sur- prising discovery. The amazenient of that ami- able lady could only be equalled by her eager- ness to release the captives. She summoned all her servants, and said to them, “ My friends, let us hasten to the deliverance of the unfortunate Countess Diana, the widow of Don Pedro d’Al- medor, and the rightful owner of this estate, who, with her child, has languished for thirteen years in the caverns beneath the castle.” At these words there was a general cry, and two of the domestics who had known me in Ma- drid, burst into tears. The priest proposed that the family physician should accompany them in case the sudden revolution of our fate should so overcome us as to need his assistance. All the men carried torches and axes, and the procession was guided by Leonora, who conducted them through a long corridor which led to the lower story of one of the four antique turrets of the castle. On entering this tower, the physician desired the troop to be as silent, and tread as lightly as possible. They descended a stair-case and found themselves in a chamber, of which Leonora unlocked the second door, and on going down another flight of steps, they perceived at the end of a gallery the walled door which was at the head of the stairs that led to the cavern. There they stopped; and the Countess, over- come with the evidence of her late husband’s cruelty, sunk into the arms of ber nephew and niece. It had been planned that they were to proceed with great caution, lest my enfeebled spirits should not be able to bear the sudden surprise of my deliverance. They had brought a basket of provisions which Leonora let down as usual, and importuned me to take the wine. When I had done so, the voice of the Conntess an- nounced to me that I was free; and the walled door was demolished by the axes of the men, Don Alvar striking the first blow, and working ear- nestly ill the last. After my daughter and I had fainted, we were carried to the chamber where we awoke to happiness and to the sight of each other. The servants were so incensed at Leonora, that she was obliged to take refuge in the apart- ments of the Countess, to screen herself from their vengeance. But I remembered that ghe had saved my life, and that of my child, and I forgave her. The Count had allowed her a pen- sion for keeping his secret, and to this I added an annuity which secured her from indigence for the rest of her life. I felt too much emotion to see her; and she sent me a message requesting my pardon, which I freely granted her. Next morning she departed from the castle, to take up her residence in her native province of Galicia. At the end of a week the lamp was removed, and the light of day was permitted to enter our chamber through blinds of green silk, so fixed in frames that they filled upthe whole of the win- dows. The physician thought that in another week Alphonsine might be permitted to go out for the first time and breathe the fresh air. I determined to consecrate that day by the cere- mony of my daughter’s confirmation in the neighbouring church, and the priest prepared her mind for the sacred rite. In the interval she was allowed to walk in a long gallery which joined our chamber, and one evening she was taken for the first time into the saloon. What was her amazement at the sight of this splendid apartment! its walls and ceilings covered with gilding and fine paintings, and its windows with rich damask curtains—the whole illuminated by a brilliant chandelier of crystal. Alphonsine stood for some moments motion- less in silent admiration ; then she advanced, till she perceived her whole figure reflected in one of the large mirrors. She had never yet seema looking-glass uncovered, and she knew not its use. She stopped before it and exclaimed, “Oh! how beautiful is that person: how much she resembles my mother, only that she is small- er.” I went to her and embraced her before the glass, and her astonishment was extreme on see- ing the reflection of the two figures, till I ex- plained to her this new wonder. Alphonsine was indeed beautiful; more so even than my fondest imagination had conceived, till I saw her with her lovely countenance ani- mated by the most charming blue @yes shaded with long dark lashes. The next day the glass in our chamber was uncovered.” At length the morning arrived when Alphon- sine was to go out for the first time, and to be confirmed a Christian according to the forms of the Catholic church. I dressed her in white crape, and enwreathed her beautiful head with a string of pearls. I threw over her a long veil on white crape, and covered my own face with an- other of the same material. I had hitherto re- frained from going out, that I might enjoy the first sight of the world at the same time with my daughter. It was early in the morning. We went down stairs and got into the carriage, the blinds of

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ALPHONSINE. which were closed. When the vehicle drove off, the noise and the novelty of the motion fright- ened Alphonsine, though I had prepared her for it. When the carriage arrived at the top of the hilk* Now, my child,” I exclaimed, and she threw herself into my arms, her heart beating | with such violence that I waited a few minutes till I had calmed her feelings, before I had the door opened. We got out, and telling the ser- vants to drive on to the church gate, I seated Alphonsine on a bank of turf, and after a pause of deep emotion, I raised her veil and my own. She shrieked with joy and admiration at the prospect that met her eyes. At the foot of the hill lay the extensive gardens of the castle filled with statues, vases, fountains, flowers, and orange groves, and terminated by the lofty and no- ble edifice itself, with the banner of my ancestors streaming from the e@mtral tower. Next I show- ed Alphonsine the ¢hurch to which we were going—a venerable gothic pile, whose arched windows were overgrown with ivy, and shaded by ancient trees. I directed her attention to a fine river, whose clear smooth waters reflected the vil- lages that rose on its shore, and the boats that glid- ed over its glassy surface, till far in the east they reached the blue waves of the Mediterranean. From the other side of the hill we saw a wild rocky country, darkened by thick forests of cork and chesnut trees, with a back ground of moun- tains, from one of the pearest of which a most picturesque cataract directed its foaming course towards the river. The whole scene was lighted up by the rays of the rising sun, gilding the crim- son and purple clouds that floated in a sky of the purest blue. Alphonsine, dazzled, transported, enraptured, f@li on her knecs. Her first look was turned t6 the sun just emerging from the eastern hori- zon, and then her eyes wandered round in every direction, too much delighted with all to fix on any thing. For my part I looked only at my daughter. To me the sight of nature itself was at that mo- ment only interesting, as it affected this sole and darling object of my tenderness. “ Oh! my dear mother,” she exclaimed, as soon as she had power to speak, “amI to see such beautiful things every day?” J indulged her itallowing her to walk te the chirch. How @élightfal was this her first walk in the open air.~ She stopped every few minutes to admire the wild flowers that grew on the side of the road. She saw, for the first time, the bril- liant butterflies that flew round them, and she mistook them for living flowers that had escaped from their stems. The birds, the sheep, the cattle, all delighted and surprised her. The pastor received us at the door of the church ; he was followed by his assistant priests magnificently drest in rich habits which I had caused to be sent tothem. The church was orna- mented with wreaths of flowers suspended from pillar to pillar, and interspersed with lighted Jamps; and the altar, superbly decorated, was | lighted with a multitude of tall wax candles. Twenty-four children drest in white, with scarfs of blue and silver, waved their censers on each side of the altar. At the moment I entered the church with Al- phonsine, the organ struck up, and the voices of the children rose into a beautiful hymn. Al- phonsine thought she heard a concert of angels. The Countess de Moncalde, with her miece and nephew, and her attendants, were already in their places; and after mass was performed, the ceremony of Alphonsine’s confirmation imme- diately commenced. Every eye was fixed on my daughter, so long an inhabitant of a gloomy dungeon, and now restored to the world, and offering up to her Creator her first act of public adoration, bathed in tears of tenderness and piety. After the ceremony was over, we were invited by the pastor to his house near the church, where a collation was served up to us; but Alphonsine could not eat—she could only look out of a win- dow which opened upon the village. When we returned to the castle, perceiving that the eyes of my daughter looked somewhat inflamed from having been used so much that day, I had the windows closed, and we dined by the light of a shaded lamp. The following night, before she went to bed, I took her into a balcony, and showed her, for the first time, the heavens glittering with stars, and the moon rising behind a bank of clouds, whose dark sides were edged with silver by her rays. How delighted was Alphonsine! how filled with wonder and admiration! I stayed with her in the balcony till the moon had risen so high as to tinge with her light the orange trees that grew round a fountain, whose falling waters sparkled in its beamg like drops of liquid silver. Every day was now a day of happiness for Al- phonsine, fer to her every thing had a charm. Even the rain, the hail, the lightning, the thun- der, excited in her the greatest admiration. With what rapidity she learned to read, to waite, and to draw! How anxiously did she strive to make up for the years she had passed in dark- ness! Her talent for music was extraordinary, and she delighted in cultivating it; and she soon danced with the utmost grace and elegance. The Countess de Moncalde, at my earnest re- quest, passed with me the term of her mourning; and she then returned to Madrid. But it was not till Alphonsine had attained her eighteenth year, at which time she became the wife of the amiable Don Alvar, that I could prevail on my- self to accompany her to the city where the first years of my life had been passed, and where every thing reminded me of her lamented father. ——= To converse well is of more importance in every-day life than to write well. But they are both talents or acquirements of inestimable value, the possession of one of which need in no instance exclude that of the other. On the contrary, if properly cultivated, they are mutual promoters.

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THE NUPTIALS. “ THE NUPTIALS. Come, sweetest, come ! The holy vow shall tremble on thy lip, And at God’s blessed altar shalt thou kneel So meek and beautiful, that men will deem Some angel there doth pray.”’ Ir was the eve of May, the eve too that was to celebrate the bridal of an only sister to wealth, nobility, and virtue. All, to the eye of the super- ficial observer, wore the aspect of happiness un- alloyed, of joy, and earnest congratulation; but to me, who had read that sister’s heart, perhaps, ere she had read her own, it was alike indifferent that I beheld the coronet in perspective, or re- flected on the distinguished alliance which would elevate my Georgiana to a station she was so well calculated to adorn. The morning at length dawned; the sun rose splendidly, and was soaring in a sky unchequer- ed by a cloud; the birds were singing cheering- ly, as sporting gracefully amidst the clustering foliage of ivy, jessanine, and woodbine, that shaded the window of our apartment, they seem- ed in chorus to hail the bride elect, with bless- ings the most auspicious; while beneath, earth’s surface presented a scene at once animated and beautiful; flowers of variegated hue, and the richest tints, adorned the parterre, shedding a fragrance alike sweet and refreshing. At any other period, I should have regarded a scene so radiant in grace and beauty, with sensations of deiight; but the thought of her who was on the point of sacrificing her felicity at the shrine of filial duty and affection intervened, and occupied my mind with ideas equally painful and anxious in their nature. . That Georgiana was on the point of resigning her hand, while her heart was in possession of another, I could not doubt; for often had I noted the glistening eye, the deep suffusion, and tre- mulous tone of her voice, when the name of Ar- thur Clanronald was announced;—of him, who had been the playmate of our childhood, the friend and intellectual companion of our riper years. I knew, too, she was dear, far dearer to the heart of Clanronald; but the smallness of his patrimony forbade the disclosure of his affection, and apprehensive lest his love should overcome the dictates of prudence, he retired suddenly to a distant part of the country, there to live on the wreck of a once noble fortune, bequeathed by a generous but too prodigal sire. Forsaken by her once-valued friend, left in doubt as to the reality of his sentiments, Georgiana’s pride took alarm; she avoided not only the mention of his name, but all subjects that in the slightest degree had re- ference to it. While my sister, with the native delicacy of her character, was thus shrinking from the con- templation of her own pure heart, burying in its inmost recesses her heaven-born affection, our father received a visit from Lord Clanronald, a E2 distant relative of Arthur’s, whose heir he was, on the event of the death of an only son of very precarious health. Evil was the hour that welcomed Lord Clan- ronald to the roof of my father, who having en- + gaged in a variety of speculations, hazardous in their nature, found himself, when least expected, involved in difficulties, and reduced from the most affluent circumstances, to a state of compa- rative insignificance @ t. In an agony of — mind not to be he sought the confi- dence of his friend. nobleman, with all the generosity of his nature, instantly offered such security as my revered parent might require to sustain his falling credit; and to relieve his mind from the weight of obligation conferred, demanded the hand of his fair Georgiana, as the noblest acknowledgment he could receive. It was not in the heart of my sister to refuse the tender of a hand that had snatched her father, the being she loved and venerated, from inevi- table ruin. Her tears and silence were con- strued into an expression of grateful consent; and though she felt her anticipated marriage must seal her own wretchedness, she endeavour- ed to conceal the em@tions of her suffering spirit under the assumed guise of a smiling and cheer- ful exterior. Than on that morning, never had I observed Georgiana in more fervent prayer to Him, from whom alone she could derive consolation” and support. Rising, she threw her arms around me, saying, “‘ The society of Amy, my sister, was ever wont to afford me pleasure, but forbear to question as to the splendid. misery that now awaits, to some, the envied Georgiana. 1 would be happy, calm, and collected; and shall I not be so,” she added, the tears rushing into her eyes, as she spoke, “‘ when my trust is in God ?” Reckless of the splendid paraphernalia. in which she was arrayed, father, who prayed Hea might be showered om child, and whispered, as countenance, that even“atifie last, she must make no painful sacrifices om his account. Geor- giana replied not. Her heart was too full, but her look convinced him she was resolved on be- coming what in gratitude ‘and duty she owed to him who was about to become her husband. My thoughts and gloomy apprehensions were shortly arrested by the arrival of the carriages destined to convey the bride and her attendants to the village church. There we were met by Lord Clanronald, who received his trembling bride from the hands of her father. Leading her

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HORN MUSIC AND ITS ORIGIN—THE CRUSADES. to the feet of the altar he cast a lingering glance towards the vestry door; it opened, and to my extreme surprise, Arthur Clanronald himself stepped forth. It seemed an illusion; yet I could not doubt his personal identity, as my gaze was riveted on his noble, his happy countenance. What could this mean? Was he about to be- come the bridegroom of the unconscious Geor- giana, who saw him not? He was, indeed! Al- ready had he changed places with his Lordship, whose hand he appeared to press with grateful emotion ; and now that the sacred ceremony was on the point of commencing, I could no longer withhold the sentiments of joy, of curiosity, that transported me for the moment beyond all sense of decorum, as grasping the parental arm, I re- quired an explanation of what to me appeared a visionary scene of passing bliss. “ Hereafter, my child, you shall know more,” replied my father, in an under-tone; “ suffice it to add, I had read the heart of our Georgiana, had extorted in part her long-cherished secret ; and, apprehensive lest her gratitude and filial piety would not hesitate to sacrifice her best affections, Lord Clanronald and I have precon- certed this scheme to render the dear girl happy in our own way; and you now behold that de- serving young man sole heir of his Lordship’s large possessions, Lord Clanronald having sus- tained a severe domestic affliction in the loss of his only son; and it was only to witness the hap- piness of my child, that he has now quitted the house of mourning.” Delightful were the sensations that now thrill- ed in my heart; and ardently did I long, as the faint responses of poor Ge@rgiana smote on my ear, for the conclusion of a ceremony that was to restore her to happiness, joy, and love. It was over; and Arthur, with gentle hand, had raised the veil of his sweet bride—had whis- red, what to Georgiana alone was heard. ild was the glance that darted momentarily on the face of Clanronald, as, giving one scream of joyful recognition, she sank into arms open to receive her. But the surprise, which had been intended as her sweetest reward, had nearly proved fatal in its consequences. Her delicate frame, and anguished spirit, were ill able to cope with feelings equally violent and opposite in their nature; and long, very long was it, ere our unit- ed efforts could awaken the unconscious bride to a sense of the happiness that awaited her. —_—_—_— HORN MUSICAND ITS ORIGIN. Tue delightful island of Krestowsky, in Russia, from its romantic site and prospects, its beautiful scenery, and the varied recreation which it affords to the higher classes of society, as well as to their humbler brethren, is a place of public resort that more than rivals the gayest scenes in which the votary of pleasure can mix in the more refined capitals of England, France, or Austria. Few Sundays elapsed without our joining its motley and animated thousands; and it was, whilst roam- ing amongst them, that our ears were first sa- luted by the far-famed melodies of the hundred horns. Qn the other side of the Newka stands a villa belonging to the Narishkins, who were the original patrons, or I should say, parents, of this singular species of music. Now, on all festive occasions, a large galley, containing the band of horn-players, slowly winds its way backwards and forwards in front of the villa, diffusing its harmonies over either bank of the stream. They resemble the tones of a small church organ, and when heard for the first time, produce an agree- able effect; but they are most impressive when borne from a distance, and at an hour when man and nature are at rest. For myself, I must con- fess, that their charm subsided after the first im- pression; on repetition, and particularly when we came close upon them, there appeared to me to be a monotony and technicality of cadence in this species of wind-music, which no other kind of harmony possesses. It was invented about sixty years ago, and as soon as Count Narishkin had got his hand in proper trim, Catherine the Second formed a similar corps of several hundred musicians, and they continued attached to the imperial household, until the late Emperor Alex- ander, tired of their mechanical craft, dismissed them from his service. In honour, however, of their ancestor, the prime inventor, the Narish- kins still maintain a private band, who take their turn with vocalists and instrumental performers in amusing their guests at home, and are of use in adding variety to the numberless amusements which Sunday brings with it amidst the pleasure- fraught shades of the islet of Krestowsky.—Lon- don Court Journal. THE CRUSADES. Tue king—Renault de Chatillon, Count of Karoc, who had so often broken faith with the Moslems—and the Grand Master of the Temple, whose whole order was in abhorrence among the Mussulmans—were taken alive and carried prisoners to the tent of Saladin. That monarch remained for some time on the field, giving or- ders, that the knights of St. John and those of the Temple, who had been captured, should instantly embrace Islamism, or undergo the fate of the scimetar. A thousand acts of cruelty and aggression on their part had given cause to such deadly hatred; but at the hour of death not one knight could be brought to renounce his creed; and they died with that calm resolution which is in itself a glory. After this bloody consummation of his victory, Saladin entered the tent where Lusignan and his companions ex- pected a similar fate; but Saladin, thirsty him- self, called for iced sherbert, and having drunk, handed the cup to the fallen monarch—a sure pledge that his life was secure. Lusignan imturn passed it to Renault of Chatillon: but the sultan starting up, exclaimed, ‘‘ No hospitality for the breaker of all engagements!” and before Chatil- lon could drink, with one blow of his scimetar Saladin severed his head from bis body.—James’s History of Chivalry.

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“A CHAPTER ON SHAWLS. ~ A CHAPTER ON SHAWES. Are our fair readers acquainted with the palm- — tree of the shawl? If not, they must not confound it with the palm of the desert, for it possesses no one point of resemblance to it. In fact the palm of the shaw] is neither more nor less than that ob- ject of eastern adoration, the cypress, which droops its crest in the sculptured glories of the palace at Persepolis, and is woven aftér a similar fashion into the rich borders of the shawl. In truth, the cypress of this elegant appurtenance of the boudoir has no more kindred with the stiff gigantic palm, than the twigs of willow which enact the parts of proxy for the palace of its own sacred festival. The bordering of the shawl is shaded, like the banks of a stream, with the cypress; this tree, among oriental nations, is an emblem of moral and religious liberty ; and hence Saadi’s strain, Live fruitful as the palm ; or be, As reigns the cypress, proud and free. Now the cypress is a favourite image for beau- ty of stature, and loveliness of deportment, for a, fair and noble presence, and seductive flow of manners; if is regarded under eastern skies as the symbol of social and intellectual freedom, because its branches do not bend towards the earth, but shoot upward towards the firmament. The votaries of taste and fashion have not, in all human probability, the slightest conception of the origin and import of the circle of flowers which is worked into the centre of the square formed shaw]; it is totally a distinct species from every other, and by Persian, as well as Turk, is called the “Boghdsha.” This word is synonymous with our “ heap” (a mas,) and is likewise given te the collection of stuffs and shawls which is pre- sented by the Asiatic to his friends; yet the origin of the word is neither Persian nor Turkish, but derives from the Indian “ pudsha,” which implies an offering of flowers. Whenever, from the time of year, or the nature of the soil, the Hindu is deprived of the means of honouring his divinities with gifts of flowers, the fair Indian spreads out her shawl, and kneels down to recite her prayer on its centre, where the textured bou- quet forms a substitute for her favourite offering. These diminutive shawls are used in many of our European capitals as ornamental coveriets for ottomans and couches. We have assigned to this species the first rank in our catalogue, merely on account of the primacy of rank they enjoy in their native country; not because of their igtrinsic value, for in this respect they must generally yield the palm to the “long shawl.” The plain one, with a smooth surface, is called Dshar, and that with a flowered ground, Dshid- sheklig but the striped shawls, as well as such as have their surface richly decorated, are termed Fermaish ; and the longest and narrowest, which are used as girdles or ceintures, Baeldar. We recollect that when the Persian envoy, some ten years since, presented one of these Fermaishes, together with a half-starved Persian courser, to his Imperial Majesty’s court interpreter, it was observed by a wag, “ Que l’ambassadeur avait regale d’un cheval maigre et d’un schal gras.” — The third class of shawl are those without palms or borders, which are used for the attire of the richer classes, particularly females, and are usually worked up into those elegant trowser- ings, which form no unattractive adornment to the person, when the caftan is thrown open: to this species the Turks attach the general name of Tonlik, or cloth for trowsering. In confor- mity with the place where they are manufactur- ed, shawls receive the generic appellation of Kashmirs or Lahoris, from Kashmir and La- hore; whilst those which are imitations, whether made at Bagdad or Aleppo, in France or in Eng- land, are called Taklid, or copies. In more re- cent times, the manufacturers of Cashmir have produced Jarge supplies of gala shawls, into which the word Newtarh, or “ of modern fashion” is always woven. These are ornamented with ensigns, foil, chains, peacock’s feathers, &c., and are thence named by the Persians Alembar, “containing ensigns,” Kunkered’ar, * contain- ing foil,” Silfilatar, “ containing chains,’ and so forth. These denominations are frequently work- ed into the shawls with a needle in coloured silk ; but the characters usually found on them com- pose the name of the manufacturer or first ven- dor; and very often the words signifying “* O Preserver !” “-O Defender!” “ May blessings attend me!’ or the names of Achmed or Ma- homet: or else words of Talismanic import; to which are added, “ 4ala—Aala,” implying the highest, that is of the best quality. We may glean still further information from the follow- ing nomenclature, which the Persian Ambassa- dors, Mirza Abul, presented with twelve shawls, in the name of the Shah, to her Imperial Majes- ty, the Empress of Austria. + 1. A Kasmir shawl, Tirmeh, arrow of the noon. 2. White, with a broad border—Risaji—chain fashioned, from the loom of the dervish, Mohom- med. 3. A linen-liked sort of Tirmeh, with apricot border. 4. A white Risaji, with chain border. 5. A muscle-coloured Risaji, with leaves and chain. 6. A Risaji of the colour of heavenly water, with a chain border. 7. and 8. Emerald Risajis, with corners of roses. Ae 9. A white ditto, ditto. 10. A garlick coloured Risaji, with a border. 1l. A white shawl—Abreh, or water canal. 12. The same, with sprigs of willow. I shall close these details with the derivation of the word shawl itself, for which I am indebted to Ferheng Shuueri,a Persian dictionary, which illustrates every word with a Persian verse. “ Shawl is that well known portion of attire so called; or any other stuff woven from wool, such as carpets and ada (in contra-distinction to gold tissue or other splendid cloths.”’) “ For riche stuffs and atlas, my wonted thirst is gone ; Guerdon enough for me are cloth and shaw! alone.”

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SB WRAPS OBR CRB BMREBtS MB GAvVa Wa. “A Popular Ballad. THE POETRY BY T. H. BAYLY, ESQ. COMPOSED BY ALEBZSANDER LEB. eyes with ber pale hand By con - trast the fond smile of her cold frown re - - pul - - sing cold frown, the Ul cold frown, the cold frown, Re - pul- sing her SECOND VERSE. She weeps o’er the trinkets he gave her, Bright lures that made innocence waver; The golden chains meant to enslave her, Are brokens she throws them aside $ She thinks of her honmte and its bowers, Where spring strew’d the earliest flowers, Too late for youth’s happier hours, She mourns im her palace of pride, She mourns, she mourns, she mourns, In her palace of pride.

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*, ” - 2R2B-BABTAL DRUM. - -, A Popalar Ballad. THE PORTRY BY FE. F. BALL. COMPOSED BY G. HBBERT RODWHELEL. Allegretto Moderato e con Expressione.

~> Row thy Bark my gal - - lant Lo-ver, Pen-sive over the rip - - - pling =

oe fea, Alid@Pwhile moenlight ga --thers round thee, WGad -------- ly sighing, é

a think on me: "Neath the Li —y | | all 3 2 ~ O % » € . yO “a | - i : x ' — — @-- - gain thy love shall come, Where soft e - - cho’s voice re - spond - ing,

. ae ee Tune - ful mocks the Tar - - tar drum; Where soft 2---cho’s voice re - spond - -- ing, er , re

Tune - - - ful mocks the Tar - tar drum, So tune --- - ful mocks

the Tar-tar drum. SECOND VERSE. . Bending o’er thy gallant vessel, Thee no more shall I behold} Like a spirit in the sunbeams, Borne on waves of liquid gold? To the rustic dance at evening, Never more thy love shall come, Where the mirthfal cymbals jingle, Joyous with the Tartar drum, ° Where the mirthfml cymbals jingle, Joyous with the Tartar drum, So joyous with the Tartar drum:

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WOMAN—-MATIN SONG—THE GATHRRER. WOMAN. BY THE AUTHOR oF “ PELHAM.” “ O Womans! day-star of ourdoom, Thy dawn our birth, thy close our tomb, Or if the mother or the bride, Our fondest friend and surest guide ; And yet our folly and our fever, The dream, the meteor, the deceiver ; Still, spite of sorrow, wisdom, years, And those, Fate’s sternest warners, tears, Still clings my yearning heart unto thee, Still knows no wish like those which woo thee, Still in some living form essays To clasp the bright cloud it portrays ; And still as one who waits beside, But may not ford, the faithless tide, It wears its own brief life away, It marks the shining waters stray, Counts every change that glads the river, And finds that change it pines for, never.” A MATIN SONG. FROM THE ATHENEZUM. Goop morrow to the hills again,— Good morrow to the lea; Good morrow to the hollow glen, And to the greenwood tree! The ringdove leaves her ivy bower, The seamew quits the sea; The skylark in his sun-bright tower Is chanting merrilie ! Good morrow to the dappled skies, Good morrow to the lake ; Good morrow to the melodies The praiseful torrents make! The river blue—the waterfall— The smal! brook on the lea,— Good morrow to them, one and ali, The beautiful—theffree ! THE GATHERER. ‘* A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.”’ Shakspeare. . Hore is a prodigal young heir, and experience is his banker ; but his drafts are seldom honoured, since there is often a heavy balance against him, because he draws largely upon a small capital, is not yet in possession, and if he were, would die. The Poet should cull from the garden of na- ture only those sweet flowers that diffuse a healthful fragrance. No poisonous weed, how- ever brilliant its hue, however delicious its per- fume, should mingle in the wreath he wears. Women by assuming the literary character lose much of that softness and delicacy of man- ner which are their recommendations to the love of the other sex. When birds are kept in cages and taught a variety of notes, their power over sounds is indeed much increased; they are more noisy, but the natural sweetness of their voices is lost. ~ There is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady's head dress. Within my own memory, I have known it to rise and fall within thirty degrees. The difference between what is called ordinary company and good company, is only hearing the same thing in a little room or a large saloon, at small tables or.at great tables, before two can- dles or twenty sconces. The great Sir William Jones was a most as- tonishing example of application to study in ‘spite of all difficulties. His maxim was, never to ne- glect any opportunity of improvement which presented itself. It was a fixed principle with him never to neglect prosecuting to a successful termination what he had once deliberately under- taken. The best thing to be done when evil comes \ upon us, is not lamentation, but action; not to | sit and suffer, but to rise and seek the remedy. “ Let the first action of manhood be to govern your passions, for he who knows how to govern himself always becomes a favourite with so- ciety. He who has opportunity to inspect the sa- cred moments of elevated minds, and seizes none, is a son of dullness; but he who turns those moments into ridicule will betray with a -kiss, and in embracing, murder.—Lavater. The proverb ought to run, “ A fool and his words are soon parted; a man of genius and his money.” —Shenstone. ‘ An excellent rule for living happy in society is, never to concern one’s self with the affairs of others unless they wish for, or desire it. Under pretence of being useful, , people often show more curiosity than affection. Lone Speecnes.—In the year of Rome 702 a law was passed, called de ambitu, limiting the pleadings in criminal cases to one day, allowing two hours to the prosecutor and three to the accused. There was some sense in this, inde- pendently of the saving of time. There cam be no greater absurdity than to suppose» @, good cause can be benefited by pleadings, the begin- ning of which must be quite = before they come to an end.

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THE GATHERER. . res The man who is in pain to know what altera- tion time and age have made in him, needs only to consult the eyes of the fair one he addresses, and by the tone of her voice as she talks with him, he will learn what he fears to know. O! how hard a lesson! There is acharm in private talent which, from the very nature of the thing, can never be im- parted by any public exhibition. In the theatre or in the concert room, we can never sufficiently abstract our minds from the performer. The performance may be, and in many instances, is, perfection. Science and taste are completely satisfied. But sentiment vanishes away before the idea that the whole is an exhibition. Love Letrer.—I downa bide to see the moon Blink o’er the hill sae dearly, Late on a bonny face she shone, A face that I loe dearly. An’ wher down by the water clear At e’en I’m lonely roaming, I sigh, an’ think if ane were here; How sweet wad fa’ the gloaming.’’ Virtue in an intelligent and free creature, of whatever rank in the scale of being, is nothing less than a conformity of disposition and practice to the necessary, eternal and unchangeable rec- titude of the Divine nature. Sweetness of temper is not an acquired but a natural excellence; and, therefore, to recom- mend it to those who have it not, may be deemed rather an insult than advice. There are two kinds of people which we ought never to contradict, those who are far above us, and those who are far below us. Zeno, the philosopher, believed in an inevita- ble destiny. His servant availed himself of this doctrine, one day, while being beaten for a theft, by exclaiming—‘‘ Was I not destined to rob?” “ Yes,” replied Zeno, “‘ and to be cor- rected also.” I have learned that nothing can constitute good breeding, that has not good nature for its foundation.— Bulwer. LAFAYETTE was offered by the First Consul a place in the Senate, when that body was created: but as is well known, he declined, and resisted all advances towards arbitrary establishments, and has lived to emjoy his noble consistency, after the emperor and empire have crumbled into dust. Where the sympathies of the heart have not been encouraged to expand, no cultivation of the understanding will have power to render the character eminently great or good.— Hamilton. Distaff spinning was first introduced into Eng- land, in 1505. Ell, or yard measure, was fixed by the length of Henry the First’s arm, in 1101. P who assume reserve, gravity and silence, ie practise this trick to gain credit of the world for that sense and information which they are conscious they do not possess. n But, _ I see a grave fool pyt on this pompous disguise, he reminds me of a poor and vain man who places strong padlocks on his trunks, so that the visiter may suppose that they contain valuable articles, though he knows himself that they are quite empty. A Tear.— No radiant pearl which crested fortune wears, Nor that twinkling hangs from beauty’s ears, Nor bright stars which night's blue arch adorn, Nor rising suns that guild the vernal morn, Shine with such lustre as the tear that breaks For others wo, down virtue’s manly cheeks. The famous Ben Johnson worked for some time as a brick-layer or mason, “ and let them not blush,” says the historian Fuller, “ that have, but those that have not a lawful calling. He helped in the building of the new structure of Lincoln’s Inn, when having a trowel in his hand, he had a book in his pocket.” A PHILANTHROPIST is a busy body, who is always in the affairs of other people and neglecting his own. The strength of the church consists not in the number of its members, but in the maturity and vigour of their piety. Choose thy friend with care, and confide in him, that the bonds of your mutual love may be strong as the ties which unite brothers. Be not familiar with the vulgar man; he is contagious; the scabby camel derives no benefit from the touch of the sound one, but the healthy camel becomes contaminated by communication with the sick. Povertyis accounted disgraceful ; but how no- talile the defect in him who boasts of high descent. The rich man is honoured by all; they who stand in his presence aspire to nothing but his bounty; he rules the world by his wealth, his word is obeyed, and. his sayings are approved of; the people smile at his approach, they stand be- fore his divan, and seek to come near him. One can live well without a brother, but not without a friend. He that would not experience the vain regret of misemployed days, must learn, therefore, to know the present value of single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time fall useless to the ground. Whoever pursues a contrary plan, will forever find something to break that continuity of exertion, in looking forward to which, he solaces himself for his present supine- ness; and the expiration of the period allotted for the completion at his legal apprenticeship, will generally find a mighty waste of time to have proceeded from the trivial value he attached to its fragments. EPITAPH ON A STONE IN THE CHURCH-YARD AT LANGTOWN, IN CUMBERLAND, ENGLAND. Life's like an inn where travellers stay : Some only breakfast and away; Others to dinner stay and are full fed— The oldest only stp and go to bed ; Long is the bill who lingers out the day; Who goes the soonest bas the least to pay. A

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RECIPES—SERENADE. RECIPES. FOR DYEING AND CLEANING FEATHERS. FEATHERS, to be dyed, must first be cleaned, by passing them through, or between the hands, in warm soap and water, and by giving them fresh liquors of soap and water, and at last rins- ing them in warm water. Previously to their being dyed, it is necessary that they should be soaked in warm water for several hours. The same degree of heat should be kept up, but the water must be but little more than blood warm. If for yellows or reds, they must be alumed in cold alum liquor for a day or two, according to the body of colour you require the feathers to imbibe ; then immerse them in your dye liquor. For some drab colours, it will be necessary to use the alum water at a blood heat: its being too hot would injure the feathers. For dyeing browns, archil, &c. are used instead of woods, barks, &c.; cudbear is also used. After a feather has been dyed any dark brown or other dark colour, its nature is lost, and consequently its texture. It is unprofitable for the wearer to redye them, and difficult even for a dyer to perform. «A fea- ther by being beaten across the hand soon dries; by this means feathers are as easily dyed as silk or woollen, and there is a greater certainty of obtaining the desired shade. The only difficulty in dyeing feathers is in compounding the dyeing materials, and making a homogeneous liquor of them, so as to produce the desired shade, after being saddened or made of a darker colour by means of green copperas, which is generally used to darken brown greys, blacks, slate co- lours, &c. Sumach and fustic, or sumach alone, is the general ground of browns; the red, as I have before observed, is obtained by archil; and the black hue by green copperas, in warm water; after the feather has been put into the copperas water, it may be returned again into the dye water, and back again into the copperas; but care should be taken each time that the feather is rinsed from the copperas water, before it is again returned into the dye liquor, otherwise the copperas would spoil it. Care also should be taken not to use too much copperas in saddening colours, as it injures the texture, and prevents the colour from appearing bright; and if the ground colour be not of a sufficient body, the saddening or copperas will make it uneven. The same preparation as would dye silk of the same colour, will dye feathers; in short, feathers as well as silk, being animal substances, are more alike in nature than any other two bodies, either animal or vegetable. You must remember, that in dyeing silks the water is used hot, or on the simmer, for most colours; but feathers must be always dyed in cold liquors, except for black, the dyeing materials being first boiled, and then let to cool; your feathers must then be put in, and when this liquor is exhausted add a fresh one, pouring off the old liquor. For dyeing feathers black, the same liquor as for silk must also be used, but with this difference, that for the fea- thers, the dyeing materials must be boiled for two hours, and then used as warm as the feathers will bear, heating the liquor four or five times. It often happens that a feather is four or five days dyeing black; but violets, pansies, carna- tions, light purples, light blues, greys, &c. are dyed in ten minutes. Light blues are dyed in chemic blues; the greys, in galls and green cop- peras; the violets in warm archil and water ; the greens with ebony wood, in warm water and chemic blue. These are to be finished by being gently beaten out over the hand, and this will dry them: just before they are dry it is requisite to curl them, which is done with a round edged knife. > —— TO CLEAN BLACK FEATHERS. Pour a pennyworth of bullock’s gall into a wash-hand basin; pour warm water on this, and run your feathers through it; rinse in cold water, and finish them as you would other feathers. For the Lady’s Book. Lone had the rosy god of day, Beneath th’ horizon’s western verge, Sunk in old Ocean’s snowy spray, And couch’d him in the sounding surge. Up rose the silver queen of night, And b in the cloudless blue, Bath'd rock and stream in gentle light, And kiss’d each pearl of evening dew. When, ‘neath a window twin’d with flow'rs Born in the Eastern Ind afar, A lover blest those moonlight hours, And thus he swept his light guitar. Wake, lady wake! for the balmy breeze * Scarcely ruffles the placid lake, And the waving leaf of the murm’ring trees Calls thee to rise for thy lover's sake. Wake! for the sparkling eyes of night Rival the liquid beam of thine, And the rivulets’ waves, as they dance in light Lend their soft music to blend with mine. Wake! for the crescent bark above, Rides through its ocean of spotless blue, Like a fairy isle for the souls that love, A haven of bliss for the fond and true. High and alone in that silver car, Above the cares of this lower sphere, ’Mid the bright throng of the worlds afar, Ghide the young spirits that lov’d while here. Wake! and list to the fairy note That steals from my harp’s awaken'd string— The gentle sounds on the night breeze float, And echo repeats the strain I sing. Wake! ’tis the noon of night, when roam The sheeted forms of the wand'ring dead ; Fear not! for the spirits that guard thy home, Are angels of mercy around thy bed. x Thus rang the lover's glowing lay, Till the pale moon’s bright reign was o’er; From the red East broke forth the day, And the gentle strain was heard no more.

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