The Lady's Book 1833-01: Vol 6 Iss 1

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FA — AND THE ARTS. 1 A a WSO 6 yy) PuBLIsHep By L.A .Gopry &Co. ATHENIAN BUILDINGS FRANKLIN PLACE. i833.

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THE LADY’S BOOK. a VANVARY, 2983. i PHILADELPHIA FASHIONS. Bart Dress.—Dress of blue gaze St. Vallier, trimmed with gauze ribands and blond, body trimmed with rows of narrow blond forming the point, short sleéves fastened with gauze riband ; head-dress composed of marabouts and forget-me-nots. Evenrxnc Dress.—Dress of rich emerald green velvet, with a plain body; blond mantilla with ends; head-dress, turban of pink crape with silver stars. Original. BARTON’S EXPEDITION; t OR, THE STORY OF SYBIL PRIOR. A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION. Lean, raw-boned rascajs! who would e’er suppose They had such courage and audacity. —Suaxsreare. Such a rural queen . All Arcadia hath not seen.-~M1utox. Ir was a lovely July evening, sueh an eveu- ingas is known only in that “ Eden of America,” which, while in the possession of the Aborigines of our country, was distinguished by the name of “ Aquitnet;” a name, which our ancestors, (for certain wise reasons of their own, or perhaps without any reason at all,) thought proper to ex- change for that of “ Rhode Island.” A few clouds, light and lovely ones, whose borders the declining sun had fringed with gold, floated lazily inethe zenith; but the western sky exhibited one dazzling blaze of splendour, and the broad bosom of the majestic Narragansett shone with the refleetion of the radiance, like “* A burnished sheet of living gold.”’ The numerous little green islets embosomed in its tranquil waters; cast their picturesque sha- dows on its glassy surface, and looked, as they lay there in their déep repose and sylvan beauty, like the fabled regions of fairy-land, rather than the abodes of mere mortals; while safely moored in the spacious harbouref Newport, and upward along the bay, rode the hostile armament cf England; the_lofty spars, shooting up in bold ‘relief against the glowing sky, and the huge black hulls casting toward the city broad lines of deep and«gloomy shadow, while from their sides protruded, in dfead array and prompt for , the engines of destructijon. The field and garden flowers were lavish of their fragrance, but not a breeze moved—not a leaf stirred—not a “violet wagged its sweet head”—not a sound broke on the delicious still- ness of the hour, save as a belated robin hurried A to his leafy abode, or a sparrow, dissatisfied with its lodgings, flitted to some more convenient twig, with a low twitter of peevishness at its bad ac- commodations. So tranquillizing was the influ- ence of the scene, that even the stern centinel who was pacing the ground in front of Overing- house, where the English commander had fixed his quarters, relaxed his vigilance, and gazing listlessly around him at the verdant fields and woodlands, indulged his fancy with a visit to his cottage home, beyond the billows of the wide Atlantic, which were rolling before him far as the eye could reach. And still more marvellous to relate, the imperious military despot himself suspended for a while his menaces and execra~ tions against the inhabitants of the country ; and in the admiration with which he surveyéd the glowing landscape, to which even the pencil of a Claude could scarcely have dohe justice, well nigh forgot that he was gazing only upon *t Rebel hills and rebel dales, By rebel trees surrounded."’—— Indescribably beautiful must the scene indeed ha en, which could, even {for a moment, have 80 to complacency the morose and virulent temper of a man lilke the English Prescott, whose overbearing arrogance and unrelenting tyranny are to this day proverbial throughout that isl- and, the inhabitants of which suffered from him, while “drest in a little brief authority,” all the privations and persecutions that military despo tism could inflict. . Truth requires of us to state, however, that General Prescott had returned from town at a late hour, oppressed by the sultr

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2 ness of the air and fatigued with his ride, and the unwonted placidity of his temper may, perhaps, be more justly attributed to extreme lassitude, than to the delicious tranquillity of the hour, or the beauty of the scenery. Leaving him, how- ever, to the enjoyment of his snug quarters at Overing-house, which, it may be proper to inform our readers, is situated at Portsmouth, about five miles from the old city of Newport, we will hasten to introduce the heroine of our tale. The young and lovely Sybil Prior was the daughter of an obscure, but honest and indus- trious farmer, who, by a series of misfortunes, having been deprived of his little patrimony, had died of a broken heart, just as poor Sybil attained her fifteenth year, leaving his destitute orphan without a relative in the wide world. Pennyless and unconnected, the hapless Sybil must, in all probability, have fallen an early victim to hope- less sorrow and “ pinching penury,’ had she not, through the friendly mediation of the aged house- keeper, obtained shelter and protection at Over- ing-house. At the period when our narrative commences, July 1777, she had been five years an inmate of the family, acting in a variety of capacities, from that of kitchen maid, with which she commenced her career, through all the inter- mediate degrees, up to the rank of lady’s maid, and deputy house-keeper ; acquitting herself in each and all to the entire satisfaction of her em- ployers, and receiving from them, in considera- tion of her many excellent qualities and her un- connected condition, a singular degree of sym- pathy and regard. Within a year, however, many circumstances had concurred to render her situation exceedingly uncomfortable, if not absolutely distressing. ‘‘ The course of true love never did run smooth,” and poor Sybil’s, although a most virtuous, well-placed, and unalienable attachment, was by no means exempt from the sorrows and trials that assail all human love. The family at Overing-house were, unhappily for her, zealous loyalists,and in proportion to the regard they entertained for the beautiful and deserving orphan, they became averse to her union with Martin Gray—or, in the words of the worthy old house-keeper, who had very naturally imbibed their sentiments, “ to her *throwing herself away, on sich a rebel rap- scallion.” To encrease the perplexity of her situation, separated as she was, p@rhaps, forever from her lover, and uncertain of his fate, the unhappy Sybil was perpetually annoyed by the assiduities of his rivals, and had of late been persecuted by the attentions of a libertine young officer of the English general's family, whg, ex- asperated by the steady contempt with whith his insolent preposals had been treated, was, as she well knew, plotting to inveigle her into his power. This person was now absent on some professicnal duty, and, notwithstanding she had been baffled, either by the well-meant interference of the family, or the jealous vigilance of her military admirers, in sundry attempts, which, at the earnest instance of her betrothed lover, she had made to escape from the island, she had now re- solved on making one more effort to extricate herself from the perils and snares by which she was surrounded. Means of disguise had been procured, and arrangements made for effecting her elopement to the continent that very evening. It was, therefore, with a perturbation of feéling by no means in unison with the scene, that our lovely rustic, having completed the labours of the day, wandered out in search of the person whom she had chosen as the confidant and assist- ant of her scheme: should he fail of keeping his appointment, or should her plot be discovered, there was the end, perhaps forever, of all ber earthly hopes. With a throbbing heart, and many a melancholy foreboding, therefore, the beautiful and innocent Sybil commenced her evening ramble, attended only by a little spaniel, which had been the faithful companion of Mar- tin Gray, until, after having seen his comfortable little cottage wantonly laid in ashes by the Bri- tish soldiery, the justly exasperated youth had taken up arms against the spoilers of his country. From that melancholy day the animal had been the constant attendant of the hapless maiden, who fostered him with tenderness for his absent master’s sake, and never puppy was half so grateful. Deeming the faithful animal a sufficient safe- guard, Sybil glided by a back door from the house, and, taking a circuitous route; in order to avoid the observation of the soldiers, (who, since the English commander had there fixed his quarters, infested the place, and among whom she unfortunately had many admirers,) she pro- ceeded with a hurried yet stealthy step, and with many an apprehensive start, along the planta- tion south of the mansion, under shadow of the tall trees and thick underbrush which then skirted the borders of the brook and the beauti- ful sheet of water, which finally discharges itself in a mimic cascade over the stone wall which separates the lawn in front of Overing-house, from the highway. , This had been the favourite walk of Martin Gray in happier times, when he came of an evening, arrayed in his “* Sunday’s best,” to woo the lovely Sybil. {It was there, too, beside the brook and beneath the soft light of a summer’s moon, that, after having tormented him to her heart’s content, she had first confessed her love; and, only a year since, on that very spot, she had promised, at the expiration of one little month, to become his wife: but ** Wo came with war, and want with wo; And it was his to undergo Each outrage of the cruel foe His ficlds laid waste—his cot Jaid low.”’ 4 Poor Martin no longer possessed a home to which he could conduct his bride, and they were compelled to separate. He for the dangers and hardships of the battle, and poor Sybil to linger around the scenes of former happiness, and weep in solitude over her own blighted hopes and in- auspicious prospects. It was not, however, to indulge in fond regret and melancholy reflection that she had this evening proceeded thither; and

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SYBIL PRIOR. 3 frequently did se check her rapid yet trem- bling steps, and throw an eager and apprehen- sive glance around her in every direction; and her slender fingers trembled as she brushed back the chesnut ringlets that clustered thickly about her swan-like neck and graceful shoulders, while “ With neck outstretched and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art,” she listened in as breathless and rapt attention, as if all her faculties had been absorbed in the single sense of hearing. Her heart throbbed fearfully if but a beetle whizzed by on the still air, or a frog plashed in the stream beside her, every throb sending “the pure and eloquent blood,” in a beautiful glow over the marble whiteness of her exquisitely rounded cheek.— Weeks had now elapsed since she had heard a syllable, or received a token from her lover. Many a bloody battle had been fought, and many a brave man had perished in the interit, and the shuddering girl averted her eyes from the re- splendent beams of the sun that was now setting so gloriously behind Canonicut, and the green hills of the Narragansett, as she thought that his parting radiance might even then be beaming on the bloody grave of her own devoted Martin Gray! With such painful reflections as these, did our heroine continue to torment herself, as she wan- dered to and fro, under shelter of the thick shrub- bery, until the dazzling effulgence of the western sky hed given place to the ruddier hues of twi- light, and through its deepening shadows the brilliant star of evening, with its pure and peace- ful radiance, looked out upon our “ world of war and wo.” Her melancholy ruminations were then interrupted by the low and cantious accents of a familiar voice, which, with the exception only of Martin Gray’s, was the most welcome sound that could have met her ear— “ Sybil Prior !—pretty Sybil,” it exclaimed in a suppressed tone—‘ Sybil Prior, I say !—cross the brook higher up, and come on this side the trees, Mistress Sybil!” Sybil waited no second bidding, but checking the joyful exclamation that was bursting from her lips, she plunged unhesitatingly into the thicket, and leaping the brook with the grace and lightness of a sylph, her trusty confidant stood before her in the meagre figure of a ragged, sallow-faced, half-starved urchin, ycleped Caleb Millar. Although honest Caleb presented the most per- fect exemplification of squalid misery even then extant, yet was he a personage of too great im- portance and notoriety to be passed over without “honourable mention.” Endowed by nature with an incorrigible propensity to intriguc—shrewd of intellect, fruitful in expedients, and light of heels, itis by no means surprising that the services of Caleb should have been in great and continual request, at a period “ which tried men’s souls,” or that his renown should have reached even the old “wooden walls of Newport.” The rogue was, in fine, the factotum of the whole county. ¢ * No affair of moment could be transacted, from the wooing of a dairy maid, up to the most im- portant political intrigue, without the aid and connivance of the wary and cunning Caleb, who daily scoured the island from one extremity to the other, risking the gallows and running the gauntlet on any body’s errand who pleased to employ him. For although, like every other worthy, sensible, and patriotic citizen, Kell Millar was a déeided whig, he yet freely ren- dered his honest services to either party, in con- sideration of a reasonable recompense. To do him justice, however, he was not mercenary, and often ventured life and limb in behalf of a dis- tressed countryman, without hope of fee or re- ward; and albeit he scorned not to line his rag- ged pocket with a slight douceur now and then, in the shape of British gold, and was sometimes rather exorbitant in his demands, when employ- ed by the “ red coats,” it should be recollected that he possessed no other means of indemnify- ing himself for the injuries which he daily saw inflicted on his countrymen, and had, moreover, been taught to consider a “ fleecing of the rig- lars” as a mere “ spoiling of the Philistines,” for otherwise he was strictly honest, acquitting him- self of every trust reposed in him, with shrewd- ness and fidelity, even when employed by an Englishman, or by, what he held in still greater detestation, a tory. Caleb was, in short, the dernier resort of every distressed individual in cases of emergency ; nor was he ever known to fail of complete success in any undertaking, however difficult or dangerous, unless, as some- times happened, he chanced to discover that he had unwittingly engaged in some enterprise that was likely to militate against the interest or safety of an American. In such cases, it was amazing how stupid he would invariably become; committing a thousand such egregious and unac- countable blunders, that, however excellent the plot might be, it was sure to be blown, Manya time and oft had the vindictive General Prescott been disappointed of his revenge by the secret machinations of Caleb Millar, who, by some in- explicable means, had contrived to spirit away from under the very nose of the Provost Mar- shal, more than one luckless citizen, who was the next day to have graced a gibbet. And, when at last, guspicion fastened upon Caleb, and he was himself committed to the same durance from which he had ventured to rescue another, or confined for safe keeping to the guard-room, to be examined ‘ine die, he was found, in addi- tion_to his other accomplishments, to possess suc an uncontrollable love of freedom, and such a fondness for recreating himself al fresco, that neither bolis nor bars could confine him. He was, in fact, as slippery as an ecl, and often, while his enemies were exulting in his capture, and fancying him safe in their custody, honest Caleb would have fairly given them “ leg bail,” and be miles off, scampering over the fields again as free and merry as a lark. By these, and similar manceuvres, he, however, at last gained something besides a triumph over the

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4 SYBIL PRIOR. “ rig’lars;” for it began to be suspected, and was finally most religiously believed, that Kell Millar dealt with the “dark one.” But our friend Caleb, notwithstanding his miraculous hair- breadth escapes, and the malicious insinuations of those whom he had offended by outwitting, was an honest and innocent lad; theearly dis- play of whose talents had been elicited by the force of circumstances—the poor boy having been compelled by sheer necessity, to the exer- tion of all his faculties, in order to support a bed-ridden and aged grandmother, and obviate the difficulties and dangers of the times. Even * Hunger, that sharpener of dull wits, Which gives even fools their thinking fits,” had assisted the early development of those talents, of which, had he been nursed in the lap of luxury, he might forever have remained the unconscious possessor. Proud of the difficult, dangerous, and often momentous concerns which were frequently entrusted to his management, Mr. Caleb Millar was, after all, a most conse- quential and important personage; and though half-starved, and half-naked, he had a heart as light as his heels,—aye, or his purse either, and was, in despite of fortune, the merriest wag in all Rhode Island. Such was the coadjutor whom, with full confidence in his fidelity, good will and ability, Sybil Prior had chosen to assist her in her meditated enterprise. *“ You’re pretty much tired o’ waiting so long, I guess,” cried Caleb, as they met; “ but I had to dodge a party o’ rig’lars as I came from the ferry this morning, which took me a long way about. But I’ve got here at last, in spite of their teeth,” he added, grinning, till every yellow tooth in his own head displayed itself from be- tween a pair of thin, blue, famished looking lips; “and 1 ha’ got something for ye too,” Sybil Prior,” he said, thrusting his thin, bony hand into his bosom, as if searching for something that was hidden among the mass of rags that cover- ed his meagre person. “Something for me!’ demanded Sybil, ea- gerly. “Oh! then, you have seen him, my good Caleb—how does he look ?—is he well ?—is he safe?” “No, no, I ha’n’t seen him myself, pretty Sybil,” replied Caleb, still fumbling among his tattered integuments; “‘ but I’ve may be seen them that has. Aye, Sybil Prior,” he continued, laughing, as he observed her ill-disguised impa- tience, ‘1 know’d you’d be ready to fly for a letter‘from Martin Gray.” “A letter!—oh, if you should have lest it, Caleb !” cried Sybil, apprehensively. “No, no indeed—there’s no fear o’ that,” re- turned Caleb, confidently. “ You never know’d Kell Millar to lose any thing o’ Martin Gray’s— it’s here, safe enough in my inside pocket.” “ Pocket!” repeated Sybil, surveying his wretched habiliments compassionately—-“ you will never find any thing among so many rags, my poor Caleb.” “ Sha’n’t I ?—what d’ye call this, then, mistress Sybil?” demanded Caleb, triumphantly, as he drew from its inscrutable lurking-place, a soiled piece of folded paper, which had probably worn a different hue when first committed to his keep- ing—* no, no, you needn’t be afear’d, I'll never lose any thing o’ Martin Gray’s. If Kell Millar had one o’ his letters in one pocket, and one o’ King George’s in t’other, full of golden guineas, the rig’lars and tories should have the whole tote on ’em—aye, and the heart out o’ my bosom, afore they should make me give up any thing that belonged to Martin Gray.” “You are a good boy, and a true friend, my poor Caleb,” said Sybil,as with trembling eager- ness she broke the seal, and read—for thanks to Martin Gray, she could not only read, * but write, and cypher too”—for rustic though he was— “In sooth poor Martin was no vulgar boy,”” and it was the gratuitous instruction bestowed by him on our friend Caleb, added to the fre quent relief of that gentleman’s pecuniary wants, which had secured to himself and Sybil Prior, the gratitude and devoted services of that worthy whenever it was their pleasure to demand them. The note which our heroine seemed rather to devour than read, bore neither signature nor direction, but it was penned in the well-known hand-writing of her lover, and its contents were as follows :— j “ Put your trust in heaven, and follow the di- rections of the bearer; he is true as steel; loves us both, and has a thousand expedients for evad- ing danger and baffling pursuit. I will, if possi- ble, meet you at the shore; if not, he will secure you a place of safe concealment, until your es- cape to the main land can be effected. At any rate, remain not a moment longer where you now are, but fly, and fear nothing—there is a God above us yet.” ** And may His name be blessed!” ejaculated Sybil, fervently, as she pressed the soiled paper to that innocent heart, which it had relieved of a weight of anxiety—“ Could I but once reach the main land!” she exclaimed, as she was about to tear and throw from her, the note of her lover. ** No, no!” exclaimed the wary Caleb, pre venting her, “ wrap it on a stone, and sink it in the brook—it will soon soak too much to tell tales, there.” ‘“* He approves then of my plan,” said Sybil, as she implicitly obeyed his directions. “ How can he help it,” cried Caleb; “ hasn’t he been trying this year to contrive ive us ree of getting you off to the main—and this night—now or never, pretty Sybil, and we've no time to waste in palavering, neither, some o’ these pesky sodgers ’ll be along, afore we thi on’t’—and drawing her to a greater distance from the shrubbery, he forthwith 'proceeded to unfold, in whispers, his plan for her emancipa- tion. It was finally agreed between them, or rather it was determined by master Caleb, that she should steal in disguise from the house, as soon as the family had retired for the night, which as the Englishman had returned from town, fatigued and indisposed, she flattered herself »

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SYBIL PRIOR. 5 would be at an early hour; afler which, her moveinents were to be guided solely by the wis- dom of her young adviser. Just as they had concluded this arrangement, a rustling in the foliage apprised them that some person or persons were cautiously approaching; poor Sybil started, turned pale, and shook with trepidation. Not so, our friend Caleb; he was too great a proficient in his trade to be easily thrown off his guard, and too much inured to danger to be for an instant deprived of his pre- sence of mind, notwithstanding the reluctance he felt to falling into the hands of the British, to whom he had rendered himself peculiarly ob- noxious, by sundry boyish tricks which he had recently played off on some of the soldiery, for his own private and especial divertisement. For the success of his scheme, it was neces- sary, in the first place, to secure himself from apprehension, and, in the second, to obtain some information relative to the domestic arrange- ments of the family at Overing-house, notwith- standing the proximity of the eaves-dropper, whose suspicions he feared to awaken by conti- nuing the conversation in whispers. These re- flections glanced over the mind of Caleb in the space of an instant, and drawing nearer to the thicket, he began his operations accordingly, by saying aloud—‘“ And so you see, Sybil Prior, they’ll never find out a word of our having the small-pox among us.”’ Sybil instantly comprehended his drift, and something more, for his allusion to that terrible disease convinced her that the keen eye of her e@ompanion had recognised her admirer, Mr. Matthew Halsey, in him of the ambush, from whose touch nothing earthly could so effectually have secured the rogue, as the slightest mention of a malady which he held ia absolute horror. “ But what if any body touch you, Caleb?” said Sybil, after pondering a moment on his words, “I should be sorry for any one to catch the infection.” “ The more fool you, then!” cried Caleb, with a dogged air, “‘ ’twas the ’tarnal red-coats and their nasty Hessians that brought it amongst us, as if fire and sword were not bad enough to kill the colonies with!—and if the godless gang gets a Rowland for their Oliver, I'll be hanged if Kell Millar cares!” * Hush—hush!” exclaimed Sybil, frightened at his temerity, and dreading that the resentment of Halsey might get the better even of his horror of small-pox—* hush, for mercy’s sake, Caleb! If any of the soldiers should hear you speak in such fashion, they’d surely take you up.” “ Then they’ll take up something else besides Kell Millar, 1 guess!” answered Caleb, with a taunting laugh, “‘ something that they, may be, won't like so well. Why, Sybil Prior, I’d no more come near you, or any body else I care a straw about, if they hadn’t had it, than I'd turn dory, or be shot ; and I'd ask no better fun than just to have a dozen on ‘em Jay hands on me this minute—hi! hi! hi! they might hang up poor Kell Millar, to be sure, but I should leave ’em * 3 something to remember me by, | conclude!—But come,” added Caleb, after indulging himself with another tantalizing and discordant laugh—“ but come, you ha’n't told me what time I must come up to Overing-house, to-night, for granny’s me- dicine.” ‘You must come early, or you’ll find us all a-bed, I think,” answered Sybil, after a little hesitation, “ for the General’s come home very tired, he’ll go early to bed, I suppose, and then it will be as much as your life is worth to get in,” “ Aye, I’d maybe run on the sodgers’ baggo- nets, but the med’cine must be had, or my good old mother will die, and I can’t spare her yet, Sybil, she’s all I’ve got to care for me,” added Caleb, in a somewhat husky voice—“ how then shall 1 come, to keep out of harm’s way, and not wake the General?” he almost instantly conti- nued, turning his back on-the shrubbery, and fixing on her a significant glance as he spoke. “Come round back of the house, and then you'll only see one of the centinels,” replied Sybil—* you must come early, and then, if you ask for me he’ll let you in, and I’ll maybe find some broken victuals for your sick mother, too.” “Yes! but if I wake the General, he’ll hang me without judge or jury, and then my old granny must starve; but tell me in what room the Gen- eral sleeps,” added Caleb, again fixing his keen scintillating little blue eye upon her, “ and I'll give him elbow-room, I warrant ye!” “The General sleeps in the front room over the parlour there,” said Sybil, internally wonder- ing what had prompted the question, or what the situation of the Englishman’s apartment had to do with her escape, since she was to steal out of the house and meet Caleb in the fields; she, how- ever, replied to his questions, without expressing her thoughts—* You must take care to make no noise, for there is no company to-night, and we shall all be a-bed by ten, I dare say—so, come early for your mother’s medicine.” “ Thank ye, Sybil Prior—I’ll be sure to come in good season, and make no noise—but stop a moment, Sybil; the General sleeps in that there chamber at the south-west, you say; you’re sure you aren’t mistaken now?” said Caleb, anxiously: “a blunder might cost me my life among the godless gang,and you wouldn’t want to see a poor fellow dance upon nothing, just because: he wanted some doctor’s-sluff for his poor old mo- ther, pretty Sybil?” “JT would not deceive you for the world, Ca- leb,” replied Sybil; “* I am sure that the General sleeps in the parlour chamber, on the right hand in front, and now be sure to make no noise, and come early.” * Well! yes—I'll mind it all—I’ll take care and do as you bid me; and you'll be sure to be ready with the bundle o’ medicine and all, Sybil? And,” added he,turning back yet once more, “and the General sleeps in the front parlour chamber, you say? I'll give him room enough, I'll warrant you!—them baggonets are pesky pokerish things—and so good bye, Sybil Prior ;

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6 SYBIL PRIOR. I’ve staid so long, my old granny will think I’m lost’””—and he threw his lank limbs over the stone wall into the road. “ Stop, stop, Caleb!” cried Sybil anxiously, and almost fearing to lose sight of him, lest some untoward accident should prevent his refurn— “ Stop, Caleb, and take care that nobody finds out that your poor old grandmother has the small-pox, they would turn her out, or burn the old house about her ears, if they knew it, for they have no mercy in their hearts of stone.” ** Small-pox, indeed !” echoed the rustic Mer- cury, with one of his most hideous smiles—* no, no, granny aren’t got the small-pox, I can tell then.” “ Better tell them nothing at all about it, Ca- leb, and perhaps they will not suspect it,” replied Sybil, “‘ and so good bye to you, Caleb.” Caleb grinned and nodded in return, and away he went, scampering over the ground with his long legs at the rate of a mile a minute, with all his ten thousand rags fluttering in the wind, like the rumpled feathers of an ostrich, and re-cross- ing the brook, away went Sybil also, with a step less light than it was wont to be, and endeavour- ing, as she proceeded homeward, to hum the pa- thetic ballad of Barbara Allen. Her voice, how- ever, trembled so much, that fearing its supernu- merary quavers would betray the violence of her agitation, she gave over the attempt. Wishing to appear unconcerned, she then called to her dog, and lavished on him, as he frisked and gam- bolled at her side, a thousand of those caresses, for one of which he had half an hour since wooed her in vain. As she thus moved on toward the house, she was suddenly accosted by her devoted admirer, Mr. Matt. Halsey, the son of a neigh- bouring farmer, who had recently enlisted in the British service. “You seem very merry to-night, Mistress Sybil,” he said, as flourishing a sapling, he strut- ted with an air of consequence beside her. “J don’t know, Matthew; I see but little, I think, to make any body merry,” answered the yet agitated girl; “‘ but I’ve had a pleasant wall, and I’m always glad to get beyond the hearing of the General’s growling voice, and have a walk by myself, out of sight of the soldiers.” “ A walk by yourself, hey?” retorted the of- fended soldier; *‘ didn’t I see you with my own eyes talking to that beggar’s brat, Kell Millar? a thievish imp that I'll set up for a mark some day, and shoot at, as I would a duck.” “ To tell you the truth, Master Halsey,” said Sybil, continuing the conversation, in order, if possible, to ascertain how much of her tete-a-tete with Caleb had been overheard; “ to tell you the truth,” she said, “ every thing is so changed and dismal of late, that I am always pleased to see poor Caleb; he is the only thing that is not altered, and the poor child is just as ragged, and starved, and merry as ever.” “ Aye, pretty Sybil, if you were not as hard- hearted as you are handsome, you wouldn’t say that every body is changed,” repeated the lover, in a pitcous lack-a-daisical tone—“ I’m a poor lad, it’s true, not so grand nor so handsome, nei- ther, mayhap, as Major Harwood or Insygn Simms, but I’ve loved you dearly, Sybil Prior, ever since I was as high as this switch ; and if you’d marry me, I wouldn’t change places with any man—no, not even if he stood in General Prescott’s shoes.” Sybil listened in silence to this impassioned address, and, after a pause, the lover took cou- rage to continue. * Look here, pretty Sybil: when I was in town to-day, I bought this here breast-knot; it’s as red as your own beautiful cheek, Sybil—I mean as red as it used to be, for it’s paler now, and prettier too, to my thinking, than ever ’twas. Will you wear the riband for my sake, Sybil?—for the sake of a lad who has loved you these five years with all his honest heart?” “No! Matthew Halsey,” replied Sybil, deci- sively; “ you know that I have promised to marry Martin Gray; and if I had not, I would take no presents from any body who wears such a coat as that.” *“ Such a coat as this!” echoed Halsey, draw- ing himself up with infinite hauteur; “ and pray, what ails my coat, Sybil Prior? isn’t it a very good coat—I should be glad to know, ma’am ?” “It's red!” answered Sybil, moving steadily forward. “ Well! and isn’t it sich as all the troops wears?” demanded Halsey, indignantly; “ didn’t I put it on o’ purpose to ‘please you, Sybil?” “ To please me?” reiterated Sybil, with seorn- ful incredulity; “why, Matt. I liked you fifty times better in your miller’s frock—to pleaseme, indeed !” , “* Yes—to please you. Wasn’t you always sing- ing songs about drums and fifes, and soldiers and cockades ?” demanded Halsey, with an air of vexation; “‘ and wasn’t I fool enough to turn sol- dier, and put on this very coat to please you?” “You made a sad mistake, then, in choosing the colour,” said Sybil, drily. “That can’t be helped now, Sybil; 1 can’t change it without being shot for it,” replied Hal- sey, sullenly; “though there’s nothing else I wouldn’t do to please you, if the thing was a pos- sibility; for I love you, Sybil, and I'd give all I’m worth, if I could make you care half as much about me as you do for Kell Millar even, or that gruff old sargeant Atkins. You never looked on me half so kindly im your life as you do on that old fellow—and don’t he fight for the king as well as me? and isn’t his coat as red as mine?” “ Aye, Matt., but as gruff as he is, he wasn't born among us. He wouldn’t fight his own kins- folk and neighbours—he wouldn’t go back to England, and help strangers to murder his own countrymen—but you, Matt. Halsey !—you, you! —I saw you this very morning with that merci- less gang that pursued old Obadiah Brayman, with fixed bagonets. He was your next door neighbour—your own father’s friend: you have warmed yourself at his fire, eaten at his table, and slept beneath his roof.”

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SYBIL PRIOR. 7 “ But Sybil, sweet Sybil!” expostulated Hal- sey, “ we are obliged to obey orders —” “ Obliged !—yes, and if they order you to shoot your own father, you would be obliged to obey that too!” interrupted Sybil, her beautiful eyes flashing with indignant scorn—“I wonder you were not ashamed to look the good man in the face !— You that have played like one of his own children about his hearth !— You, that have re- ceived a thousand kindnesses at his hand !—You help to carry old Obadiah Brayman to the Pro- vost !” “But Sybil, my pretty Sybil!”—began the rated hero. “Yes! to the Provost!” pursued the excited girl, disregarding his interruption—“ and for what ?—not for murder, not for theft, not for breaking any law—for, God help us! there is neither law, nor justice, nor mercy in all our groaning land !—but he, the good, the kind, up- right Christian man, must be carried off to prison by Matt. Halsey—by the son of his friend !—by the playmate of his children—because, forsooth, the worthy Quaker has sinned the sin of wearing his own beaver on his own white head in the public highway, when old Prescott was on the road! as if he were my lord the king, or the lord of all kings!” ‘ “ Hush, Sybil, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed her lover, astonished at her vehemence, and anxious for her safety—“ old Brayman has nei- ther been killed nor clapped up in prison.” “ And why is he not in prison, Matt. Halsey?” demanded his mistress, with bitter scorn, “ be- cause you heroes of the -O0th could not catch him!”—and, with a taunting laugh, she added, * It did my heart good to see him splash the mud about him, until your old tyrant of a general looked as if he had been horse-ponded !—aye, and it did me good to see how you valiant sol- diers of the -Oth, dare not come within a rod’s distance of his horse’s heels*—and he a rebel horse into the bargain!” and she laughed till all the echoes around replied to her merriment. “ Hush, for pity’s sake, sweet Sybil! hush,” exclaimed the distressed lover; “ remember, dear Sybil, these are dangerous words, you may be overheard.” “ Likely enough,” answered Sybil, with ineffa- ble scorn, “‘ there are none of you too good to be lurking and listening about any where: I only hope, I shall live to see ‘the day when people may walk in their own grounds and about their own homes, without soldiers tagging at their heels—but I won’t hush—you may take me to prison as soon as you like, Matt. Halsey, and I look for nothing better at your hands, I camitell “ Sybil, you know I would die first!” cried Halsey, with warmth. * The rencontre between this American Tei!, here called Obadiah Brayman, and the English general, is a fact re- Jated to the author by an eye witness of the sccne—there were, however, no soldiers present, to which circumstance the Quaker probably owed his triumph. * T know nosuch thing,” returned Sybil, “ and I do know you must obey orders. If your tyrant ordered you to stab me to the heart—you must do it!” Halsey shuddered, but remained silent. “ T ‘have no more reason to expect mercy at your hands, than neighbour Brayman had,” con- tinued Sybil; * however, the good day will come, I hope, when+I may venture to give broken victuals to a beggar, without having Mr. Matt. Halsey skulking among the trees, and listening all the while as if jt were any concern of his.” “ Aye, and plot how to give:the small-pox to the whole garrison, too, I suppose!” exclaimed the now irritated soldier; “ by George! I'll have that brat burnt alive to-morrow—he shall have medicine enough for the old witch, I'll warrant him. I'll make one bonfire of ’em both!—and I'd have seized him to-night, but for the danger of catching the cursed infection from his rags!” This was enough—and, satisfied that Halsey had heard no more of her colloquy with Caleb, than was intended for his especial benefit, Sybil turned abruptly from him, and with a lighter heart pursued her way to the house. ““ Nay, don’t go yet, Sybil,” cried Halsey, in a tone of entreaty,“ you know well enough I wouldn’t hurt the poor devil, or any thing else that you care for, for a hundred pounds—don't go yet, Sibyl.” “ What should I stay for, Matt. Halsey?” asked his mistress coldly. “ Because I have something to say to you, Sy- bil, about—about—” “ About what?” demanded the lady, impa- tiently. “ About yourself; I want to tell you how much —how very much I love you, Sybil Prior,” stammered the enamoured soldier, “ and I wish it was a possibility to make you believe it.” * And if you could, Matthew, I should not care a penny about your love,” answered his plain dealing dulcinea; “*‘ every body knows,” she con- tinued, with a heavy sigh, “ that I mean to marry poor Martin Gray. I love him, Matt. Halsey,” she added—a brighter and lovelier crimson suf- fusing her beautiful cheek, as she boldly avowed her innocent and virtuous attachment—* I love him, Matt. Halsey, and he deserves that 1 should love him.” Matthew sighed deeply, but was silent, and Sybil continued—‘1 wish you well, Matthew, but I tell you plainly that I do not, and never did, nor never shali /ove you—there is not room in a woman’s heart for more than one, Matthew.” * Cruel—hard-hearted!” exclaimed poor Hal- sey, and he would have showered upon her all the synonymous epithets in the disappointed lover’s vocabulary, had he been acquainted with them, but, fortunately for Sybil, his knowledge of his mother tongue was somewhat limited; and after racking his brains for some moments, in a vain effort to recollect some terms of lover-like and elegant abuse, which should better express his sense of her cruelty, he was fain to content himself with casting on her another side-long

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SYBIL PRIOR. 8 reproachful glance, and repeating “ hard-heart- ed” over again. Sybil employed herself in caressing her canine favourite, and deigned no further notice of poor Halsey, until he made another effort to detain her. “I know to my sorrow that Martin Gray is the happiest fellow in all Rhode Island, or was, I mean,” said Matthew, correcting himself, “ but he’s been gone a great while now, Sybil, and it’s just a hundred to one if he ever comes back again.” “ And what then?” demafided Sybil, forcibly restraining, not her sighs or her tears, but her rising resentment. “ Why, surely, Sybil, you cannot always be so hard-hearted—you must marry somebody or other, you know.” * Must marry,’ repeated Sybil, with a voice of calmness, though her eye flashed with anger ; * but why should you think he will never come back again, Matthew Halsey ?”’ “ Why, because he’s in the Continentals,” re- plied Halsey, consolingly, ‘‘ and the rig’lars kills the rebels so fast, that it isn’t a possibility he will ever live to be married.” The blood rushed tumultuously for an instant to the blanched cheek of Sybil, mantling even to her temples; but, after biting ber lip for a mo- ment, she again in a firm voice demanded, “ and what then?” “ Why, then, you can’t always live single :— you’re too handsome for that,” said poor Halsey, completely deceived by her assumed composure; ** you'll surely marry somebody or other, sweet Sybil—perhaps, in time, you'll be persuaded to take pity on my poor heart.” “ Yes! if Martin Gray be killed, and I outlive him, perhaps I may,” answered Sybil, in the same low and subdued tone; then turning sud- denly and quickly round, and fixing on him the eye that sparkled with the vivacity of her anger, ** but it shall not be one of the very men that have driven him from me—it shall not be one of those who fight against him—it shall never be one of Martin Gray’s worst enemies, that shall call Sybil Prior his wife!” She paused, and moved forward some paces, when again turning abrupt- ly, and pointing as she spoke, she demanded, * Do you see that tree, Matthew Halsey ?” ** To be sure I do,’ answered Halsey. ** And do you see the water in the bay, there?” “ Yes,” replied Halsey, sullenly. * Do you see that powder house, yonder ?’ * To be sure—] aren’t blind.” “Well, sir, would hang myself on that tree —I would plunge into the deep ocean—I would set fire to that magazine with my own hand, and be blown with it, into atoms, rather than I would marry a man who deserts his own country, who carries his best friends to prison, and bathes his hand in the blood of his own kinsfolk and coun- trymen—I promise you that, Matthew Halsey.” “ Stay, only one moment! "cried Halsey, as she moved rapidly on; “ only one moment longer, my sweet Sybil.” “ Don’t call me your sweet Sybil,” answered his unrelenting inamorata, stamping her little foot on the green sward, and shaking her head in anger, and with a vehemence that scattered the luxuriant mass of her “ ambrosial curls” in wild and beautiful disorder, about her flushed countenance—‘ Don’t call me your sweet Sybil; I am not, and I never will be your Sybil, Matt. Halsey ; and I only wish, with all my heart, that you would never speak to me again.” Halsey answered only by a reproachful leok, and his favourite exclamation, “‘ Hard-hearted— and cruel Sybil!” ‘“* Hard-hearted or not, I have ever dealt plain- ly with you, Matthew; for I told you at first that I should never love you, and I have kept my word,” answered the downright Sybil. “I wish you well, Mr. Halsey, and that is all I ever shail say, because I won’t deceive you. If you are wise, you will never waste another thought upon me; and so, Mr. Matthew Halsey, I wish youa very good night.” With these words, Sybil ascended the steps, and vanished into the house. Leaving the love-lorn swain to bemoan his mistress’ cruelty at leisure, we will accompany our heroine to the house, and even to the supper- room, which, wishing to reconnoitre, she quickly formed a pretext for entering, and was not a little disappointed to find her prediction but half verified; the English general was not a whit less fatigued or indisposed than she had augured from his looks, but so far was he from manifest- ing any inclination to retire, that she found him just seated at the evening refection, which had, however, been ordered at a somewhat earlier hour than usual. But, notwithstanding he pro- fessed himself to be ill at ease, he partook, even more heartily than he was accustomed todo, of the several viands placed before, and quaffed his usual quantity of wine, as if he had hoped to drown all sense of languor and fatigue,in the indulgences of the table. But no sooner did he rise from it, than he was constrained to with- draw, and his example being followed immedi- ately by his officers and the family, the parlour was soon vacated. The removal of the cloth and other domestic avecations, detained the servants some time longer below; but after ex- erting ,herself to the utmost to expedite their departure, Sybil had, at last, the satisfaction to find herself and old Pompey, in exclusive pes- session of the lower part of the house. To extinguish the lights and fires, and “ fasten up” for the night, was the particular province of Mr. Pompey, and Sybil foresaw it would be no easy task to prevail on him to quit the field before her. Resolved, however, to get rid of him, she firmly maintained her ground, hoping at length, to tire him out, if she could find no more speedy and effectual means of accomplish- ing her purpose. The faithful creature would neither be tired nor driven from his duty, how- ever; but he stood still, and bore the delay to which she subjected hinn, for half an hour, with the patience of a martyr. Driven to extremity,

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SYBIL PRIOR. 9 at last, he began to scratch his head, and with a portentous yawn, impatiently exclaimed— % Come, come, stir a self, Sybil Prior! You no tink old black a man set up all night like young gal !—Come, come, take a light and make “I am going directly, Pompey,” said Sybil; “ but you need not wait!” Pompey gazed at her a moment, in unspeak- able amazement—* No need a wait!” he at length demanded—* What you mean, Sybil Prior—who bar ’em door? I wonner—who squinch em fire? Come, come, take he canle like good gal—you no make old black a man sit up wid him old bones achee—achee all night !— No need a wait?—Guy! if a door no fasten, an him house get fire, massa make black a man’s old bones ache, worse an’ ebber den.” There was no resisting this pathetic appeal ; and receiving the candle from his hand, with a sickly smile of disappointment, Sybil tripped up stairs, leaving him to squinch the fire at leisure. “She good gal—she pretty gal!—me wish Sybil Prior great lady!” muttered the grateful negro, as he bustled about in the discharge of his accustomed duties—** She nebber cross old black a man—ebery body lub Sybil Prior. Ah —ha!—Sybil make berry clebber ’oman”—and having completed his task, honest Pompey hobbled up to his snug attic, taking care ‘previously to disencumber himself of both his ‘heavy shoes, lest his noisy footsteps should dis- turb the slumbers of the dreaded Englishman, little imagining, in the simplicity of his heart, that the slumbers of so great a man should ever be of such a nature as to render their interrup- tion a relief. Such, however, was at that very moment the case. The irascible temper of the English commander had been wrought up to a frenzy of passion, by several circumstances du- ring the day: the scorching heat of a vertical sun had likewise fevered his blood, and his limbs were aching with fatigue. He had, moreover, injudiciously eaten a hearty supper. No sooner, therefore, had he fallen asleep, than he became the sport of an endless variety of nightmare- dreams, the natural consequence ‘of fever and indigestion. A thousand unnatural and absurd, yet not the less tormenting phantasms, haunted his pillow and harassed his unrefreshing slum- bers. Repeatedly, and with painful struggles, did he rouse himself, resolving “to sleep no more,” and as often had he again yielded to the heavy stupor which hung about him with be- numbing and resistless influence. His perplexity and distress, however, were at last wrought up to a climax, when, after a horrible succession of wild, distorted, and tantalizing visions, his disor- dered imagination represented him as seated at a sociable game of chess with the Generalissimo of the American armies, and that, too, in his Excellency’s own marque! It is by no means surprising that he should have been exceedingly seandalized at finding himself on so familiar a footing with his renowned enemy, or that he should have experienced a difficulty of respira- tion, amounting well migh to positive suffocation, from a taint of rebellion in the atmosphere; no strange phenomenon, he thought, in such a pre- sence. But, notwithstanding he sat perfectly transfixed with horror and amazement, proudly superior to touching a single pawn with even the tip of his loyal finger, yet, strange to tell, the game was the whole time progressing in some inexplicable manner; and it was his game with the continental chieftain, and nothing less could be made of it! The discovery that the American had every thing en traine for his discomfiture, and that his king*was in imminent danger of being check-mated, at length awakened his in- terest—his magnanimous resolution the contrary notwithstanding. To be beaten by a rebel, even at chess, though that rebel were Washington himself, was a degradation to which he could by no means reconcile himself; and arousing all bis energies, he exerted himself to the utmost to avert sodireful a calamity. But,alas! it wasnow too late for even the skill of a Phillidore to have availed him any thing, especially as every piece he touched, either changed its character in the very nick, or obstinately refused to budge an inch from the square it occupied. Provoked and tormented by their wnnatural and unac- countable pertinacity, his irritable temper rose; and seeing the hand of his illustrious antagonist suspended over the piece from which he was to receive the coup de grace, he sprung in a tower- ing passion from his chair, and hurled the chess- board with all its contents, “ at one fell swoop,” at the head of his adversary. Away rolled the wooden warriors to the ground; but no sooner had they reached it, than lo! with one exception, they all started upon their feet, living and breath- ing men; and the Englishman, with amazement and consternation, perceived himself instantly surrounded by whole battalions of stout rebel riflemen and Virginia partisans, armed at all points, cap-a-pie, and brandishing their weapons in vindictive rage. The white queen had, mean time undergone a still more wonderful transfor- mation : assuming the guise of an enormous bald eagle, she had perched on the back of Washing- ton’s chair, from which proud station, after two or three triumphant flaps of her powerful pinions, she pounced suddenly upon the audacious Eng- lishman, seizing his nose with her tremendous beak, and grappling his throat in her gigantic talons, till he was nearly throttled ; and, while he struggled in the iron grasp of his feathered anta- gonist, his other adversaries stood aloof, and made the welkin ring with their tantalizing laughter. During this singular duedlo, the Eng- lishman was driven to absolute frenzy by a tre- mendous cannonade, opened, as he imagined, by the rebels, on his own troops. Renewing his des- perate efforts to terminate his single combat with the king of birds, he uttered a yell of agony, and awoke; at least, so far as to be conscious that he was in bed—but still in that state of bewilder- ment and incertitude, between sleeping and wak- ing, than which, incubus itself is scarcely more distressing. Gasping, as it were for life, he

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10 gazed wildly about him, endeavouring to distin- guish objects through the gloom of the apartment, and vainly striving to rouse himself effectually from the tormenting and unconquerable torpor that benumbed his faculties. As he was again sinking, in spite of his efforts, fast into ®ncon- sciousness, he was startled by a repetition of what in his dream he had mistaken for the thun- der of the American cannon.—Another and another roar succeeded; but_still doubtful whe- ther he were dreaming or not, and too much ex- hausted to move, he remained perfectly silent and passive, until an explosion, still louder than before, terminated his uncertainty, and shook the fabric to its foundations; and, at the same instant, the door of his apartment was bro- ‘ken in with a tremendous crash—gleams of lurid wed light shot along the walls and through the ‘aperture of the shattered portal; an immense black ball bounded into the chamber, rolling over and over, and bobbing about the floor in a most clamorous and singular manner. The Eaglishman’s first impulse was to secure his safety by a rapid retreat before the enormous dSomb should have time to explode, but the move- ment was arrested by surprise at beholding a ametamorphosis equal to any which had perplexed him in his dream; for, afiler bouncing about the floor, in the manner we have described, this sin- gular missile began slowly to evolve, and, at length, assuming the appearance of a human form —black as midnight, and of gigantic proportions: approached the foot of the bed, and stood bolt upright. All this appeared so much like a continuation of his dream, and so unlike reality, that the per- plexed Englishman doubted the evidence of his senses; and, after several ineffectual efforts to articulate, he at length roared out— * In the name of Heaven, what is it?” A stronger light gianced at the instant through the broken pannel, full upon the horrible appa- | rition; its eyes and teeth glared frightfully, and | uttering a demoniacal laugh that might have chilled the blood of any man, though he were wide awake, which could scarcely yet be said of | | are ye that have thrust yourselves, in this fool- the English general—* Nobody but me,” it an- swered, “nobody but me, come to fetch you off.” —** And me, come to help him!” in a strange, unearthly voice, subjoined a wild, fantastic elfish- looking figure, which glided suddenly into the apartment, and flourishing its long thin arms aloft, and clapping its bony hands, the imp ca- pered and pranced, with a thousand wild antics, about the room—while the Englishman rubbed his eyes and gazed from one to the other of his nocturnal visitants, a tall dark figure hastily entered and joined them, exclaiming, “ Bravo! mine honest prince! thou prince of beetle-heads: thou shalt be appointed grand door-breaker gen- eral for this piece of service! Could’st do as much execution with a musket, thinkest thou, as with that impenetrable pate of thine? But stand back, thou literal blockhead! and give us a view of the prisoner.”’ “ Prisoner!” echoed the unfortunate general, starting up broad awake; for there was that in the imperative manner of the speaker, as he ex- changed his mirthful tone for that of command, which allowed him no longer to doubt the evi- dence of his senses, or the tangibility of the sturdy figures by whom he saw himself surround- ed; for while the leader of the party was speak- ing, he had been reinforced by a dozen stout fellows, in the uniform of the Continental army. Determined that they should not obtain a pri- soner of so much importance, cheaply, the Eng- lish commander sprung up, and reached eagerly forward to secure his weapons, which, as usual, had been placed beside his bed, but they were there no longer. A discordant and tantalizing laugh, from the long-legged urchin, who had sprung into the room at the heels of his sable adversary, attracting his attention, he turned, and perceived his sword glittering in the hand of the ragged imp, and his pistols in possession of Prince, the celebrated negro of hard-headed memory, whose name, by the exploit of that me- morable night, has obtained “* honourable men- tion” in the pages of our country’s history. “ Prisoner!” reiterated the baffled Englishman, glaring wildly around him, but, encountering as he did so, the stern looks of so many hostile faces, he rallied his half-paralyzed faculties, and began to clamour vociferously for his guard. A young American, by snatching his own pistol from the negro, and presenting it at his head, taught him the policy of silence. The youth, however, was hastily pushed aside by his commander, exclaim- ing—* We can now do without you here—take some of the fellows with you, Gray, and get you gone, if you would secure your own prize to- night.” ‘** Thanks to your honour,” was the brief reply of the young soldier, who, followed by some of his comrades, vanished without a second bidding. ‘You are my prisoner, General Prescott," said the young and gallant Colonel Barton, ad- dressing his captive—* Rise, sir, and surrender yourself.” “Your prisoner!” replied the Englishman, with a laugh of scornful incredulity; “ and who hardy manner, on the very points of our British bayonets ?” ‘* Soldiers of the Continental army, sir,” re- plied the intrepid young American, “ to whom it now becomes necessary for General Prescott to surrender himself.” * Continental soldiers!” iterated the prisoner ; ‘** why, fellows, were ye impatient for the favours of the Provost-marshal? Are you aware that you are in the midst of a British garrison ?” “ We are perfectly aware of the dangers by which we are surrounded, General Prescott,” coolly answered the American officer, “ and they have not been incurred merely for the pleasure of a brief interview with an English general— as we shall not hesitate to convince you; for be assured, sir, if you do not instantly rise, we will compel you to do so.” “ Compel!” echoed the prisoner, haughtily ;

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SYBIL PRIOR. 11 J “ and who are you that presumes to address an officer of his British Majesty in such terms?” * One who hopes to convince you, sir, that the officers of the honourable Congress know how to do their duty. Rise,and accompany me, instantly, General Prescott, unless you prefer being carried.” “ And whither?’ demanded the Englishman, convinced by his manner that no joke was in- tended, and yet, so unlooked-for was the disaster —so secure had he deemed himself, and so in- credible did the whole transaction appear, that he could scarcely even yet admit the possibility of its truth—* And whither am I to accompany you ?” he repeated. “ Of that hereafter, sir—but unless you would give my fellows the trouble of lifting you from bed, rise, immediately,” replied his youthful captor, “ you may chance to find my men but rough valets, sir.” The English officer, however, still dallied,jn expectation of the arrival of some rescue. “ Take up his clothes, men !”” commanded Co- lonel Barton, losing patience at last; “ Take up his clothes, men! and bring out the prisoner by force.” “Forbear, you rascals!” growled the Eng- lishman; “ I will save you the trouble—but surely, sir, you will allow me to put on my clothes.” * Very few and very quick, sir,” replied the gallant Barton. The prisoner, availing himself of this pretext, prolonged his delay by every possible method he could devise. “Your object, General Prescott, is to gain time, and I do not blame you,” observed Colonel Barton—“ but J, sir, have none to lose! You must attend me as you are; I will be detained no longer. Take up his clothes, Prince,” he added, sternly; “ men! bring off the prisoner, without an instant’s delay. I am sorry to have recourse to harsh measures, General Prescott, but our situation is too critical, to admit of ceremony.— On! men! move on with the prisoner,” he add- ed, with that stern brevity which enforces instant obedience. “ And do you suppose, young gentleman, that you can venture into the heart of a British gar- rison, and carry off its commander unmolested ?"’ demanded the prisoner, when he found himself raised, with more haste than tenderness, in the stalwart arms of a dozen men, from whose very touch he shrunk with as much abhorrence as if their rebellion had been contagious—“ Take care what you do, young man !—One word from me, and you will find yourselves hedged in by an army !—I heed to utter but a syllable, rascals! and your carcasses will be tossed on the points of a thousand bayonets !” “ He tells you but the truth: ’tis a desperate venture, my lads,” said thegdauntless Barton; “Fire not a shot, my brave fellows, but close round him with fixed bayonets, and if he breathes a word above his breath, silence him”—and drawing his sword—“ Close up, my lads, and move on !” he said, advancing in front and lead- ing the way, as his little band, with their pri- soner, in profound silence, emerged into ‘the open air. With a feeling of despair, the English general now perceived his aid-de-camp, (who had leaped undressed from a window, on the first alarm, with the hope of effecting his escape.) to- gether with his centinels, in the custody of’the Americans, and each, like himself, with naked swords and bayonets presented at his bosom, in order to secure his silence. But, notwithstand- ing he had been thus unceremoniously transfer- red from his downy and damask covered couch to the open fields, Which, barefooted as he was, he was compelled to traverse with*a rapidity that mocked pursuit, he still continued fondly to hope for succour and deliverance. Should they pass the chain of centinels without observa- tion or alarm, which he could not but believe to be impossible, he still relied implicitly on the vigilance of the water-guards; for, from the di- rection of their route, he perceived that his cap- tors were conducting him to the western shore. How great then was his chagrin, when, as he was hurried swiftly along, he distinctly heard his centincls sending their “ all’s well’ from post to post! He was tempted at the moment to avenge himself on his captors, even at the price of life, by alarming the guard; but the probability of his enemies escaping with impunity in the confusion, and the absolute certainty that himself must « His quietus make With a bare bodkin,”’ a dozen of which were pointed at his half-naked and defenccless bosom, checked the impulse, and he remained passive. Consigning him to the custody of our intrepid countrymen, we will now return to Mr. Matthew Halsey, whom we left in the gloom of the even- ing, bemoaning the cruelty of his mistress. Hay- ing vented his rage in some half dozen pithy and elegant imprecations, not on the beautiful Sybil, to whom he was sincerely attached, but on the head of his more favoured rival, Martin Gray, he repaired to a room appropriated to the accom- modation of such of the general’s retinue as were off duty, where he soon forgot his vexation so far as to listen with some degree of amusement ‘to the jests of corporal Simpkins and sergeant At- kins. In the midst of their mirth, however, they were interrupted, and called on by a centinel to take into custody a country lad, who had been detected by him in attempting to make his way into the house, threugh a buttery window, as was supposed, the window being found open and the stripling on it. As they dragged him forward, the lad made several frantic efforts to extricate himself, but as his person was extremely slight, the soldiers found no difficulty in securing him. “It’s a pity you ha’nt as much strength as spirit, my map,” cried Simpkins, laughing; ‘you'd make a good soldier when you got a beard on your chin.—F aith, Atkins, the boy has mettle in him for so young a slip.” “It ’ll be a good while, I reckon, before it does any body much harm,” said the sergeant;

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32 SYBIL, PRIOR, “what the d—! Drill took the trouble to pick him up for, is a riddle to me.” “ And J think if the rebels could make any thing of such a lilly-livered boy as that, it’s a pity they hav’nt got him, that’s all,” said Halsey—“ I suppose he was for stealing a comfit, or a jelly— or some such mighty matter.” “ Hark’ye, younker, what errand did ye come on?” demanded Simpkins. ‘‘ What !—is that your breeding, Mr. Ribil?—does’at Mister Washing- ton learn his men to make their manners to an officer ?’’ The boy answered only by pulling his hat still farther over bis brow. “©ap in hand, youngster, when a corporal speaks to you,’ cried Halsey, extending his hand to remove it as he spoke. “ Let the child alone, men, can’t ye?” cried the sergeant. ‘‘ Let the brat alone, 1 say;—I suppose it’s the beggar you told us of, come to get the medicine stuff of your pretty sweetheart, Halsey.” “Him!” exclaimed Halsey, “ you might as well tell me it’s Washington himself!—Look at that hand,” he added; ‘“‘why Kell Millar’s a ragged, filthy, sallow-faced brat ;—and his hair's red as a carrot—and look here—here is a skin as white’—— . * Nay, his face is red enough now !” said Simp kins. * The poor boy is scared out of his wits,” said Halsey; “‘ but come, cheer wp, my lad,” he added, “‘ we don’t eat rebels, we only kill them. *Fore George! he trembles like a militia man at his first snuff of gunpowder.” ** What's to be done with him, sargeant?” cried Simpkins,“ we don’t want him here—kadn’t I better show him to the General at once ?”— “ Aye—if you’ve an appetite for a hearty cud- gelling,” said Atkins. “Od Zooks!” exclaimed Halsey, “there’s been such a dead calm up here since sunset, I shouldn't care to be in the way at the next shift of wind: ’twill blow a hurricane!” * Then we must let him stay, I suppose,” said Simpkins. ‘“ Here, lad,” he added, compassion- ately,‘ here’s a cup o’ home-brewed for ye:— Toss it off, boy, just to keep soul and body toge- ther—for it’s my opinion you'll shake all to pieces,”’ “ Heigh!—Eh!—Gemini! If I’m any thing of @ conjurer, corporal,” cried Halsey, surveying the prisoner, “ here's the old cloak you lost, come back to us again!” “ Hah, by George! and so it has,” answered Simpkins. “ And I must claim acquaintance with that blue handkerchief, I believe,” said Halsey. “For mercy’s sake! for the love of Heaven!” . exclaimed the trembling prisoner, as each laid a hand on his respective property. “The cloak’s good for nothing, and I don’t carea stiver for it,” said Simpkins; “ but I do so hate a thief!” he added, bestowing on the culprit a shake that nearly dislocated every limb. “ BatI do care for the handkerchief,” cried Halsey, “for its the one that Sybil Prior hem- med—the only thing she ever did for me—and by George! I'd sooner give him the heart out of my bosom !—ah, you needn’t flinch, you young thief! you needn’t struggle, I'll have it,” and witha shake, still more emphatic than the corporal’s had been, he endeavoured to tear the highly valued handkerchief from the throat of the strip- ling, whom his violence had nearly deprived of life. The cap of the prisoner fell to the ground in the scuffle, when a mass of luxuriant dark ringlets, which had been tucked up beneath it, streamed abroad in rich profusion over the shoulders of their owner, who, clinging with both hands to the disputed neckcloth, sunk to the ground, exclaiming, “Spare me for mercy’s sake! Have pity on me, Matthew Halsey—and murder not a helpless woman !” Halsey started and staggered backward some paces, as if he had received a blow—for it was indeed the lovely form of Sybil Prior that knelt in disguise at his feet—It was her own beautiful blue eye that was fixed in tearful supplication on his face, and he gazed on her for some minutes in unspeakable surprise and consterna- tion. ** Well done, Mistress Sybil!” cried Simpkins, tauntingly; “a pretty figure you cut, to be sure! So it was you, mem, that took the trouble of my cloak off my hands—I’m quite obleeged to ye, *pon honour, mem!” “**Fore George, lass, I’m sorry for you!” said the rough but kind-hearted Atkins, as, overpow- ered with disappointment and confusion, Sybil endeavoured to hide the lovely face, over which crowded a thousand burning blushes, in the litile white hands which ever and anon she wrung in an agony of grief and shame. “ Poor lass, I’m sorry for you,” repeated honest Atkins ; “ but what in the name of wonder in- spired you to rig yourself out after such a fashion?” ‘* She meant to go off to the rebels !—she meant to give us all the small pox!—and she didn’t care a groat how soon the grave covered poor Matt. Halsey!” exclaimed the mortified and angry Matthew, pacing the floor in a very lover-like frenzy. “A pretty figure you cut, mem,” repeated the corporal, sneeringly. * Let the poor lass alone,” interposed the ser- geant, pitying her distress: ** poor thing, I don’t wonder you cry—I don’t wonder you hide your face—its a foolish business—~but they shan’t plague ye—” The worthy sergeant was here interrupted in amost unexpected manner; for both doors of the apartment opening simultaneously, several armed men rushed in at each, one party being followed by our acquaintance, Caleb Millar, who danced in behind them, ing all his rags in exulta- tion, accompanied by Sybil’s spaniel, who caper- ed at his heels, barking and yelping, and making * confusion worse confounded.” The sergeant instinctively grappled his mus- ket, and promptly prepared to defend himeelf—

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SYBIL PRIOR. 13 but Halsey and Simpkins having parted with theirs, which were standing at the other side of the room, his resistance was unavailing. “ You are our prisoners,” said a young Ame- rican subaltern, in whom Halsey instantly recog- nised his hated rival. “Who says so, beside yourself, Mr. Ribil?” cried Simpkins. “You are our prisoners,” repeated the Ameri- cans, as they rushed upon and overpowered them. “We'll see to that—we’ll have one game at fisty-cuffs, Mr. Ribil,” cried Simpkins, vaunt- ingly, “ before we'll give up to a few ribil raga- muffins, sich as we see here.” The Americans only laughed at his bravado, while the young subaltern, leaving them tosecure the prisoners, directed his entire attention to the recumbent figure of our heroine, who, too much absorbed by her own grief and mortification to be conscious of what was passing around her, sat amidst the bustle, sobbing as if her very heart were breaking. “Pinion the rascal with the strap of his own knapsack,” said Gray, as Halsey stoutly and furiously resisted, half-maddened at the idea of becoming the prisoner of his rival. “ Off with him, my lads—off with them all—leave not one behind to tell tales ;— if he speaks but loud enough to startle a mouse, send a dozen of your bayonets to his heart. Away with them,” added Gray— : “ away with them, comrades,” and lowering his voice as he approached the weeping Sybil, “I have a still more precious prize to secure,” he said, endeavouring to take her hand; “ Sybil— look up, my own loved Sybil. * Let me go—let me go, Matt. Halsey,” shriek- ed the half frantic girl, springing from the ground, and tearing her hand from his grasp. Let me go!—I say, sir!—if I hated you before, I detest you now !” * Sybil—my own Sybil—look up, if you love me yet,” exclaimed the youth, putting back the dishevelled ringlets, and gazing fondly on the pallid brow of the agitated Sybil, who had again sunk exhausted to the ground. “ Nay—look on me once, dear Sybil—If you have ever loved Martin Gray, now is the time to avow it boldly—look on me.” Sybil raised her head, and looked a moment wistfully in his face: “ Yes—yes,” she murmured; there is a God above us yet—” and overpowered by a mingled emotion of surprise and joy, cast herself on the faithful bosom of her long betroth- ed lover. “Said I not so, my sweet Sybil?—and now have I risked so much for nothing, or will you go with me and promise to become to-morrow the wife of your own devoted Martin Gray ?— We must fly instantly or part forever, Sybil,” continued Gray; “ speak, then, my own vowed wife—will you go with me?" “ To the ends of the earth—any where,” was the scarce articulate reply; “only take me hence, in the whole wide world you are my only “You go with me then, my own true-hearted Sybil?” said Gray; “ yet it is only fair to tell you that my path is beset with dangers—dare you fly with me and brave them all—aye—even death itself?” “T can brave any dangers but those that beset me here,” answered Sybil—‘ if you love me, take me from among these fearful men.” “ My own, then, from this hour forever,” cried the youth, as he folded her to his heart and sealed the compact by impressing a kiss upon her po- lished forehead—* and as I prove a good and faithful husband so help me God —and so may he deal with me when I reward your tried affection and cenfiding tenderness with ingrafitude or per- fidy!” he emphatically added.—*Now, then, exert yourself, dear Sybil, and let us fly without a mo- ment’s delay.” Caleb, who had stood by, fidgetting, as the ladies say, with impatience, now leaped from the door, and bounded noiseless as a spectre across the lawn, followed by the manly figure of Mar- tin Gray, lifting rather than leading the trem- bling form of his agitated bride with him in his rapid walk across the fields. Ata few rods dis- tance from the shore he was overtaken by his commander, with the whole party and the priso- ners. “ Flow now, Gray ?—what success? demanded the Colonel, in a suppressed tone—“* is the pretty bird caught at last?” “‘ Safely, your honour! my success has been equal to your own,” replied his subaltern. * All is well, then, as those fellows yonder so vociferously assure us,” answered the gallant Barton. “ On, men! push on;” he added, “ look well to the prisoners, and push on, my lads!” In a few minutes the whole party stood ther on the shore, where two boats, with oars, lay ready to receive them. “ Bring that trembling dove of thine into this boat, Gray,” commanded the Colonel; ‘‘ and remember, my lads, that every thing now depends on silence and despatch—half our laurels would be clip- ped,” he added, “should harm befall our prisoner. If discovered, the other boat must endeavour to engross .the attention and love-tokens of the enemy.—Come! stir, men! push off—and be alive!” « The young commander seated himself as he spoke. The men stooped to their oars, and the barge darted from the shore with the velocity of an arrow. Not a word was uttered, and every breath was suspended with the intenseness of anxiety—the soft ripple of the waves alone was heard, as they curled around the muffled oars, and kissed, as if in gratulation, the bows of the little bark, while she danced over the tranquil waters, on which the stars looked dimly down through a soft mist that came stealing in from the ocean. As they neared the ships, the prisoner raised himself from his melancholy attitude, and sat erect, gazing eagerly towards them, while his heart throbbed high with hope and full expecta- tion of rescue. Observing the action, the Ame- rican Colonel presented his pistol at his head, io

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14 additicn to the weapons already pointed at his heart by a soldier on either side, thus enforcing profound silence. It was a fearful pavse as the little vessel cut her rapid way through the hostile fleet-—and Sybil, as she clung to the sup- porting arm of Martin Gray, wrung in an agony of apprehension the hand which clasped her own. The prisoner was powerfully agitated as he saw himself borne along within calland beneath the very guns of the British ships. His hopes became less sanguine at each successive plash of the oars, but they were not utterly extinguished until, as they cleared the ships and emerged into the open bay, he heard the water guards, on whom he had firmly placed his expectations of ultimate deliverance, loudly proclaiming to the fleet, that “ all was well,” at the very instant their general Was passing as a captive under the bows of his ownships! The cry swelled over the water, and echoed along the shore, ringing the knell to all his hopes of rescue. A sound of suppressed laughter passed along the barge, and throwing himself back on his seat he gnashed his teeth in the bitterness of disappointment and impotent rage. The barge, meantime, pursued her rapid and silent career up the bay, propelled by the sturdy strength of those intrepid men whose un- paralleled daring had been crowned with a suc- cess so little less than miraculous. “ Sir, I would not have believed it possible you could have escaped the vigilance of the water guards,” exclaimed the Englishman, when the removal of the weapons at last gave tacit perinis- sion to speak. **The miracle is wrought, however,” replied his captor; and a plashing of oars the next instant apprized the voyagers that their boat’s consort had now overtaken them. * Hollo, Thompson,” shouted his Colonel, joy- fully,“ are you there, my lads ?—off safely and with flying colours? hah!” “ And with trumpets sounding into the bar- gain, bad we but your honour’s permission,” re- sponded the commander of the second barge— “what say you, sir, shall we give ‘em a few cheers, your honour?” “ Not just yet—pull away, my lads!—a good stroke, beys!—Get a little farther up, and then send a few liurrah’s over the water, and let them hear you, if their nap is out.” The laugh and joke now went briskly round in an under tone, for in the moment of that bril- liant success which their own desperate valour had secured, their generous commander was not inclined to check their honest glee and hard earned triumph. Turning, therefore,a deaf ear to their ill-suppressed merriment, he seated him- self beside his prisoner, and, with a respectful sympathy for his situation, endeavoured to be- guile him of his gloomy thoughts by engaging him in conversation. The Englishman, however, after returning a few ungracious replies, again relapsed into silence, and, during the remainder of the voyage, was allowed to brood in unin- terrupted and sullen silence over his misfor- tune. Before the rising sun again began to laugh on the green hills, our hardy band of bold adventu- rers, with their prisoner, reached the continent, unhurt, from amidst so many dangers. The English general was immediately conducted to the quarters prepared for his reception, and the beautiful Sybil, still accompanied by the faithful and affectionate Caleb Millar, was escorted by her lover to the house of his aunt who resided at Pawtucket. It now becomes necessary once more to retro- grade in our narrative, in order to explain the manner in which the escape of Sybil Prior be- came connected with the capture of General Prescott. From the time that Martin Gray first enlisted in the service of his country, the fidelity, zeal, and intrepidity with which he discharged his duties, had obtained for him, not only the esieem and re- - spect of his comrades, but a very large share of the patronage and countenance of the young and gallant Colonel Barton, who honoured him on se- veral occasions with proofs of his confidence and regard. On receiving the letter of Sybil Prior, through the hands of the trusty Caleb, therefore, Martin Gray unhesitatingly repaired to the pre- sence of his beloved commander, and placing it before him, solicited leave of absence. Happily for Martin Gray, as well as for his country, Colo- nel Barton was not inattentive to the happiness of those under his command; and pitying the dis- tress of his brave and trusty subaltern, he en- quired into the particulars of the affair, with the greatest affability and kindness. At the first view, the scheme which Martin Gray had formed for the rescue of his mistress, appeared so rash and utterly impracticable, that Colonel Barton firmly, though kindly, remonstrated against the attempt. With increased earnestness, however, the anxious lover continued to urge his suit, enumerating the various facilities he possessed, from his own local knowledge, and the assistance he should receive from so able an auxiliary as Caleb Millar, who was perfectly acquainted with the post of every guard and centinel of the gar- rison. While listening to the details of Martin Gray, the Colonel learned more accurately than he knew before, the situation of General Pres- coti, who was living in all the negligence of ima- ginary security at Overing-house. The daunt- less spirit of Barton instantly conceived the adventurous plan of capturing the English com- mander in the midst of his own garrison—a plan which was as promptly executed as it had been boldly conceived. What success attended this enterprise of lofty daring we have already seen. The narrative of the brave “ General Barton’s Expedition,” forms one of the proudest pages of our country’s history, and is deservedly consider- ed as amongst the most glorious exploits that marked the whole, course of our revolutionary struggle. On the day following the capture of General Prescott, Martin Gray received his young bride from the hand of _his beloved commander, who not only honoured their nuptials with his pre-

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THE SHASONS, &c. 15 sence, but even condescended to give away the bride. At his instance, also, the gentlemen of his.re- giment contributed a sum of money sufficient for the purchase of a neat and comfortable cot- tage near Providence, whither the young couple immediately repaired, and which is said to have been the abode of neatness and content. At the termination of the war, however, Martin Gray disposed of it, and returning to his little farm, rebuilt the cottage which the British had destroy- ed; and here they have since lived, a pattern of conjugal affection, and beloved and respected in their humble sphere by all who know them. ** Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.” Should the authenticity of this our veritable narrative be questioned, we would recommend it to our reader, for his better satisfaction, to visit the beautifully secluded dwelling of the happy rustic pair, which he may know by the fragrant vines of sweet-briar and honey-suckle, whose blossoms cluster about its narrow casement more luxuriantly than honey-suckle and sweet-briar ever clustered before. Should he not find the worthy pair at their own hospitable dwelling, he will be most likely to encounter them by direct- ing his steps to Overing-house, in the grounds of which they still delight to ramble, and to reca- pitulate the events of the memorable night of the Tenth of July, 1777. THE SEASONS. Linger then yet a while, As the last leaves on the bough: Ye have loved the gloom of many a smile That is taken from you now. Mrs. Hemans. Hap we the tender and pathetic expression of Bryant to clothe our musings, we would dwell long and thrilling upon the lessons taught so for- cibly, in the advent of sober-suited autumn. Coldly, indeed, must he look upon nature and her changes, who does not find a luxury of senti- ment in the contemplation of all her seasons. All are but chords to that instrument which yields its tone to every breath of man, and vibrates involuntarily to every feeling of his breast. In the spring, the fairy melody is made up of the unmingled warblings of rapture, the involuntary thrills of untaught fingers, the over- flowing of that spring of gladness which gave mythology her fabled fountains, and from whic issues all that claims the name of music, short of the voiceless harmony of heaven. In summer it is mellowed into the harmony of hope. The voice which never mourned is heard in its rich diapasons ; its glowing progressions are tempered to the calmness of matured desire; echoes are unbroken by the irregular responses of untutored passion, and its deep and ever varying conso- Fora chime, swell and estuate, in infinite gra- Beautifully, though sadly the reverse of these is the style of Autumn’s “ unwritten music.” The hope of the glad Spring, and the devotion of the ardent Summer, have been damped, but not to deaden a single tone. The chords on which once played the breath of the affections, are strained, but not to break. The mind is no longer a mighty organ, yielding its sounds to the hand of man: but becomes a gentle olian harp, catching its magic tones from every breath of the autumnal breeze. Plaintive and sweet, as though sound itself had caught a charm from the beautiful hues of decay, they come upon the ear, blending into harmony such strains as no art can imitate, no science arrange, no skill record. Such is the music of autumn, upon that deep-toned, glorious instrument—the heart. The grave comes gloomily upon the thoughts of youth. They have not yet hurried there the better part of their hearts. To the pilgrim who has farther advanced on the highway of human disappointments, the last home of man is .a wel- come theme. Lovely to him, not only that it already holds his best hopes and his only charms. that made the world fair amid all its desolation, the grave—the cold and dreary grave—sends up a swect and holy call to his weary and broken spirit. All that speaks of decay has a charm to him. No marvel, then, that he woos the melan- choly influence of Autumn, and breathes with untold delight her sighing breezes, and settles an unwearied gaze upon her red and yellow forests.. Let childhood hang with enrapturing fondness: over the brilliant beauty of Spring’s first flowers, but its little idols will wither. Let maturer youth yield its full devotions to the fruitful and fervent hopes of Summer, yet they, too, shall pass away. But who that has ever relished the calm yet passionate love of fading beauty, which steals upon the unsubdued, thought-softemed spirit of one whose hopes have been like the summer clouds, will cling to such fleeting hues again! There is no autumn in his soul, where all these images are deep and indelible. Even the winter of age, though it withers the outer form, can never supplant the sweetly lingering hues of autumn in the soul. They climg to the memory longer than hope—and the memory itself is life. AUTUMN EVENING. Tues are the true seasons for improvements. The weariness and dust and heat of summer are over. The air is cool—and nature puts on her robes of pensiveness and contemplation, so that mankind have little to divert them from the noble duty of storing the mind with wisdom during the calm and glorious evenings of autumn. Sit down, ye young journeyers to eternity; spread before you the bright pages of literature and morality, and never let pleasure rob your evenings of their innocence, and cloud your mornings with lan- guor and repentance. a

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THE NIGHTMARE, &c. I come in the gleams from the land of dreams, Wrapp'd round in the darkness’ pall ; Ye may hear my moan in the night-wind's groan, When the tapestry flaps on the wall. I ait on the breast of the death-ow!l's nest, And she screams in fear and pain; — Andyny wings glare bright in the wild maon-light, As it whirls round the madman’s brain ; And down sweeps my car, like a falling star, When the winds have hush'd their breath, And ye feel in the air, from the cold sepulchre, The faint damp smell of death. My vigt! { keep by the murderer's sleep, When dreams round his senses spin— 1 ride on his breast, and trouble his rest, In the shape of his deadliest sin ; And hollow and low is the moan of wo, In the depth of his strangling pain, And his cold biack eye rolls in agony, And faintly ratties his chain: The sweat-drops fail on the damp prison. wall— He wakes with a deep drawn sigh ; He hears my tread, as I fly from his bed, And he calls on the saints on high. And stilly I crouch by the sick man's couch, I stifle his slumbering breath, And I cramp-rack his bones, as he shudders and groans, In the seeming pangs of death; And words, unknown, 'twix* a sigh and a moan, In his horrible dread he utters, As the dying breath, to the messenger Death, In wild delirious mutters, When he comes to bear the soul through the air, To him who alone can save it; When mortality must return to hor dust, And the spirit to him who gave it. 1 fy to the bed, where the weary head Of the poet its rest must seek ; Wher dreams of fame enkindle the flame Of joy on his pallid cheek ; No thought does he take of the world awake, And lis cold and heartless pleasure ; In the holy fire of his own loved lyre, Is his best and his dearest treasure: With my terrible sting, that cheek I bring To a darker and deadlier hue; When his last dear token, his lyre, is broken, His heart is broken too. When the maiden asleep for her lover doth weep Afar on the rolling sea— And she dreams he is pressed to her welcoming breast, Returned from his dangers free ; 1 come in the form of the wave of the storm, And sweep him away from her heart— And then from her dream she wakes with a scream To think that in death they part; And still in the light of ber dream bound sight, ‘The images whirl and dance, Till my swift elision dispels the vision, And she starts as from a trance. In dreams I affright the startled sight Of the mizer, withered and old, And he strives to arize, with horrible crics, As he thinks of his stolen gold— But faint is each limb, and ghastly and grim, He groans with a stifled gasp; And his sinews I strain on his bed of pain, Till he faints in ny elvish grasp; An awful one witb a hand of bone, Seems to beckon him off to the tomb ; And I laugh as I whirl thro’ the night's black furl Tn the film of darkness’ gloom. When the sweet babe lies with half-closed eyes, As blue as the sky of even, And ye know the while, by its innocent smile, That its dreams are of joy and Heaven; I steal to the bed where that gentle head In meek composure lies, And, with phantoms of fright, I break the light Of its visions of Paradise : The horror and fear of that night so drear, Is long ere it pass away ; And the fearful glare of my fiendish stare Iz remembered for many a day. When the clouds, first-born of the breezy morn, In the eastern chambers roam, I glide away in the twilight gray, To the mist of my shadowy home. But man may not tell by word or by spell, Where I rest my hideous form— Where darkness and sleep to their kingdom creep, And dreams rustle by like a storm— Whether it be in the caves or sea, Where the rolling breakers go, Or the crystal sphere of the upper air, Or the depths of hell below. THE WORLD. Swirrer and swifter, day by day, Down time’s unquiet current hurled, Thou passest on thy restless way, Tumultuous and unstable world! Thou passest on! time hath not seen Delay upon thy hurried path :— And prayers and tears alike have been In vain tu stay thy course of wrath. Thou passest on, and with thee go The loves of youth—the cares of age; And smiles and tears, and joy and woe Are on thy history's bloody page! There, every day, like yesterday, Writes hopes that end in mockery ;— But who shall tear the veil away, Before the abyss of things to be ? Thou passest on, and at thy side, Even as a shade, Oblivion treads, And o'er the dreams of human pride, His misty shroud forever spreads ; Where ail thine iron hand hast traced Upon that gloomy scroll to-day, With records ages since effaced— ~ Like them shall live—like them decay. Thou passest on—with thee the vain That sport upon thy flaunting blaze— Pride, framed of dust, and Folly’s train, Who court thy love, and run thy ways. But thou and i—(and be it so)— Press onwards to eternity; Yet not together let us go To that deep voiced but shoreless sea ! Thou hast thy friends—I would have mine; Thou hast thy thoughts—leave me my own; I kneel not at thy gilded shrine; T bow not at thy slavish throne !— I'll them pass by without a sigh ;— They make no swelling raptare now, The fierce delights that fife thine eye— The triumph of thine haughty brow ! Pass on, relentless world !—I grieve No more for all that thou hast riven: Pass on, in God’s name—only leave The things thou never yet hast given! A heart at ease—a mind at home— Affections fixed above thy sway— Faith set upon a world to come, And patience through life’s little day.

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nas Ary YOUNG NAPOLEON.

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THE LATE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. THE LATE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. On the twentieth day of March, 1811, the streets of Paris were filled with an excited po- pulace rending the air with the cry of Vive L’ Empereur. The continued roar of cannon, and the flight of a balloon, in which a female seronaut ascended, gave indications that some event had occurred of overpowering interest to the French people. It was the birth of the “son of the men,” of an heir to the fortunes and glory of Napoleon, the ruler of fifty-seven millions of people, which now gave to the public’ impatience its joyful grati- fication. It was on this occasion that many singular cir- cumstances took place, such as are supposed to attend the nativity of remarkable characters, and are chronicled for after times with peculiar care, as having been the prognostics of good for- tune, or the omens of misery to come. The Em- peror felt unusual anxiety as the critical moment arrived.—Almost the whole preceding night he paced the halls of the palace with the Empress. Towards morning, the event occurred under the most alarming aspect. The celebrated Dubois, a professor in the school of medicine, arrived be- fore his companion, the no less celebrated Cor- visart. Napoleon was anxiously waiting the re- sult in an adjacent room. He learned that there was great occasion for alarm, and anxiously in- quired of the former why he did not discharge his professional duty without delay. He excu- sed himself on account of the absence of Corvi- sart. Do you want a witness or a justificator? said the Emperor; I will be that to you—proceed. Roused by his remarks and his kind encourage- ment, he went, though under much embarrass- ment, to the assistance ‘of the alarmed Empress, Again the presence of mind of Napoleon was’ serviceable; for the medical attendant, even now, could not recover his accustomed calmness of manner, until the memorable saying of the Em- peror, Forget that you are attending the Em- press—treat her as you would the wife of a citi- “zen of St. Denis. The Emperor was soomafter- wards asked whose life should be saved, if the sa- crifice of either the mother or the child became indispensable.—*The mother’s,” replied Napole- on; “it is her right.” At length the crisis was passed, but the infant is said only to have been roused from a deeplethargy by the reverberation and noise of the one hundred and one pieces of artillery. Twenty-two persons, some of of distinc- tion, besides the Emperor, were sent, and it was Corvisart whose friendly aid restored warmth to the expiring child, now almost forgotten amid the confusion arising from the fear entertained for the fate of his mother. All etiquette was laid aside, and the cere- monies for the occasion, according to the usual eustom of Princes, with whom it is important to establish the birth-right, and identity of B their successors, were laid aside without hesi- tation. The Emperor, as soon as he was assured of his wife’s safety, caught up the child and presented him to his officers and attendants in the next apartments by whom he was hailed, King of Rome! It had been previously determined that if the expected stranger should be a princess, the number of the cannon used to announce the event should be limited to twenty-two, and if a son was born,the event should be distinguished by a discharge from a hundred and one pieces. When therefore the twenty-third report was heard, the enthusiasm of the people was carried to excess, that almost exceeds belief. This was but the prelude to more marked ho- nours. Addresses were sent from all the public bodies of Paris. The courts of Europe sent en- voys extraordinary to congratulate Napoleon on the event. The king and queen of Spain made a journey to Paris for the same purpose. At his baptism, the infant was presented with a silver cradle by the good city of Paris, and the Emperor of Austria stood godfather by his-proxy and bro- ther, the Duke of Wurtsburgh. In short,-mever was any birth celebrated with greater rejdicings, or any child more warmly welcomed into this breathing world, than this unconscious beir to a throne. The education of the young King of Rome be- came a subject of serious concern to the Empe- ror. To Madame de Montesquieu was entrusted the office of governess to young Napoleon. She was the wife of Count Peter Montesquieu Fe- zenzac, a distinguished officer and statesman. She was esteemed a most excellent woman, of unsullied honor and established principles. Her method of managing her charge was much ad- mired. . His apartments were on the ground floor of the Tuilleries add looked out upon the Court. A splendid palace was even then in con- templation for him,to be placed opposite the’ Pont d’Jena, but the obstinacy of a cooper, who owned part of the ground intended for the site prevented the execution of the plan. At almost every hour of the day crowds of peo- ple assembled before the window of the young king t6 obtain a view of him. On one occasion, after he had begun to understand what was said to him, and appreciate his importance, he fell in- toa violent passion. His governess immediately ordered the windows to be darkened. He asked his Maman Quiou what that was for. “To hide your passion from those people in the court yard, whom you will probably one day govern, and who would lose their respect for you if they witnessed your bad conduct now.” It is said he instantly confessed his error, begged her pardon, and promised to be angry no more. At achateau,in a place called Mendon, two miles from Versailles, where was assigned the residence of the young king, while yet in his

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18 THE LATE DUKE OF REICHSTADT-. nurse’s arms, and where afterwards the Empress resided during the expedition to Russia, Napo- leon projected an institute for the education of his son and the princes of the imperial house. There a school was to be maintained, combining all the advantages of public and private tuition, where the pupils destined to govern nations, “should acquire conformity of principles, man- ners, and ideas.”” Each Prince from a foreign state, was to bring with him twelve youths, the elite of his country, to be educated with them. These, said the Emperor, would have been knit together in the bonds of friendship, have acquir- ed extended views, and have become acquaint- ed with every thing befitting their rank and expectations; and where, we may add, they would have unquestionably obtained a bias for the foun- der of their states and the principles of their im- perialhead. The views of Napoleon were on this subject no less politic than profound. In 1814, on the approach of the allies, Maria Louisa retired with her son to Blois, by com- mand of her husband, a great mistake, as in the end it proved to be. During this period Joseph and Jerome Bonaparte formed a design to carry her beyond the Loire to her husband, and they would have succeeded, if they had obtained the previous consent of the Emperor. She refused on that ground alone. A few weeks afterwards she had an interview with her father, the Empe- ror of Austria, and she here learned that she was to return tohis court with her son, and to be se- parated from her husband. Mad. De Montes- quieu still remained with the Empress, though upon the first reverse of fortune, almost all her attendants deserted her. She remained in charge of her pupil, who was tenderly attached to her, until 1815, when, upon the return of the Empe- ror from Elba, an attempt to carry off his son from Schoenbrunn, was frustrated almost at the mo- ment of its execution. The Governess was dis- missed, but the separation was heart-breaking to the child, and stratagem was resorted to, t@ soothe the pangs of parting.—He was then transferred to Vienna, and placed in the hands of Germans. For a short time he was permitted to visit his mother, but finally, on the 20th of May, 1815, he was transferred to Vienna, where he afterwards resided. His name in the state calender was now Charles Francis Joseph, that of Napoleon being entirely forbidden to be used.—In 1818 he was created Duke of Reichstadt, a lord8hip in Bohemia, with a revenue of almost 160,000 dollars per annum—placed next in rank to the princes of the blood. At first his grandfather destined him for the church, but afterwards he changed his views, and gave him a military education. A person who saw him about this period, repre- sents him as a handsome, interesting boy, with great spirit, and apparently a good constitution. It has been suspected, and not without cause, that very great care was taken to prevent his ambition being excited by the history of his fa- ther’s deeds, or the recital of his glorious victo- ries. Obscure portions of history were made his study, and a police officer was stationed in the s room when his lessons were given him by his tutor. The celebrated Von Hammer was one of his teachers, and is believed to have been of great benefit to him. The Count Dietreich- stein, his Governor, kept him in a state of sur- veillance, and never suffered him to be unwatch- ed. He was not allowed to associate with any young persons on terms of intimacy, no mat- ter how much he desired society, and every ave- nue to a secret correspondence was carefully guarded. Even when grown up, educated and in command of a regiment of cavalry, he was still a prisoner. This has, however, been deni- ed very recently by the Court of Vienna. Lit- tle therefore can be said of the character of his mind, or the tenor of his feelings. —The damp at- mosphere of his residence at Schoenbrunn is said to have injured his health; and his total estrange- ment from his mother, the Bonaparte family, and suitable companions of his own age and rank, no doubt had their full effect in hastening his ca- reer to its termination. Cut off from the scenes of real life, he used to frequent the thea- tre at Vienna, to watch its shadows, and observe their resemblance. Here, with his hands clasp- ed, his head projected forward, and his eyés in- tently fixed on what he saw, he excited the most lively interest among the spectators. To this spot many a devoted and enthusiastic French- man repaired to catch a glimpse of features so painfully exciting and dear to the friends of Na- poleon. The best medical aid availed him nothing. He was told that he could not recover, and he la- mented his destiny with bitter grief. There are but two epochs, said he, in my life to be remem- bered—my life and my’ death. Would to God that I could have seen before I died that column which reared its head in the Place Vendome, the glorious monument of my father’s fame. His mother, from whom he had so long been separated, hastened tocatch his parting breath.— Though by her alliance with Count Niepperg she has become the mother of many children, yet on this occasion she did not forget what was due to the ties of a once pleasing union with the greatest nan of the age. Over that solitary pledge of ambitious and ill-fated attachment she wept day by day, until the last sigh of the son of the man she once had loved fell on her ear, and rendered her for some time senseless of the loss she had sustained. On the destiny of this unfor- tunate young man, prediction and presentiment, fear and hope, ambition and policy, had long hung with trembling anxiety. At the age of 22 years, he h ft the vast theatre which was opening lie weal or wo,to sleep among the dull co of the House of Hapsburg in the Convent of the Capuchins. —_—_—»———. To preserve the proper strength, both of the body and the mind, labour must be regularly and seasonably mingled with rest ; and those only who observe a proper interchange of exercise and rest, can expect to enjoy health of body, or cheerfulness of mind.

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THE LOVE TOKEN. * Tats is your handkerchief, Emma, is it not?” * Yes,” said Lady Mauden, as she turned her eyes from her harpsichord to the inquirer. “Well, Emma, you cannot refuse me this handkerchief—not as a memorial—for I need not that—but as a gift—as a token of—friendship—”’ “ No, George, that cannot be—indeed it can- not—” “Why ?—but no matter:—and yet this is a trifling request. Emma, Emma, you have but little feeling for me—I know it;—but when we part this cvening, you may be relieved for ever from my presence.” “For ever, George!” said Lady Mauden, sur- prised into a tone g@f@nxiety—“ for ever !” “And what imve’I to do here?—Is it not enough that I an thus guilty, without increasing that guilt by alonger stay—without adding tomy distractedness, and rushing—oh, Emma! even tell me that you do not hate me, and it will be some solace to me.” * Wir. Leslie,” said Lady Mauden, in a severe voice, “if I have been the cause of any uneasi- ness to you, at least give me credit for regret— we had, indeed, better part.—Give me the hand- kerchief.” Her ladyship rose from the harpsi- chord, as she spoke. “Tis alll ask, Emma. Leave it to me, and I quit you instantly, and for ever.” “ The handkerchief, George—I must have the handkerchief.”” Lady Mauden extended her hand towards the still unwilling Leslie—but at that instant the drawing-room door opened, and Lord Mauden entered. “ Why, Leslie, what’s the matter? I have just been to the stables, and Hennecy tells me you have ordered your horses. Where are you going at this late hour?” “My Lord, I must leave you to-night.” “ Leave us !—Well, of course as you please 5 but 1 hope nothing has happened in my house, tc make your stay unpleasant.” “ Nothing, I assure you; but in a few days you shall hear the reason of this abrupt departure.” “ Make ro strangers of us, Leslie; do as yout please; and renrember this is your home, when- ever it suits your pleasure or convenience.” “ This distracts me,” muttered the young man, but Lord Mauden heard him not; for the ap-- proach of the horses to the hall-door attracted hi ; attention to the window. L Mauden haci turned to a music-stand; b by one who observed her, it was plain s ght little .of the leaves, which she rapidly turned oven. George Leslie observed her: he was still in pos - session of the handkerchief; and now, as he stooc | by himself near a centre tabie, he silently foldec | it, and put it in his bosom. An unheard and un-- perceived step brought him to her side; but heir thoughts were too busy to notice it. * You will have a beautiful evening for your ride. I suppose you face towards home?” sai 1 Lord Mauden, his eyes still directed to the win- dow. “Lady Mauden,” said George Leslie. She staried as if from a dream, and looked him full in the face. “Lady Mauden, fare you well.” This he said aloud; but in a whisper, “farewell Jor ever!” He took her hand—it trembled—a tear fell upon his own, and she turned hastily to the music-stand again, to hide or stifle her emo- tion, and with difficulty could collect strength enough to speed him on his journey. Leslie had consideration enough to leave her at once. He mounted his horse in silence, and rode down the avenue, followed by his servants, and it was not for some time that he recollected that he had not taken leave of his kind host and friend Lord Mauden. “Strange!” said his lordship, as he followed Leslie with his eyes down the lawn. Lady Mauden, after a vain attempt at the harp- sichord, complained of illness, and retired to her chamber. * "fo Alas! what a world is ours! where halfvitsfan- cied pleasures are'sin. Lady Mavden@fas most unhappy. The commands of a fathefj atid the prayers of a mother, had prevailed with her to give her hand to Lord Mauden. The only man she had ever loved, besides that father, had just parted from her side. He lad told her he had quitted her for ever. She was glad—and yet, “ for ever’—Lady Mauden was a woman, young and sensitive; and could she, in her heart of hearts, rejoice never more to see the man upon whom her first and best affections were un- changeably fixed? Reason is deceitful, duty is blind, and determination is weak. Alas! that passion should be the only true, clear-sighted, and strong principle of our nature! No@very far’ from Mauden House, there is a wild and heathery mountain, brokem here and there by deep and winding hollows, Uirotigh one of which passes the public road; and this;as well” as the rest, had, since the days of King William’s conquest, been noted as a resort of robbets and outlaws. The attacks on coaches, the plunder of individual travellers, and some’ frightful and most revolting murders committed there, had made it a fearful place to all te country; while the nature of the situation, and of the scenery itself, lent an additional horror and dark interest to all that rumour couldtell. The bleak moun- tain collected about its head an almost perpetual covering of clouds; and the screams of a few wild birds, that, from time to time, hovered over the thin patches of cultivation, gave life indeed to the scene; but it was such life as Virgil or Dante could have given to the bleakness of an infernal plain. It was half-past twelve at night whenLeslie was riding on this road, followed ai a sims? dis- tance by his favourite Hennecy. The master was sileut; the servant now and then broke into

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20 a whistle, or stave, of some Irish song, but would instantly cease, on recollection of the presence of his master. He evidently longed to speak, and would have given a great deal for the usual condescending communicativeness of “ Sir George,” to arrest the loneliess of their way; but Hennecy was not in the slightest degree afraid. Many a night before he would not have passed here in silence for the universe, nor have trusted himself on this mountain, except, per- haps, with a strong party of “ hearty boys,” re- turning from a fair or wake; but, to-night, Hen- necy knew his master’s crrand, and felt that his silence and seriousness was, to-night, most natu- ral. They had just arrived to the summit of a hill, over which the road Jed, and from thence on the top of another, which also was crossed by the road ; figures were seen relieved against the hazy and balf-moon lit clouds behind. Distant whistlings were heard, and, in a few moments Leslie could observe, on the far-off hill, as it re- tired from the road, increasing groups of men, and some stragglers here and there, running in different directions. Neither of our travellers, however, seemed alarmed; and the only remark made was by Hennecy—“ 1 think, sir, we had best turn off by the boireen at the foot of the hill. We'll come up wid the boys in betther nor ten minutes from that.’ Leslie nodded; and, on ar- riving at the bottom of the glen, between the two fore-mentioned hills, he turned to the right of the boireen, or narrow passage, of which Hennecy spoke. About three or four hundred yards brought them to a Joose and unfastened gate ; and as Hennecy advanced, and was endeavouring to push it back, without dismounting in the mud, a man stepped up from behind a ditch, and resting the muzzle of a gun on the top bar, said, ina tone of lagged but calm determination, “Ye don’t pass here, gintlemen.”’ *“ We don’t pass here!” repeated George Les- lie, while he laid his hand on one of his pistols, * By what right, my good man, do you prev@t us?” ** Oh, ’tis all the same as to that,” answered the apparent sentinel; “ and ye may put up your pistol—ye can’t pass here, gintlemen.”’ George Leslie was naturally impetuous, and was about to push his horse at the gate, notwith- standing the cry of the man, “I tell ye to keep back,” when Hennecy interfered, and having respectfully said to his master, “ Lave him to me, sir; he knows me when the moon will look at my face.—Era, Tom Cauty, don’t you know me,man? Don’t be talking here, but let us go by in pace. We're going to the captain.” * Eh, then, Nick Hennecy, is that yourself? Of coorse I'll lave you pass, but I don’t know the otber man.” “ But I knows him, Tom: he’s my master, and a good warrant to be so—he is too. Come, make haste, open the gate, man.” “TI cannot, Nick; I cannot; tis my orders.” “Era, don’t I know your orders? Be quiet now, Tow, and pacibly let us go by.” As Hen- necy spoke, he pushed the gate, and beckoning to Lsslie, said, “‘ Come along, sir.” “T tell you, Nick,’tis no use for you. I'll lave no one pass here to-night that I don’t know.” “ But I tell you, you'll let Mr. Leslie pass.”’ “ Eh, who ?—Is it a son of black Sam Leslie’s, of Boxton Hill, the man who prosecuted—and got him hanged too—God rest him !—poor Ned Sheedy!—Is it a son of his, Nick ?—for if it be him, and you haye a regard for the boy, I’d have you take him out of this.” “Yeh! Tom, man, he knows what brought him here.” “J tell you, Mr. Leslie, ’tis best for you to go: you’re not safe here. I don’t wast to say no- thing now about your father—but your mother, God rest her sowl, was a good woman to the poor, and I’m not the one to hurt her son, but I I tell you, sir, tis best won’t answer for others. for you to go.” Leslie, who, during the preceding colloquy, had cooled, and recollected that gentleness was here a more useful weapon than a pistol, replied, ** My good man, whatever my father is, 1 am, perhaps, a greater friend to you and your cause than you may imagine. My business is now with Captain Hardy; and to assure you that I can mean nothing injurious, I entrust you with my arms, and go defenceless among your party.” Tom Cauty thought for a few seconds, and then, turning suddenly to him, said, “ I'll let you pass, sir, Nick, you knows the road, round by the bush, in the corner yonder.” “T knows it all. Good night, Tom.” “ Good night, Nick,” said Tom, as they passed on; and, looking after them, he continued, to himself, “ Well, if they be wise, I know what they'll do with’ him. They’ll keep him for the father’s sake; and if the ould man is fond of his boy, I think he won’t be hunting any more of us about the country.” ** By the bush in the corner yonder” they rode, and, in a few moments, arrived on the bank of one of the many streams descending from the mountain. As they stood looking for the best part tocross by, the gleams of the moon fell upon the side of the mountain opposite, Leslie looked up, and, though it was what he expected, he could not restrain a slight mark of emotion, on seeing, within less than a quarter of a mile, some thousands of people collected, in separate groups, some lying under the open sky, and a few under the shelter of a shed, here and there rudely erected. There was one cabin to be seen; the small half-rag stopped windows of which showed, wherever light,could come, that it was well lighted. “ What ‘> this ?” asked Leslie of his ser- vant. ‘* That’s our, parliament-house,” answered Hennecy, in a quick, quaint voice, that left Leslie in doubt whether he was serious or jesting. ‘“* That’s our parliament-house, sir; and ’tis there they be talking of their plans and marchings, since Lord Edward and the Shears was took up.” To the door of the parliament-house they rode, Leslie had gathered his cloak about his face ; and the company he was in (for Henmecy was no

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THE LOVE TOKEN. 21 meéan personage in the opinion of the multitude) saved him, as soon as Hennecy was recognised, from curious observation and inquiry. When they had knocked at the door, it was immediately opened, and a few words of Irisk having passed between Hennecy and the porter, they dismount- ed and entered—Hennecy only for an instant, for the horses claimed /is care and attendance. On Leslie’s entrance, a number of persons, who were sitting on chairs, stools, tables, beds, or wherever they could find seats, rose; and one individual, of an athletic but compact figure, dressed in a frieze coat, and who seemed to be the principal person of the assembly, came for- ward and welcomed him. ; * You’re welcome, Mr. Leslie. I’m plased to see the coorse you have follied, and may be ’t wo’nt be the worse for you and yours.” “ Well, Desmond,” answered George, “ let us finish the business of to-night. What more have you to say to me upon that business ?” **] haven’t much more to say, Mr. Leslie; but are you content to be our captain on the terms I told you of?” * Desmond, I’m in some doubt still of the right we have thus to take arms and law into our own hands. And, besides, what is it you have to complain of?” “ What is it we have to complain of!—And, blood-an-oons, Mr. Leslie, is this the question you’re asking us afther all? What is it we have to complain of !—God help you. I'll teli you in one story; and that is only one out of a thousand. Do you see that woman on the straw there, in thé corner yonder, and the six children about her ?—and do you see those big boys here by me? —Well, they be all of a family. *Tis three weeks to-morrow since they war all, themselves and the father of them, sitting at their dinner, and no great things of a dinner it was eether, but & pratee and a grain of salt. Howsomever, that’s nothing ; if they lave us to ate that same in pace, ’tis enough :—but, as I was saying, they war sit- ting to it—and who should come to the door, but the procther. Well, Ned Sheedy got up, and he axed him to eat a pratee. ‘No,’ says the proc- ther, ‘ I’m in a hurry :—but how are you off for the tithe, Ned?’ ‘Oh,’ says Ned, ‘ bad enough.’ ‘I’m sorry for that, Ned,’ says he; ‘for the tithe I must have.’ ‘Sure you won’t mind a month or so,’ says Ned; ‘for the dickons a manes of giving it you I have now, save the crop in the ground, and the pig that I don’t like sell- ing for another while, to get the betther price for him.’ ‘Oh Ned, the tithe I t have,’ says the procther ; ‘ or, if I don’t, I ai ve the pig; and if that won’t do, I must ha table, Ned, or the chairs, or the dresser and the chaney; and if them won’t do, I must have the bed, and the things on it, Ned.’ Well, why, Ned said no- thing;—for what could he say?—but he only looked at his childer :—and the wife aftherwards told me that one big tear rolled down his face; but if it did, the procther did not mind it, but only said, ‘ Mr. Sheedy, I’ll give you one week longer, and let me have the tithe then;’ and away he went. Well, (was the very next day afther, two soldiers comed into the house to them, and sat down, like two lords, on the bed. Ned didn’t say much, but quietly axed what they plased to want? One of them laughed, and de- sired him go and be damned; and the other went over to Ketty Sheedy herself, that’s his wife, and gave her 4 kiss. Now Ned minded nothing at all but this; and so he did what any man that was a maf at all, would do—he up with his fist, and knocked him dead on the floor. The other runned at him—but Ned was a strong boy, and, ‘faith, he’d have mastered him too, only that the other came to himself, and both war too much for him. They tool and tied him with the leather belt of one of them, and left him on the floor, gibing of him. What else they did, I need not tell. When they went out, by and by Keéetty loosed him. Ned went to your own father, Mr. George, the magistrate that is; and when he sent in for him, Mr. Leslie was at dinner, and so Ned had to wait better nor two hours; and when the magistrate opened his window, and Ned, with his hat off, toult his story, this good magis- trate toult him to go and be damned for a croppy and a rebel, and that he’d have two more of the soldiers quartered on him; and as to his wife, she was no better nor a ——. I won’t say before _her what he called her; but Ned came away, and sat down in achair under the chimney all night, and the poor woman herself was crying by him, with the infant at her breast. For the week Ned wasn’t himself, to be sure; but when the time was out, the procther came. ‘ Well, Ned, the tithe. You won’t refuse it me now, any how.’ ‘I have no tithe for you,’ said Ned; and little blame to him to be vexed now. ‘ Well, fo matther for that eether,’ said the procther; * but you have the pig, Ned, and the chairs and the bed. Come in,’ said he to a parcel of people he had outside to help him. ‘ A fine pig he is toe,’ said the procther, as he drove him out the door; * but we must take the bed too, Ned.’ *Can’t ye take the chairs, or any thing else? Don’t ye see my wife is lying on the bed now?’ * I can’t help that,” said he; and he desired the woman togetup, laying houltofherarm. ‘Don’t touch her,’ said Ned; ‘ don’t touch her, [ tell ye—I warn ye not.’ ‘ Never mind your warn- ing,man! Tell the woman to get up out of this.’ said the procther. ‘ Don’t touch her again, I say,’ said Ned. ‘I’m not myself now; don’t vex me too much.’ But the procther didn’t mind him; and, taking the baby from her breast, he let it fall on the ground.—(You see the mark over his eye?—That mark he got then.)}—He was néxt going to take Ketty by the arm, but Ned took up a piece of a spade-three, and, with- out speaking, he gave him a wipe across the back of the head—and I'll engage, he never spoke a word afther. Well, what use in talk- ing? Ned was tried by a special commission— the jury war all orange-boys—and in eight hours he was hanged up like a dog.” The speaker was interrupted by the sobs of the poor broken-hearted widow. She was

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22 young; and, notwithstanding her pale, haggard countenance, well looking:—one child was on her bosom—five others, of different ages, lay miserably about her, and her two eldest boys stood by the opposite wall—one of them crying bitterly—but the other, with a look of the fiercest sternness:—there was revenge and wildness written in the lad’s eye.——The speaker conti- nued :— *“ Yes, Mr. Leslie, look at them. Is this no- thing to complain of? Is this nowrong? Are our wives to be insulted before our eyes—our childer to be tossed about like a bundle of hay? Is our only pig to be seized for a fat man that we never sees, nor gets good of?—Are we to be hung up ourselves, our wives to be left widows, and our boys and girls to be left without fathers —and when we—”’ His mingled emotions overcame him; rage and grief choked his words, and the tears rushed down his rugged cheeks as freely as down those of the widow he spoke of. His feelings were sympathised with by all in the cabin except the fore-mentioned stern boy ; and even Leslie him- self participated in the general emotion. He had almost determined on the course he would pursue, before his coming to the rebel meeting; but the true and genuine Irish soul now burst through the fetters of pride, or the delicacy of education. He caught the speaker by the hand, and emphatically said, “‘ Trust me, I will die with and for you.” “ We will trust you, Mr. George—we will trust you,” echoed every voice (except the before- mentioned boy,) and the original speaker finish- ed, by saying, “I give up the leading of those boys to you; not because I think you are betther, or have more money than the rest of them, but because your name will serve the cause that I love better than command or money.” Not many days after the acceptance of the rebel chieftainship by George Leslie, th®follow- ing paragraph, confirmed by succeeding state- ments, appeared in the public prints. About a quarter of a mile from the village of in the county of »a party of the *th regiment, and three companies of Lord ’s fencibles were attacked and routed with considerable loss, by a body of insurgents amounting to about 1,500. A circumstance of much more alarm, is the fact of their having been led by the son of Samuel Leslie, Esq., of the county. This young man had been in the army, and is supposed to have spent what time he could secure, in training the persons under his command. This victory of the rebels isa strange, and, at the present crisis, an alarming testimony of the native prowess of the Irish, and proves that their cause, whatever be its moral or political merits, needs but discipline and good management to trample eventually upon all op- position. Mr. Leslie, the father is very unpopu- lar in his county, and the influence of his son can, we understand, with difficulty secure his person and property from the vengeance of the aggrieved inhabitants. Many of the gentry are on their way to the metropolis, and the lady of Earl Mauden is about to resort thither also for protection, while her noble husband determines to remain and defend his house, and join with the magistracy in effectual steps to the suppression of this threatening, and already too successful insurrection. The above statement was true, and the eve- ning after this battle, General Leslie, as he was called, received a letter, the contents of which were— “ GENERAL,—This is to inform you, that Lady Mauden sets out by day break to-morrow for Dublin. Now, seeing as how, his lordship is a strong man against us, I’m thinking, general, *twould be the way to stop the carriage, and if you geis the wife, why the husband won't be no more much of an enemy to us, but in this matter you knows best yourself, and so, general, I re- main, * Your’s to command, “ DaniEL Harvey. “To General Leslie, at the Camp at —— hill.” On the receipt of this note, George considered for some time, and, having adjusted his plans, he commanded a force of 500 of his best armed and best trained men, to attend him at midnight. Midnight arrived, and Leslie, having given in- structions in case of his own delay or capture, set out with his 500 chosen men, and in about four hours, after a silent and unmolested march, found himself at the place of his destination. It was a wood on the side of a gentle hill, and through which ran the public road. This first required no small boldness in its occupants, for it;was but one mile and a quarter from a town in possession of 3,000 of the king’s troops, and watched by a vigilant, and, in too many instan- ces, a relentless magistracy. But the boldness of the enterprise was its chief security; for while detachments of these 3,000 men and the different magistrates daily and nightly scoured the more distant neighbourhood, none dreamed for a mo- ment that 500 of the insurgents would havedared attempt concealment almost within their very jaws. But Leslie and his 500 dared it, and for an hour waited in silence and in patience, listen- ing to the tramp of many a party of horsemen passing at a small distance on the road, and sometimes overhearing the shouts and execra- tions with whicb he and his were devoted to death and damnation by the yeomen and regu- lars. It was now,five in the morning, and the words "tis cominaispere from one of the scouts, ran through “the party; there was a general movement, and Leslie, having seen that all was safe on the tuwn side of the road,and behind the hill which covered him, divided his men to either side of the road. His only words were “ Re- member my orders:” they were on their peril to offer not the slightest personal injury to Lady Mauden. As to other directions, they had been also given before. There was a sudden turn in the road, near the place of ambush, but between

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THE LOVE TOKEN. 23 it and the approaching carriage, which last could not be seen until it had passed that part of the hill where it was cut through for the road; to this turn every eye was directed. The carriage came on at a rapid rate, escorted by a troop of the Enniskillen cavalry, under the command of Captain T——. The turn was gained, Captain T—— rode at the head of the party, and before the last trooper had appeared, a pan flashed from the wood, and the captain fell dead from his horse; there was a sudden halt, but before the troopers had time to rally their thoughts, a volley from each side of the road considerably lessened their numbers. The writhing of the wounded horses and the shrieks of. the female servants, soon added to the confusion, and Leslie, fearing lest the noise would call the assistance of any neighbouring party of military, and thus disap- point his scheme, gave the preconcerted signal, and he and his party rushed forth on the asto- - nished soldiers. These latter fought bravely for a few moments, but they were quickly over- powered, some few killed, some disarmed and made prisoners, and the rest put to flight. The coach was instantly secured, the foremost horses cut off, one of them having been killed, and the others turned in the opposite direction. When George Leslie opened the door, he found Lady Mauden fainting with terror; he ordered one of his men to fetch some water from a neighbour- ing stream; and having desired her ladyship’s maid, who had recognized him, to attend to her mistress, and be silent, he commanded what arms lay on the ground to be collected, and the party then moved off at rapid pace. It was fortunate for him that his retreat was not interrupted by one of the many scouting de- tachments of the yeomen or military. However, they arrived safely at the same cabin in which Leslie was at the first sworn a member and leader of the rebel army. The inner room of this cabin he had directed to be fitted with whatever little convenience could be procured, and into this room Lady Mauden was led, attended by her fe- male servants. Leslie had found, on his return, that his expedition was already known about the country, and that the magistrates with double vigilance, and especially Lord Mauden, who had of course an additional and powerful excitement, were on the alert to surprise him. To guard against any such surprisal was the first concern of Leslie. He doubled his outposts, ordered all his forces to their arms, and even those who had been with him in the morning were given but time for a short repose and refreshment. But now that he was master of the pérson of her he loved beyond life, or any thing which life could give, what course with regard to her did he mean to pursue? Strange! but he was perfectly in doubt. Should he detain her even against her own consent? or should he yield to the impulse of honour, and restore her to her husband? But might he not prevail with her, by soothing words and vows of fondness and fidelity, to remain with him ? There was little chance of that; the high virtue and honour of Lady Mauden precluded the idea. Yet could he think of sullying a cause which he had embraced from principle, by an act of perfidy and adultery? Alas! here he was blind} he thought not of guilt; the madness of his affection alone led himon. He knew not, he rea- soned not, he scarcely thought, unless the wild whirl of a thousand thoughts can be called think- ing. It was inthis state of mind that he found himself at the door of the cabin-room in which Lady Mauden sat. Should he enter? At first he determined to do so; his throbbing anxiety then interfered. Again he had his hand on the latch; again he turned away; but at last, sum- moning all his resolution, he raised it, and found himself in her presence. Whatever previous intention Leslie might fora moment have entertained with regard to Lady Mauden, he was now fixed in the resolu- tion of conveying, or at least of having her con- veyed to her husband’s home. He knew that this, by his followers, would be considered as an act of treachery as well as of imprudence, since they looked upon Lady Mauden as an hostage, to be of no small importance in case of a defeat, or of stipulations. But this opposition he disregard- ed; he would stake his life upon the fulfilment of his promise to her that she should be returned to her friends; and that night he determined should be the time. However, to guard against contentions or divisions, so fatal to an insurrectionary cause, he determined to manage the affair with as much prudence as possible. For this purpose he at the present concealed his intention, and merely ordered a chosen body again to be ready at dusk, with Lady Mauden’s carriage, hinting that she should be conveyed toa place of greater security. In the course of the day, several messages and letters were brought to the general from inferior officers,and from equals in more distant districts ; his time was occupied in giving instructions con- sequent on the communications, and -preparing for an important engagement that was expected the net or following day. But the evening at length arrived, and the time of parting from Emma was fast approaching. He hardly dared to meet it, even in thought, but it must be met. It was now nine o’clock; the dusk was darken- ing, and the carriage was in attendance. Two hundred rebel horse were in readiness, and George waiting at the chamber-door. She came out, her veil down. He offered her his arm in silence, and, as she took it, she whispered, “I thank you for this.” He could not reply; but handed her into the coach, and was about to close the door himself, when his arm was caught by a messenger, who said to him, with breathless and hurried accents, “ Read this, general, and make haste.” Atthe same time he puta printed paper into his hands. George read it, nor did he evince much alarm in his countenance, when he found it was a proclamation, offering ‘‘ pardon and 2,000 guineas to any one who would bring alive, or pardon and 1,000 guineas to whoever would bring dead the said George Leslie.” Having gone through it, he remained for a mo- meat in thought, his hand still on the carriage-

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24 THE LOVE TOKEN. door, and then, looking at Lady Mauden, who had been watching him with intense interest, he put the proclamation into her hands. But she did not read it with his coolness. On coming to that part which said, “ and whoever shall bring the said George Leslie, dead, shall be—” the peril of his situation among a set of men whom, as papists, she was from childhood taught to con- sider capable of any crime of treachery or assas- sination, rushed upon her mind, and she fell back in the carriage, overpowered with mingled hor- ror, terror, and gricf. The wildness and confu- sion of her thoughts prevented her from recol- lecting her own situation at the present instant, and when Leslie gently took the paper from her hands, she said, faulteringly, “God protect you, George.” His answer was, “I care not much; they may do what they will or can; I am satisfied, since you—” ** Who, I!” she interrupted him hurriedly. “I —tell him to drive on—I, what—” alas, the strug- gle was vain—she fell forward upon his arm, and all was over. Nothing now was heard by George but her sighs and hysteric sobs, nothing was seen but the fair face and disordered hair which lay upon his breast, nothing was felt by him but the heaving of her bosom, and the emotions of his own. He kissed her cheek, he wept, and the tears fell fast upon her. ‘The crowd of sensitive Irish hearts around broke forth into sobs and utterances as violent as of those before them. They felt for them both, and with their pikes and guns ready to level them at the word of Leslie, and to the commission of almost any deed of fury or devas- tation, they still showed that they were men, and wept! He gently raised Lady Mauden from where she had hidden her eyes in grief and shame—his bosom—and offered her his hand to remove her from the carriage. Alas! she now refused it not; all resolution and firmness vanished—what will not vanish before the strength and weakness of awoman’s love? He led her into the apartment she had occupied during the day, he placed her upen a seat, and endeavoured to soothe her from the emotions of her heart. She became calm; she listened to his vows of fondness and fidelity ; she repulsed him not when he kissed her hands; she was not angry when he pressed his lips upon her own—in a word she loved him; she loved him fondly, tenderly, distractedly—she loved him with alla woman’s wild, fearless, and uncalculat- ing love—but from that hour her peace had fled for ever! The engagement which was mentioned as ex- pected by the rebel troops in a day or two after the last occurrence, was, by the manceuvres and plans of their skilful leader, delayed until that day week. The result of that eventful struggle is too well known. It is needless to recapitulate ithere. Weill return to the spot whence we set out—the mansion of Lord Mauden. His lordship himself, pale and distressed, sat in am armed-chair, and by his side Mr. Leslie, sen., and Mr. Fitzgerald, all magistrates of the county. It was in a back hall, paved with mosaic stone- work, with a venerable arched ceiling, supported on rude old fashioned pillars, that the party sat, and forms and chairs were disposed along the walls. Before them lay many papers, proclama- tions, informations, letters, and at one end of the hall stood six soldiers of Lord Mauden’s father’s regiment, the same to which young Leslie had once belonged. A servant stood at the door, as if he had just answered a call, and was waiting for his orders; he received them from Lord Mauden. ** Let the prisoners be brought in.” They were brought in, eight of them, and the foremost was George Leslie! His father was sitting with his side to the door, and aslight, con- vulsive motion passed over his features as he caught, with half a glance, the commanding and noble figure of his only and beloved son. He could not look directly at him, but, after the ° above half-fearful glance, fixed his eyes with a mingled sullen and vacant stare upon the wall. He was an old man, his back was stooped; but it was less from age than grief. His wrists rested upon his thighs, his fingers were clasped in each other, while he twisted his thumbs in a rapid manner round one another. George looked not at his father norat Lord Mauden. Had he been only a rebel, he might have confronted them with ease, or perhaps with pride; but his conscience smote him fearfully; for he was the betrayer of his friend, and seducer of his wife! The other prisoners were, our friend Hennecy, two boys, one of them that stern son of the widow before mentioned, and the other, though as tall, yet bearing on his countenance the signs of fewer and more delicate years. The other four were of no particular importance further than, poor fellows! they may have thought themselves, about to be committed for trial as rebels. The task of examination was left to Mr. Fitz- gerald, as the most collected of the three magis- trates, and he began with Hennecy, from whom, however, no direct reply could be elicited. “The next question you refuse to answer,” said the magistrate, sternly, “‘ I shall order you instantly to be shot.” ** Well, listen to me now: there’s no usé at all in your questioning of me, for the dickons an answer I'll give ye, excepting asI like; and it isn’t the justice I'd be expecting from you, Mr. Fitzgerald, nor from you, Mr. Leslie, when you won’t show it to your own boy, that you can now see before you with the hands of him pinioned as bad as my own; and tho’ Lord Manden is a good warrent at other times to do the poor right, yet he’s too much of a king’s man now, not to talk of the company he's in, to expect justice from him ather; and so afther jist telling ye all that there’s no good in ye, that ye’r defating the country, and throwing us on every where by your house-burnings, and free quartherings, and orange murthers, and tithings, and proclama- tions, and, as I may say, making ducks and drakes of the whole land—afther jist telling you

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THE LOVE TOKEN. 25 this, I’ll hould my tongue, for there’s little use in talking. And ’tis Nick Hennecy that dosen’t fear your shooting; so you may do the business now jist as soon as ye like. 1’m ready, and may ye, on your dying day, be as willing to go as them that’ll die this day.” With a calm patience, Fitzgerald heard poor Nick to the end; and then, quietly changing his position, he said, ‘Serjeant Morris, take this man to the yard,and shoot him before the next five minutes are over.” “I’m ready—God help the wife and the five orphans,’ muttered poor Hennecy, as they led him away. The four other men were next brought forward; but their answers being more satisfactory than those of Hennecy, they were remanded for trial at the ensuing assizes, Lord Mauden and Mr. Leslie having scarcely looked up at the prisoners. Mr. Fitzgerald next called on the two youths, and remarked on their boyish appearance, de- manding of the widow’s son, “ how he dared to engage with the rebels ?”’ “T’ll tell you,” he answered, and a fierceness of suppressed rage, almost beyond what his years could have felt, reddened upon his cheeks. “I'll tell you. [had a father; he was a poor man; they took his pig to pay the recthor; they soult the chairs; they broke the bits of chany. He looked on, and didn’t say nothing to it all; but” (and his face grew blacker) “ when they hurt my poor mother, he—he did what l’d do myself, if I had the strength—he kilt him—and my father was hanged! *Twas you, Mr. Leslice—'twas you that was the mane cause of having him prose- cuted; and ’twas for this, Mr. Leslie, ’twas for this one thing only that I joined the boys—’twas to make you repint of that, and may this wither your head.” As the boy spoke, he advanced to- wards the gentleman whom he addressed, thrust his hand into his bosom, and, pulling out a pistol, levelled it at his head; fortunately for Leslie, it missed fire. George Leslie ran towards the boy, and dragged him away. He for an instant looked at the deceiving weapon, then at his intended victim, and, in the wildness of disappointed rage, flung the pistol with all his might on the marble floor; and throwing himself back against the wall, neither threat nor entreaty could induce him to open his lips, until on the scaffold he re- newed his curse on the failing weapon, and on him for whom it was intended. When Mr. Fitzgerald turned to the other youth, who, by his timidity and tears, and down- cast countenance, betrayed a character most op- posite to that of the former, George Leslie an- swered for him that he was the son of a distant tenant of his father’s, who had been seduced into their cause, and that he himself was perfectly innocent of its nature. Perhaps pity for the lad, more than the remonstrance of George, induced Mr. Fitzgerald to pass him by, and he retired to a distant corner of the room, hiding his face, and sobbing convulsively. Lord Mauden and Mr. Leslie had been engaged in a low conversation during the presence of the last culprit at the table, whom they had not at all observed, but now, on the name of George Leslie being called, they both started into attention. He refused to answer any questions—confessed his guilt in the fullest extent of the accusation, though he would not call it guilt—and only begged, as a favour, that the execution of his sentence might not be delayed. “TI am sorry,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, “ that I must too surely comply with your request. It is even the wish of your grey-headed and loyal father, who is here to-day to testify his sorrow for having caused the existence of so degenerate and false a son.” ‘ “ Yes,” said Mr. Leslie, now speaking, and turning to his unhappy son for the first time; but his voice faultered. “ Yes, George, he says right; I am here to-day by my own choice; I agree with your sentence; ifit was left to your father he would not reverse it; you’re a traitor, George Leslie— you are a rebel, a leaguer with villains ; you are not my son. Yes, let—let them do it—now, as soon—I’ll look on, never fear—bid him kneel there— soldiers—come—do your—God help me!” The old man could say no more; his hands were supported upon his walking-stick, which stood between his legs, and his forehead sunk down upon his hands—his sobs were violent and convulsive, and Lord Mauden suggested the pro- priety of executing the sentence elsewhere; but Mr. Fitzgerald was a man of little kindly feel- ing, or, as government afterwards represented him, a zealous and Joyal magistrate, and his orders were quickly obeyed. Leslie walked firmly to one side of the hall, while the soldiers took their places on the other. He drew a white handkerchief from his bosom, held it to his lips, and gently threw it to the boy who had been re- manded, and who still sat in the corner, sobbing and weeping piteously; perhaps he intended it as a parting token, to be borne to some one far off. But the boy on receiving it, suddenly checked his tears, and gazed wildly around. He beheld Leslie upon bis knees, one hand before his eyes; he heard the words, “‘ Father, I forgive you—Emma, farewell!” He saw the muskets of the soldiers levelled at their victim, and wait- ing but the deadly signal; with a loud wild shriek he sprang forward, and clasping George round the neck, fell dead to the earth with him, piereed by the same bullets. Almost at the same mstant that young Leslie fell, his father dropped from his chair to the ground, on his face and hands. W hen they took him up, he was no more! Lord Mauden and Mr. Fitzgerald stood for a moment over the bodies of their victims. They both laid with their faces to the floor, quite dead. The former took up the handkerchief, which the boy still held in the grasp of death. He turned deadly pale. Upon one of itscorners was a well-known and still beloved name: but he checked his emo- tions, and stooped to replace it in the hand whence he took it. Good God!—that hand—so soft, and white, and delicately small.—His heart beat violently—he turned the face of the boy—it was, HIS WIFE!

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Original. TO A CLOCK. Coty monitor of passing time, Within thy circte of the fleeting hours Lie all the varied scenes of human life— Hope, joy, and transport, sorrow and despair :— Nay, proudly lord it o’er a feeling heart, Ere a&alf thy brief circumference be run. "fs midnight, from the deep and solemn bell Rings out upon the darkly silent air ‘That sound that speaks of witchery and gloom-- Of haunted sepulchres, and ghosis untombed: The sick man, restless on his fevered couch, Forgets his pain to note the lengthened chime— Whe infant slumbers on its mother’s breast, Unceascious of the mute, untiring love ‘That watches o'er its innocent repose. The mother breathes a brief and silent prayer For him whose path is on the restless deep— Whilst far upon the ocean, when the bell At midnight calls the watch, he treads the deck, Gazes abroad upon the star-lit wave, And thinks upon his home, and wife, and child. Day beeaks—the rich and idle slumber on— The cool sharp air of morning is abroad; And homeward steals, with wan and haggard look, The spendthrift from his sickening debauch. Bat the fresh breezes of the matin air Are health and fragrance to the rosy cheek, Rising with early dawn, to hear the chaunt Of warbling birds, and cull the dewy flowers. Time passes onward—and thy faithful hand Marks every moment with relentless truth. In vain the urchin hurries on to school— The bel! has ceased to toll the hour of nine: And the stern pedagogue, with brow severe, Points to the dial, and applies the rod. *Tis noon—the ploughman turns his weary steeds Beneath the grateful shade, and gladly hears The conch far sounding o’er the sunny fields. The good wife hath a dial, and can see The sun in his meridian—or perhaps An antique horologe, in walnut frame, Notes, with a heavy tick, the march of time. Par different in that busy hive of men, The crowded city—there, the frequent step Of money changers, and the varied hum Of traffic, and the gilded car of pleasure, And moving forms of beauty throng the scene: Pride, folly, pleasure. and the love of gain, Together hail the splendour of high noon. Evening comes on— The sun just tinges with a lingering ray Some lofty cupola, or gilded spire— Then youthful beauty rises from repose ; Leaving the dear siesta’s laziness, To woo the softness of the vesper air. Dim twilight veils ihe kindling biush, that warms The maiden’s cheek, when whispered words grow bold, Urging a passionate and ardent love : Her heart throbs quickly, and the umid sigh Bears witness to the magic of the hour. Again the hour of midnight—youthful hearts Are beating joyously amid the light And music of the dance—soft rosy lips Pour forth the witching melody of song: Rich gems, and waving plumes, and sparkling eyes, Blend all their power with the perfumed air, Casting a fairy beauty o’er the scene. Still onward roll the chariot wheels of time, Unewerving in an even, rapid course— Though to the happy lover's ardent hope, They hardly move to reach the bridal day ; And for the felon, in his narrow cell, Rush like a whirlwind to the hour of doom. r. . YOUTH. BY MISS LANDON. And herein have the green trees and the blossoming shrubs their advantage over us; the flower withers and the leaf falls, but the fertilising sap still lingers in their veins, and the following years bring again a spring of promise and a summer of beauty; but we, when our leaves and flowers perish, they perish utterly; we put forth no new hopes, we dream no new dreams. Why are we not wise enough, at least more preciously to retain their memory ? On! the hours! the happy hours Of our other earlier time, When the world was full of flowers, And the sky a summer clime! All life seem’d so lovely then ; For it mirror’d our own heart: Life is only joyful when That joy of ourselves is part. Fond delight and kind deceit Are the gladness of the young— For the bloom beneath our feet Is what we ourselves have flung. Then so many pleasures seem Scatter’d o’er our onward way ; Tis co difficult to deem How their relish will decay. What the heart now beats to win Soon will be unloved, unsought: Gradual is the change within, But an utter change is wrought. Time goes on, and time destroys Not the joy, but our delight: Do we now desire the toys Which so charm’'d our childhood’s sight ? Glory, poetry, and love, Make youth beautiful, and pass As the hues that shine above Colour, but to quit their glass. But we soon grow calm and cold As the grave to which we go; Fashion’d in one common mould, Pulse and step alike are slow. We have lost the buoyant foot— We have lost the eager eye ; All those inward chords are mute, Once so eager to reply. Is it not a constant sight— Is it not most wretched too— When we mark the weary plight In which life is hurried through ? Selfish, listless, Earth may wear All her summer wealth in vain— Though the stars be still as fair, Yet we watch them not again. Too much do we leave behind Sympathy with lovely things; And the worn and worldly mind Withers all life’s fairy rings. Glorious and beautiful Were youth's feeling and youth's thought— Would that we did not annul All that in us then was wrought! Would their influence could remain When the hope and dream depart; Would we might through life retain Stil some youth within the heart!

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DOMESTIC NOVELTIES. From a late English Magasine. OF DOMESTIC NOVELTIES AT FIRST CONDEMNED. Ir is amusing enough to discover that things now considered among the most useful and even agreeable acquisitions of domestic life, on their first introduction, ran great risk of being rejected by the ridicule or the invective which they en- countered. The repulsive effect produced on mankind by the mere strangeness of a thing, which at length we find established among our indispensable conveniences, or by a practice which has now become one of our habits, must be ascribed sometimes to a proud perversity in our nature—sometimes to the crossing of our in- terests, and to that repugnance to alter what is known for that which has not been sanctioned by our experience. This feeling has, however, within the latter half century, considerably abat- ed; but it proves, as in higher matters, that some philosophical reflection is required to determine on the usefulness, or the practical ability, of every object which comes in the shape of novelty orinnovation. Could we conceive that man had never discovered the practice of washing his hands, but cleansed them as animals do their paws, he would for certain have ridiculed and protested against the inventor of soap, and as tardily as in other matters have adopted the in- vention. A reader, unaccustomed to minute re- searches, might be surprised, had he laid before him the history of some of the most familiar do- mestic articles which in their origin incurred the ridicule of the wits, and had to pass through no short ordeal of time in the strenuous opposition of the zealots against supernumerary luxuries and other domestic novelties. Our subject is an humble one, and deserves no grave investigation ; I shall, therefore, only notice a few of universal use. They will sufficiently demonstrate that however obstinately man moves in “ the March of Intellect,” he must be overtaken by that greatest of innovators—Time itself; and that, by his eager adoption of what he had once rejected, and by the universal use of what he had once deemed unuseful, he will forget, or smile at the difficulties of a former generation, who were baffled in their attempts to do what we all are now doing. Forks are an Italian invention; and in Eng- gland were so perfect a novelty in the days of Queen Bess, that Fynes Moryson, in his curious “ Itinerary,” relating a bargain with the patrone of a vessel which was to convey him from Venice to Constantinople, stipulated to be fed at his table, and to have “ his glass or cup to drink in peculiar to himself, with his knife, spoon, and fork.” This thing was so strange, that he found it necessary to describe it. It is an instrument “to hold the meat while he cuts it, for they hold it ill-manners that one should touch the meat with his hands.” At the close of the sixteenth century, were our ancestors eating as the Turk- ish noblesse at present do, with only the free use of their fingers, steadying their meat and convey- ing it to their mouths by their mere manual dex- terity. They were, indeed, most indelicate at their tables, scattering on the table-cloth all their bones and parings. To purify themselves from the filthy condition of their tables, the servant bore a long Wooden “ voiding knife,” by which he scraped the fragments from the table into a basket, called “a voider.’”” Beaumont and Fletcher describe the thing, “ They sweep the table with a wooden dagger.’’ Fabling Paganism had probably raised into a deity the little man who first taught us, as Ben Jonson describes its excellence, “ the laudable use of forks, To the sparing of napkins.”’ os This personage is well known to have been that odd compound, Coryat the traveller, the perpe- tual butt of the wits. He positively claims this immortality. “1 myself thought good to imitate the Italian fashion by this rorKEp cutting of meat, not only while 1 was in Italy, but alsoin Germany, and oftentimes in England since I came home.” Here the use of forks was, how- ever, long ridiculed; it was reprobated in Ger- many, where some uncleanly saints actually preached against the unnatural custom “as an insult on Providence, not to touch our meat with our fingers.” It is a curious fact, that forks were long interdicted in the Congregation de St. Maur, and were only used after a protracted struggle between the old members, zealous for their traditions, and the young reformers, for their fingers.* The allusions to the use of the fork, which we find in all the dramatic writers through thereigns of James the First and Charles the First, show that it was still considered as a strange affectation and novelty. The fork does not appear to have been in general use before the Restoration! On the introduction of forks there appears to have been some difficulty in the manner they were to be held and used. In “ The Fox,” Sir Politic Would-be, counselling Peregine at Venice, observes— = then you must learn the use And handling of your silver fork at meals”. Whatever this art may be, either we have yet to learn it, or there is more than one way in which it may be practised. D’Archenholtz, in his “ Tableau de |’ Angleterre,” asserts that an Eng- lishman may be discovered anywhere if he be observed at table, because he places his fork upon the left side of his plate; a Frenchman by using the fork alone without the knife; a German by planting it perpendicularly into his plate; and a Russian by using it as a tooth-pick. * I find this circumstance concerning forks mentioned in the “ Dictionnaire de Trevoux.”

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28 DOMESTIC NOVELTINS. Holding the fork is a national custom, and nations are characterized by their peculiarity in the use of the fork at table. Toorn-ricks seem to have come in with forks, as younger brothers of the table, and seem to have been borrowed from the nice manners of thestately Venetians, This implement of clean- liness was, however, doomed to the same anathe- ma as the fantastical ornament of “ the complete Signor,” the Italianated Englishman. How would the writers who caught “ the manners as they rise” have been astonished that no decorous person would be unaccompanied by what Mas- singer, in contempt, calls “ Thy case of toath-picks and thy silver fork !” Umsrevtas, in my youth, were not ordinary things; few but the macaronis of the day, as the dandies were then called, would venture to dis- play them. For a long while it was not usual for men to carry them without incurring the brand of effeminacy, and they were vulgarly considered as the characteristics of a person whom the mob hugely disliked, namely, a min- cing Frenchman! At first, a single umbrella seems to have been kept at a coffee-house for some extraordinary occasion—lent as a coach or chair in a heavy shower—but not commonly car- ried by the walkers. The Female Tatler adver- tises, “‘ the young gentleman belonging to the custom-house, who, in fear of rain, borrowed the umbrella from Wilks’ coffee-house, shall the next time be welcome to the maid’s paltens.” An umbrella carried by a man was obviously then considered as extreme effeminacy. As late as in 1778, one John Macdonald, a footman, who has written his own life, informs us that when he used “‘ a fine silk umbrella, which he had brought from Spain, he could not, with any comfort to himself, use it; the people calling out ‘ French- man! why don’t you getacoach?’” The fact was that the hackney-coachmen and the chair- men, joining with the true esprit de corps, were clamorous against this portentous rival. This footman, in 1778, gives us further information. “ At this time there were no umbrellas worn in London, except in noblemen’s and gentlemen’s houses, where there was a large one hung in the hall to hoid over a lady or a gentleman, if it rained between the door and the carriage.” His sister was compelled to quit his arm one day from the abuse he drew down on himself and his umbrella. But he adds, “that he persisted for three months till they took no further notice of this novelty. Foreigners began to use their's, and then the English. Now it is become a great trade in London.”’ This footman, if he does not arrogate too much to his own confidence, was the first man distinguished by carrying and using a silken umbrella. He is the founder of a most populous school. The state of our population might now, in some degree, be ascertained by the number of umbrellas. Coacnes, on their first invention, offered a fruitful source of declamation, as an inordinate luxury, particularly among the ascetics of monk- ish Spain. The Spanish biographer of Don John of Austria, describing that golden age, the good old Limes, when they only used “ carts drawn by oxen, riding in this manner to coart,” notices that it was found necessary to prohibit coaches by a royal proclamation ; “ to such a height was this infernal vice got, which has done so much injury to Castile.” In this style nearly every do- mestic novelty has been attacked. The injury inflicted on Castile by the introduction of coaches could only have been felt by the purveyors of carts and oxen for a morning's ride. The same circumstance occurred in this country. When coaches began to be kept by the gentry, or were hired out, a powerful party found “ their occu- pation gone!” Ladies would no longer ride on pillions behind their footmen, nor would take the air, where the air was purest, on the river. Judges and counsellors from their inns would no longer be conveyed by water to Westminster Hall, or jog on with all their gravity on a poor palfrey. Considerable bodies of men were thrown out of their habitual employments, the watermen, the hackneymen, and the saddlers. Families were now jolted in a heavy wooden machine into splendour and ruin. The disturbance and oppo- sition these coaches created we should hardly now have known, had not Taylor, the waterman and poet, sent down to us an invective against coaches, in 1629, dedicated to all who are grieved with “ the world running on wheels.” Taylor, a humourist and satirist, as well as waterman, conveys some information in this rare tract of the period when coaches began to be more generally used. ‘“ Within our memoriés our nobility and gentry could ride well mounted, and sometimes walk on foot, gallantly attended with fourscore brave fellows in blue coats, which was a glory to our nation far greater than forty of these leathern timbrels. Then the name of a coach was heathen Greek. Whoever saw, but upon extraordinary occasions, Sir Philip Sidney, Sir Francis Drake, &c.? They made small use of coaches; there were but few in those times, and they were deadly foes to sloth and effemi- nacy. It is in the memory of many, when in the whole kingdom there was not one! It isa doubt- ful question whether the devil brought tobacco into England in a coach, for both appeared at the same time.” It appears that families, for the sake of their exterior show, misérably contracted their domestic establishment; for Taylor, the water-poet, complains that when they used for- merly to keep from ten to a hundred proper serving-men, they now made the best shift; and, for the sake of their coach and horses, had only “a butterfly page, a trotting footman, and a stiff- drinking coachman, a cook, a clerk, a steward, and a butler, which hath forced an army of tall fellows to the gate-houses,” or prisons. Of one of the evil effects of this new fashion of coach- riding, this satirist of the town wittily observes, that as soon as a man was knighted, his lady was lamed for ever, and could not, on amy account, be seen but ina coach. As hitherto our females had been accustomed to robust exercise, on foot or on horseback, they were now forced to substi-

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DOMESTIC NOVELTIES. 29 tute a domestic artificial exercise in sawing bil- lets, swinging, or rolling the great roller in the alleys of their garden. In the change of this new fashion they found out the inconvenience of a sedentary life passed in their coaches. Even at this early period of the introduction of coaches, they were not only costly in the ornaments—in velvets, damasks, taffetas, silver and gold lace, fringes of all sorts—but their great- est pains were in pairing their coach-horses. “ They must be all of a colour, longitude, lati- tude, cressitude, height, length, thickness, breadth—(I muse they do not weigh them ina pair of balances ;) and, when once matched with a great deal of care, if one of them chance to die, then is the coach maimed till a meet mate be found, whose corresponding may be as equi- valent to the surviving palfrey, in all respects, as like a broom to a besom, barm to yeast, or codlings to boiled apples.’’ This is good natural humour, for the things mentioned under different appellations are not similar, but identical. He proceeds—* They use more diligence in match- ing their coach-horses than in the marriage of their sons and daughters.” A great fashion, in its novelty, is often extravagant; true elegance and utility are never at first combined; good sense and experience correct its caprices. They ap- pear to have exhausted more cost and curiosity in their equipages, on their first introduction, than since they have become objects of ordinary use. Notwithstanding this humourous invective on the calamity of coaches, and that “ house- keeping never decayed till coaches came into ; and that a ten-pound rent now was scarce twenty shillings then, till the witchcraft of the coach quickly mounted the price of all things.” The water-poet, were he now living, might have acknowledged, that if, in the changes of time, some trades disappear, other trades rise up, and in an exchange of modes of industry the nation loses nothing. The hands which, like Taylor’s, rowed boats, came to drive coaches. These complainers on all novelties, unawares always answer themselves. Our satirist affords us a most prosperous view of the condition of “this new trade of coachmakers, as the gain- fullest about the town. They are apparelled in sattins and velvets, are masters of the parish, vestrymen, and fare like the Emperor Helioga- balus and Sardanapalus—seldom without their mackeroones, Parmisants, (macaroni, with Par- mesan cheese, I suppose,) jellies and kickshaws, with baked swans, pastries, hot or cold, red-deer pyes, which they have from their debtors, wor- ships in the country!” Such was the sudden luxurious state of our first great coachmakers!— to the deadly mortification of all watermen, hack- neymen, and other conveyancers of our loungers, thrown out of employ ! Togsacco.—It was thought, at the time of its introduction, that the nation would be ruined by the use of Tobacco. Like all novel tastes, the newly-imported leaf maddened all ranks among us. -“ The money spent in smoke is unknown,” said a writer of that day, lamenting over this “ new trade of tobacco, in which he feared that there were more than seven thousand tobacco houses.” James the First, in his memorable “ Counter-blast to Tobacco,” only echoed from the throne the popular cry; but the blast was too weak against the smoke, and vainly his paternal Majesty attempted to terrify his liege children that “ they were making a sooty kitchen in their inward parts, soiling and infecting them with an unctuous kind of soot, as hath been found in some great tobacco-eaters, that after their death were opened.” The information was, perhaps, a pious fraud. This tract, which has incurred so much ridicule, was, in truth, a meritorious effort to allay the extravagance of the moment. But such popular excesses end themselves; and the royal author might have left the subject to the town-satirists of the day, who found the theme inexhaustible for ridicule or invective. . Coat.—The established use of our ordimary fuel, Coal, may be ascribed to the scarcity of wood in the environs of the metropolis. Its re- commendation was its cheapness, however it destroys every thing about us. It has formed an artificial atmosphere which envelopes the capital, and it is acknowledged that a purer air has often proved fatal to him who, from early life, has only breathed in sulphur and smoke. Charles Fox once said to a friend—“‘I cannot live in the country; my constitution is not strong enough.” Evelyn poured out an entertaining invective against “‘ London smoke.” “ Imagine,” he cries, ‘a solid tentorium or canopy over London, what a mass of smoke would then stick to it! This filiginous crust now comes down every night on the streets, on our houses, the waters, and is taken into our bodies. On the water it leaves a thin web or pellicle of dust dancing upon the surface of it, as those who bathe in the Thames discern, and bring home on their bodies.” Evelyn has detailed the gradual destruction it effects on every article of ornament and price; and “ he heard in France, that those parts lying south- west of England, complain of being infected with smoke from our coasts, which injured their vines in flower.” I have myself observed at Paris, that the books exposed to sale on stalls, however old they might be, retained their fresh- ness, and were in no instance, like our own, cor- roded and blackened, which our coal-smoke never fails to produce.” Coal-fires have now been in general use here three centuries. There was a proclamation, so far back as Edward the First, forbidding the use of sea-coal in the sub- urbs, on a complaint of the nobility and gentry, that they could not go to London on account of the noisome smell and thick air. About 1550, Hollingshed foresaw the general use of sea-coal, from the neglect of cultivating timber. In the country they persevered in using wood and peat, and still in many places continue this practice. Those who were accustomed to this sweeter smell, declared that they always knew a Lon- doner, by the smell of his clothes, to have come from coal-fires. It must be acknowledged that our custom of using coal for our fuel has pre-

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30 MATRIMONY, &¢, vailed over good reasons why we ought not to have preferred it. But man accommodates him- self even to an offensive thing, whenever his in- terest predominates. Were we further to carry on a speculation of this nature, we should have a copious chapter to write of the opposition to new disceveries. The illustrious names of Vesalius on the study of ana- tomy, who was incessantly persecuted by the public prejudices against dissection; of Harvey in the discovery of the circulation of the blood, which led to so protracted a controversy that it was hardly admitted, even in the latter days of the old man; of Lady Wortley Montague in her intreduction of the practice of inoculation; and, more recently, that of vaccination, and the ridi- cule of the invention of gas-light, are sufficient evidence that objects of the highest importance to mankind, on their first appearance, were slighted and contemned. Posterity smiles at the inaptitude of the preceding age, while it becomes familiar with those objects which that age had so eagerly rejected. Time isa tardy patron of true knowledge. A nobler theme is connected with the principle we have here but touched on—it is the gradual changes in public opinion—the utter annihilation of false notions, like those of witch- craft, astrology, spectres, and many other super- stitions of no remote date; the hideous progeny of imposture got on ignorance, and audacity on fear. But one impostor reigns paramount—that plausible opposition to novel doctrines subversive of some ancient ones; doctrines which probably shall one day be as generally established as at present they are utterly decried; and which the interests of corporate bodies oppose with all their cumbrous machinery—but artificial machinery becomes perplexed in its movements when worn out by the friction of ages. pF MATRIMONY. Hast and a long life together, are more ne- cessary to happiness, and even to love, than is generally imagined. Noone is happy with the object of his attachment until he has passed many days, and above all, many days of misfortune. The married pair must know each other to the bottom of their souls; the mysterious veil which covered the two spouses in the primitive church, must be raised in its inmost folds, how closely soever it may be kept drawn to the rest of the world. What! on account of a fit of caprice, or a burst of passion, am 1 to be exposed to the fear of losing my wife and my children, and to renounce the hope of my declining days with them? Let no one imagine that fear will make me become a better husband. No: we do not love a property which we are in danger of losing. We must not give to Hymen the wings of Love, nor make a sacred reality a fleeting phan- tom. One thing alone is sufficient to destroy your happiness in such transient unions; you will constantly compare the one to the other, the wife you have lost to the one you have gained; and, do not deceive yourself, the balance will always incline to the past, for so God has con- structed the human heart. This distraction of a sentiment which should-be indivisible, will em- poison all our joys. When you caress your new infant, you will think of the smiles of the one you have lost; when you press your wife to your bosom, your heart will tell you she is not the first. Every thing in man tends to unity; he is no longer happy when he is divided, and like God who made him in his image, his soul seeks incessantly to concentrate into one point, the past, the present, and the future. The wife of a Christian is not a simple mortal; she is a mysterious angelic being; the flesh of the flesh, the blood of the blood of her husband. Man, in uniting himself to her, does nothing but regain part of the substance which he has lost. His soul, as well as his body, is incomplete with- out his wife; he has strength, she has beauty; he combats the enemy and labours in the fields; but he understands nothing of domestic life; his companion is waiting to prepare his repast and sweeten his existence. He has his crosses, and the partner of his couch is there to sofien them ; his days may be sad and troubled, but in the chaste arms of his wife he finds comfort and re- pose. Without a woman, man would be rude, gross and solitary. Woman spreads around him the flowers of existence, as the creepers of the forests which decorate the trunks of sturdy oaks with their perfumed garlands. Finally, the Christian pair live and die united; together’they rear the fruits of the union; in the dust they lie side by side; and they are re-united beyond the limits of the tomb.—Chateaubriand. HEAT OF THE TROPICS, THE mean temperature of the equational zone is as yet very imperfectly determined ; but Hum- boldt thinks it does not exceed 80 degrees of Fahrenheit. The greatest summer heats are found in countries contiguous to the tropics. On the Red Sea, for example, the thermometer is often seen to rise 100 degrees at mid-day, and to remain at 94 degrees during the night. In the production of this extreme heat, astronomical causes combine their influence with the local peculiarities of the circumjacent countries. A few degrees within the tropic the sun at mid- summer continues for a considerable space of time to pass very near the zenith; and the day increasing with the latitude, is longer than under the equator, so that the amount of nocturnal radiation is diminished. Among the local causes which contribute’ to give an excessive climate to the Arabian peninsula and the tropical countries of Africa, we may reckon the sandy surface, almost entirely deprived of vegetation, the con- stant dryness of the air, the direction of the winds, and the quantity of heat radiated from earthly particles carried about in the atmos- phere.—Foreign Quarterly Review.

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SUPERSTIZIONS OF NEW ENGLAND. SUPERSTITIONS OF NEW ENGLAND. BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER. NO. 1. In that almost insulated part of the state of Massachusetts, called Old Colony, or Plymouth County, and particularly in a small village ad- joining the shire town, there may be found the relics of many old customs and superstitions, which would be amusing, at least to the anti- quary. Among others of less serious cast, there was, fifteen years ago, one which, on account of its peculiarity and its consequence, I beg leave to mention. - It is well known to those who are acquainted with that section of our country, that nearly one half of its inhabitants die of a consumption, oc- casioned by the chilly humidity of their atmos- phere, and the long prevalence of easterly winds. The inhabitants of the village (or our town, as it is there called) to which I allude, were peculiarly exposed to this scourge, and I have seen, at one time, one in every fifty of its inhabitants gliding down to the grave, with all the certainty which characterises this insidious foe of the human family. There was, fifteen years ago, and is, perhaps, at this time, an opinion prevalent among the in- habitants of that town, that the body of a person who had died of a consumption, was, by some supernatural means, nourished in the grave from the body of some one living member of the family; and that, during the life of this person, the body retained, in the grave all the fullness and freshness of life and health. This belief was strengthened by the circum- stance, that whole families frequently fell a prey to this terrible disease. Of one large family in this town, consisting of fourteen children, and their venerable parents, the mother and the youngest son only remained—tke rest, within a year of each other had died of the consumption. Within two months from the death of the thir- teenth child—an amiable girl of about sixteen years of age—the bloom which characterised the whole of this family was seen to fade from the cheek of the last support of the heart-smitten mother, and his broad flat chest was occasionally convulsed by that powerful deep-toned cough which attends the consumption in our Atlantic states. At this time, as if to snatch one of this family from an early grave, it was resolved by a few of the inhabitants of the village to test the truth of this tradition which I have mentioned, and which the circumstances of this afflieted family seemed to confirm. I should have added that it was be- lieved that if the body, thus unnaturally nourish- ed in the grave, should be raised and turned over in the coffin, its depredation upon the survivor would necessarily cease. The consent of the mother being obtained, it was agreed that four persons, attended by the surviving and com- plaining brother, should at sunrise the next day dig up the remains of the last buried sister. At the appointed hour they attended in the burying yard, and having, with much exertion, removed the earth, they raised the coffin; and placed it upon the ground; then, displacing the flat lid, they lifted the covering from her face, and dis- covered what they had indeed anticipated, but dreaded to declare:—Yes, I saw the visage of one who had been long the tenant of a silent grave, lit up with the brilliancy of youthful health. The cheek was full to dimpling, and a rich profusion of hair shaded her cold forehead, while some of its richest curls floated upon her unconscious breast. The large blue eye had scarcely lost its brilliancy, and the living fulness of her lips seemed almost to say, “ loose me, and let me go.” In two weeks the brother, shocked with the spectacle he had witnessed, sunk under his dis- ease. The mother survived scarcely a year, and the long range of sixteen graves is pointed out to the stranger as an evidence of the truth of the belief of the inbabitants. The following lines were written on a recollec- tion of the above shocking scene: I saw her, the grave-sheet was round her, : Months had passed since they laid her in clay, Yetthe damps of the tomb could not wound her, The worms had not seized on their prey. O, fair was her cheek, as I knew it When the rose all its colours there brought, And that eye—did a tear then bedew it? It gleamed like the herald of thought. Ehe bloomed, though the shroud was around her ; Her locks o’er her cold bosom waved, As if the stern Monarch had crowned her, The fair, speechiess queen of the grave. But what lends the grave such a Justre? O’er her cheek what such beauty had shed? His \ife-blood, who knelt there, had nur’st her, The living was food for the dead! A belief in judicial astrology has been more or less prevalent in every part of the civilized world; and though this belief may have been popular only in proportion to the ignorance of the mass of the people, yet it will be acknow- ledged, by all who are acquainted with the events of the past century, that, though the ignorant may have been misled by the jargon of their superiors, yet the most learned, at times, were not only deceived by the imposing operations of the adepts, but were even dupes to their own imaginary acquirements. In few places has this confidence been more general and implicit than in the old colony. A very large proportion of the inhabitants of that section of our country are seamen—a class of people remarkably tenacious of early opinions, and proverbially superstitious. *

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32 PUBLIC HOUSES, ge. Whatever may be the nature of any popular belief, if there is not some special circumstance to give it authenticity, its influence is soon lost upon the minds of those who were most ready to receive it—it ceases to affect their actions, and is only brought to remembrance by some pecu- liar coincidence of circumstances. This may be the case at the present day with many of those superstitions which once agitated the minds, and influenced the actions of the old colonists; but the belief in judicial astrology will never be en- tirely lost from among them, while there is one alive who witnessed the event which I am abou to relate. ' Late in the last century, the Rev. Doctor S——.,, the clergyman of one of the three towns that lie on Plymouth Bay, had acquired the awe of his parishioners by his deep skill in the occult sciences, not less than their love and esteem by the purity of his doctrine and the excellence of his examples. He had calculated the nativity of very many of his congregation, 4nd as the men were mostly “ those who go down into the sea in ships,” he could not often fail when he predicted, with a solemnity which showed his own confi- dence in his art and demanded theirs, that they must ultimately find a watery grave. Fully persuaded of his own powers, the reve- rend man was induced to calculate the extent of his own life. This was a matter of no small mo- ment, and the good man was often seen at night by the neighbouring fishermen ascending a hill in the neigbourhood to “ hold high converse with the stars.” The result of his calculations was not long a secret, for though he had confidentially en- trusted the matter only to his twodeacons, they had found means to divest themselves of the more weighty part of the secret, by hinting at a definite time, beyondwhich they might not expect the profit of the good man’s labours. It was, of course, soon noised through the town, that, on the morning of the 5th of July, 1795, he would, according to his own prediction, most assuredly be re- lieved from all the weight of earthly cares, and earthly sorrows. The whole of the week pre- ceding the day he had marked as the termination of his earthly career, the pious man devoted to exhorting, directing, and comforting, those who had long looked up to him as a temporal as well asa spiritual guide. Early on the morning of the fatal Sunday, apparently dreaded by all more than himself, the oldest and most respectable of his parishioners assembled to await the result of the awful prediction.. Eight o'clock was the hour which the Doctor had marked as the last of his existence, and to convince them of his confi- dence in his own art, he assured them that he had prepared no*sermon for the day, and that he had set his house ia order, in full persuasion that ** he must die, and not live.” He had finished a most pathetic prayer, when the hands of the clock indicated eight: the com- pany stood in breathless anticipation—no change, however, took place—his pulse was regular, and no unusual sensation intimated even the distant approach of death; at length the Doctor observ- ed, that, although he had been extremely careful in his calculation, yet he believed that he might haye made an error in regard to time, to detect which he proposed examining anew his books. He accordingly rose to take them from a high projecting shelf, when the stool on which he stood, turning suddenly forward, threw him back- ward upon his head—he broke his neck, and ex- pired immediately, without uttering a single word. Since that unhappy affair, judicial astrology, although held in the highest admiration and re- verence by the inhabitants, has been so dreaded that it has fallen into total disuse. A large slate slab, erected at the head of his grave, bears the age and character of the worthy clergyman, and tells,in a few words, the wonderful circumstances attending his death. PUBLIC HOUSES. TuHERE is Mo private house in which people can enjoy themselves so well as at a capital tavern. Let there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that every body should be easy, in the nature of things it cannot be: there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him ; and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely com- mand what is in another man’s house as if it were his own: whereas, at a tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome : and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No servant will attend you with the alacrity with which waiters do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please. No, sir, there is nothing which has yet been con- trived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.—Johnson. > Women in their nature are much more gay and joyous than men, whether it be that their blood is more refined, their fibres more delicate, and their animal spirits more light and volatile; or whether, as some have imagined, there may not be a kind of asex in the very soul, I shall not pretend to determine. As vivacity is‘ the gift of women, gravity is that of men. They should each of them, therefore, keep a watch upon the particular bias which nature has fixed in their mind, that it may not draw too much, and lead them out of the paths of reason. This will cer- tainly happen if the one in every word and action affects the character of being riged and severe, and the other of being brisk and airy. Men should beware of being captivated by a kind of savage philosophy, women by a thoughtless gal- lantry. Where these precautions are not ob- served, the man often degenerates into a cynic, the woman into a coquette; the man grows sul- len and morose, the woman impertinent and fan- tastic.

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DEAD MANS TIAN De

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ag 3 7 ean eld ° than tw: self in the more than” parents ' ‘. ‘ ing a mS nion uncontrolled” abundant stock chain, is verily a so it was; and she as when the links © forging of this inyi formed in secret. 5 sighed not tobe free! lady Had seized her. brisk and winning over; and she price, ¢ al he thought scorn. fond hearts she She sut one evening Bridget, her maid, ¥ ¢c A Disifn b iia 4 2 , ,negiect.and” Tadyebe had y sparks that p Was Dever a one o p such ghilling looks, and were usually reserved by pl yee = hs wai ee 4 ~ oad

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oA 1H BAD MANS LAND. ey ——_——-- Bridget was silent at this rebuke; and. what | ever was uppermost in her thoughts, aipsamate was said that night. The following days Ellen was much wares | The disease appeared to be rapi strength, and the maiden seemed doomed togan early grave. mal “ And isn’t it a silly thing fe die so soon?” said Bridget... qua? Ellen smiled. hectio lush was oppaemnily on her cheek, a that fed itwas.on her s pet ehroniclers by waa wing Retires © Bridget was early at ‘the bedsile of her shistress, with a countenance morethan usually indicative of some important communication._But Rileonprasha tees to break Wak ah om cy hada strange dream last: night.” emai Bridget, with a face of .. came, « as I thought in my dream,” said Ellen, “ a Jong-robed priest to my bedside :—he stood there some titne; and whem aslted him of his errand, be » aised his right arm; and Fsaw that the,hand was Wanting, Being taken off at’ the a Eanere elled exceedingly at this strange ;, bul as.L was going to question bim pre ny Ra wokecs Lkvow not why, but the vision sorely troubled me, especially when again goiig to sleep, for it was repeated thffice.’? . “ It isa riddle,” said Bridget, “ and oné-witha heavy meaning in it, too, if we could find it out.” * Verllygh think so,’ said Ellen; “ for the im- press dotl.not pass atvay like that from ordifary dreams, but rests with a deep and solemn power upon my spirit, such as 1 can-neither throw off nor patiently endure.”’ “ T’ll wnriddle it for you, or.go'a pilgrimage to our Lady at Loretto#? said Bridget, determined not.to be behindhand in he? cutiosity.. So she set her woman's wits immediately to work; yet she.saw her mistress daily losing strength, arid no clue was obtained by which to know the inter- pretation bf the vision. One day Mistress Bridget brought in a tall »beggar-woman, dumb, or pretendedly $6, and tly deaf. She made many signs that the gift of foreknowledge was im her possession, though she seemed herself to have profited little “by fo dangerous an endowment. Ellen, being spur by her maid craved a speeimen of this erful art. The hagye gmoke-dried, dirty- hing beldatne, with agtateh over one cye, and _ an idiotic expression of face,begam to mntter and make an odd rat the sight of the sick lady. She took a piece of chalk from her handkerchief, and began her work of divimation, , First, she drew a circle on the floory as aboundaryy or frame, and within it she patgnaav wacenth and crabbed signs ;, but ticitieaning was perfectly rey ae _ Under this.she sketehed some- thing ‘unto a sword; then-« dideous figure Was attached to it, with a soldier's cap ambi hend. aw “this figure two arms wore added Before him was a heart that seemed to-hangyas it were, on the point of thisdong sword;.which, when Ellen saw, she changed colour; but at- tempted to smile; yet she only betrayed her.agi- tation. The damb one hand across her own breast, and with the other pointed tothe lady, which appeared to ee ing that a soldier had won herheart, and was the truc cause of her illness. . Such pretation, perchance, was but thetousacittingse: nitor speaking from withiny as it invested. this untheaning hieroglyphic with the hue and like- néss of its own fancies. But more marvellous still was the subsequent proceeding. Having revealed the cause, it seemed as though she were about to point out, obscurely as before, thé.mé- thod and meansof eure. When she liad drawn the long unsliapely representation ‘of a cloak, above it was placed something like unto’ human head, without helm or other covering; and to sone having a tmge hand, displayed as the heralds say ; the other arm entirely 4 of this. usefél apperidage. Elen at once remembered her dream, and watched the process even with more interest than before. “at The hand which should have been attached to the wrist was now drawWh, distinct from the Fest, as though grasping a heart wounded by the sword —and, doubtless, the interpretation, accordi®igto Bridget’s opinion, was, that the application of a hand which had been sevéted from the body would alone cure the disease under which she pined. The dumb prophetess did hot éommanivate fur- ther on the subject; arid, after having epetived hér bounty, sl departed. “ How very strange!” said Bilen. ~2 * Marvellous étotich,”’ atiswéred the taid: “There is some ‘mystery abowtethis hahd,” thought Ellen; but where to seék for a soliition, was a mystery of eqtal magnitude with the rest. Bridget was stire, from the distlostires already vouchsafed, that te needful direétions would not be yithheld. Ellen felt restless and disttirbed for a while after this event; but her sensdtidns were again reverting to their ordinary channel, when one morting sheawokein a fearful trepidation. She said that the figure of a humati hand was visible in her slombers; that # led the way, pointing to an old howée, like*a fortified mansion, with a moat end gatehouse before the main entrance. As she followed, the hatid seemed to twine its fingers about her heart, and, for that time; she felt relieved of her pain. So vividly was the scene impressed upon her ifmagination, that she felt assured she should recognise the building again, and especially the i 4 Where; in a stately chainber, the. a8 Cure was performed. Affairs went on for-a little time in this dubiots state; butthe continued anduincreasing illness of Ellen made it a chafige of air should be attempted, the journey accom- plished atta sd travel. The family- coach was brought out; and Mistress Bridget, invested withthe @ighities of her office, went forth

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THE DEAD MANS HAND. 35 —_ acmttendant of the buty ame pelanipal eandseter of stores and packages. ' ” Journeying southward at a slow pace, pausing - to take a look where there was any object worth the attention, they came one aftertioon (about the fourth day after their departure) to Wigan.— When they had journeyed thence a mile or so, as they were passing down a jolting road, Bridget, whose curious eye was ever on the look out, suddenly exclaimed, at the same time pointing through the window, * T declare, if there isn’t dummy again yonder!” Eien beheld the dumb sybil, whose predic- tions were not forgotten. Bridget, by her looks, seemed to ask leave to stop the carriage, and hold anothér conference with the woman; and Ellen, whom i!lness had rendered somewhat pas- sive in such matters, did not make any opposi- tion. Having accosted this walking oracle, Brid- get courtesied with great reverence; but the bel- dame went straight to the carriage, addressing herself to the invalid within, by pointing to her breast, and making divers motions of the like signification, which were not easy to be under- stood, even by the party for whom they were in- tended. The prophetess seemed fully to com- prehend that her symbolic representations were unintelligible ; and no fitting place being at hand whereon they could be readily portrayed, she stréve with the greater vehemence to explain their meaning. There appeared a more than ordinary anxiety, on her part, to communicate something of importance, and the travellers looked-as though fully aware of it. Her most signs, however, were to this purpose —that should not proceed fyrther. Ellen, impelled by fear and curiosity, spoke aloud, “‘ Surely we are not to remain here, at the beck of this woman!’ The one-eyed sybil nodded an affirmative.— This, at any rate, helped them to an easier mode of communication, finding that she was not deaf, as they had hitherto supposed. “ And whither shall we proceed?” The woman here pointed to a narrow lane, on the right of the main road they were pursuing. “ Truly that.seems buf an indifferent path.— Wherefore should we turn in thither ?’’ inquired Ellen. Again the prophetess pointed to her own breast, and then at the bosom of the invalid. “ By this token I understand that in sogoing I am to expect some relief.” Again nodded the officious intruder. * But how shall that relief be obtained ?” The woman here lifted up her hand, again pointing towards the path by which they should proceed. “ Go and see, I suppose thou wouldst say,” said Ellen. Another affirmatory nod was the answer. “ Wilt thou be our guide?” The addressed, here darted a look at Ellen which seemed to express pleasure at the request, if pleasure it might be called, that could irradiate such an aspect, She put out her hand for the customary largess ere setting forward as their guide on the expedition. Some difficulty now arose, by reason of the straitness of the path; but their dumb leader hastened up the lane with unusual speed, beckoning that they should fol- low. From this signal it appeared that there was sufficient room, and the postilion addressed himself to by so unusual a route. They went forward for about a mile with little difficulty; but a sudden turn, almost at right angles with their course, presented an obstacle which the driver hesitated whether or not f counter; but it was impossible to they were not without serious fears that the weird woman might lead them on to a sit which they could not extricate es. Still she beckoned them forward, until they emerged into another and’ a wider road, on which’ they travelled without farther impediment. Ellen, whose eyes were abundantly occupied, suddenly assumed a look of greater fixedness and intensity. For a whileshe seemed nearly speech- less with amazement. At length she cried, “Tis there !—There !” Bridget looked forth, but saw nothing worthy of remark, save an old gatehouse, over a dark lazy moat, secured by heavy wooden doors. This gatehouse was apparently the entrance to a court or quadrangle, inclosed by buildings of wood and plaster of the like antiquity. Their guide stood on the bridge, as though to intimate that their wanderings would here terminate. “** “1 have seen it before,” said Ellen, with great solemnity and emotion. Bridget, perhaps, fan- cied her mistress’s thoughts were wandering strangely, and was just going to recommend rest and a little of the medicine she carried, when Ellen again spoke, as though sensible of some incoherency in her remark :—“In my dreams, Bridget.” * Is this the house you saw when— ?” “Theverysame. I shdétild know it again; nor should I forget it, if I were to live to the age of the patriarchs.” Ellen determined to alight, and witness the issue of the adventure; so, in due time, these for- lorn damsels were seen advancing over the bridge unto this enchanted castle. “ The beldame knocked loudly at the gate, and immediately she sprung back; but when the tra- vellers again looked round, she was gone! *- Now were they in a precious dilemma. Two females before a stranger’s gate—the warder a- coming, when their business would of necessity be demanded. A tread, every footstep of which might have been passing over them, was close at hand. The boltsshrieked—the gate shook—anda curious face peeped forth to inquire their errand. He threw the gate wide open, and i -_ to follow: after which, he led them | ciumsily-ornamented into the great hall ; at the end of which was gallery, supported by pillars and pilasters ly and profusely carved. From these, ‘Were sprung; and a irs, at one v Aight of stairs, at one end, led to the upper bat

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36 THE DEAD MANS HAND. ws MTT

Their guide preceded them into a small wain- scoted room, fitted up as a study, or perhaps an oratory in those days. A wooden crucifix was placed in a recess, occasionally covered bya green curtain. Shelves,laden with books,oceu- pied the further end of the room, and writing- materials were laid upon an oak trestleor table, before which sat a tall white-haited personage, in a suit of sables, to whose further protection the porter left his charge. Ellen*had suffered lierself to be led passive, hitherto, by her maid; but when she saw that they were now fairly committed to the disposal of astrafger; (for so he appeared,) she felt uneasy, and anxidtis todepart. The room and the whole scene Were vividly brought to her recollection ; for she fancied that, at one time or another, she had been present in a similar place. Bridget courtesied. “ Here is a sick person who would have the benefit of your prayers,” said she. The pale and wasting form thatwas by her sidé sufficiently corroborated her truth. “If she have faith, I wili cure her malady. What ‘sayest-thou?” He fixed his clear grey eye upon her, and Ellen felt as though some charm were already at work, and a strange ting- ling went through her frame. She stammeréd out something like an assent, when the stranger carefully proceeded to unlock a little cabinet, inlaid with ivory and gold, from which he took out a white silk-bag’that diffused a grateful per- fume through the chamber. He offered up a prayer before he unloosed the* strings; after which, with great formality and reverence, he drew forth a human hand, dried and preserved (apparently by some mysterious process) im all its substance aiid proportions. Elien was dumb with astonishment. Bridget could with difficulty re- frain trom falling on her knees before’ this holy relic; and herdelight would easily have run over in some form of extravagance, had it been suf- fered to have free vent. To this relic, doubtless, had the predictions referred; and she doubted not its power and efficacy. “* This rare and priceless thing,’ said he, “ was once the right-hand of an English martyr, Father Arrowsmith by name, put to death for his holy profession ; in consideration whereof it is permit- ted that an honourable testimony be rendered to his fidelity, by the miracles that it doth and shall work to the end of times Rub it thrice on the part affected, and mark the result. If thou re- ceive it with humility and faith, trusting in Hea- ven, from whence alone the healing virtue doth flow —these holy relics being,as it were, but the appointed chantiels and conduits of His mercy,— thou shalt asstirédly be litaled.” But Ellen was at some loss to know the precise situation of hér complaint, until"she recollected the picture drawn by the dumb fortune-teller, who described the heart aloneas touched by this miraculous hand. Yet in what manner tomate the application was a matter of some difficulty. Bridget again relied her from the dilemma. “ If it s0 please your reverence, the seat of the complaint is not visible. Suffer us to use it pri-

vately. We will not carry forth nor misuse this precious ’ @iraget jot Dinos 9 “TI fear not for the harm that ¢an happen toit by reason of mischievous devices. If taken away, it would assuredly return hither. Should:the lady have some inward ailment, let her lay itas near as maybe to part where she feels afflicted, and keep it thévefoynspace unul she findeth help.” < boa The two visitors were then shown intaasiother chamber; and here Bridget, with great devout- ness, and a firm faith in its efficiency, placed the dead cold hand upon her mistress’s heart. Ellen shuddered when she felt its death-like touch. It was either fancy, or something more; but-she really felt as though a load were suddenly taken away,—an oppression, an incubus, that had con- tinually brooded over her, was gone. Surprised, and lightened of her burden, she returned:info the oratory, and gave back the relic, along with a liberal offering, into the hands of the strange personage. He said there would scarcely’ be occasion for a repetition of thé act, as it was evi- dent the faith of the recipient had wronght its proper work. The day by this time being far spent, he begged permission to introduce Ellen to the-Lady Ge- rard, who, as mistress of the house, he said, would be much gratified to afford them entertainment, and, if need were, shelter for the night. Qn hearing the name of her visitor, this kind lady would take no denial, but expressed -herself warmly on the folly and imprudence of an invalid being exposed to the night air; and Ellen; de- lighted with the change she felt, was all compli- ance and good nature. After a little hesitation, she suffered her first refusals to be overcome, and the night wore on with pleasant converse. By little and little, Lady Gerard wonthe confi- dence of Ellen, who seemed glad that. she could now speak freely on the subject nearest to her heart. “Tt is marvellous enough,” continued Lady Gerard, “that you should have been conducted hither ; for in this house there is magic mirror, which may, peradventure, disclose what shall re- lieve your anxiety. Ob being looked into, after suitable preparations,it is said (for I never tried the experiment) to show wondrous images within its charmed surface; and like the glass of Cor- nelius Agrippa, of which we have a tractate in the library-chamber, will show what an absent person is doing, if the party questioning be sin- cere, and anxious for his welfare.” . ‘1 have long wished,” said the blushing Ellen, “that 1 might see him of whom our evening’s discourse hath, perchance, been too much con- versant. .I would not fer worlds that he knew of my wish; but if I could sée him once nfore, and know the bearihg of his’ thoughts toward me, I could tow, methinks, die content.” , “ This very hight, then, let us consult the ora- cle,” said Lady Gerard; “ but there must not be any witness toour’exploit: so while away your impatience as best you midy, until I have made the needful preparations for our adventure.”

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OLN FAR Cae. er WINTER © AROL, &e. 37

pul sev? cx 4O8 disol yries ¢ iw ave aT Ellen could not repress her cginhen then, after waiting alone fora little time, her kind hos- tess came to’ summon her to the trial. Shewas | conducted up the staircase before mentioned, and through a corridor of some length.. The lamp ‘grew pale and sickly in the cold wind of the galleries they trod. Soon, however, they paused before alow door. Lady Gerard pressed ber finger on her lip, in token of silence. She them blew out the light, and they were involved in total darkness. » Taking hold of Ellen’s arm, which trembled excessively, within her own,she opened the door, but nota ray was yet visible. She'was.conducted to a seat, and Lady Gerard whispered that she should be still.. Suddenly a light flashed forth on the opposite side, and Ellen saw that it came from a huge antique mirror. A forminmaleattire was there discernible. With a slow«and:melarcholy pace he came forward, and-his lips sseméd to move. It was—she could not be mistaken—it was her cousin William! She thought he looked pale and agitated. He carried:a light which, as it glimmered on his fea- tures, showed that they were the index of some internal and conflicting emotion. He sat down. He passed one hand over his brow, and she thought that a sigh laboured from his lips; but.as she gazed, the light grew dim, and, ere long, the mirror ceasing to be illuminated, again left them intotal darkness. A few minutes elapsed, which were swollen to long hours in the estimation of the anxious and wondering inquirer. Her com- panion again whispered that she should await the result in silence. Suddenly tbe light flashed out as before, and-she saw the dumb fortune-teller insteadof the individual she expected. Her fea- tures were more writhen and dictorted than ever ; and she seemed to mutter*(it might be) some ma- lignant spell, some charm, the operation of which

‘S24 seme was,for some unknown and diabolical intent.— Ellen shuddered asthe weird woman took a paper rollfrom her bosom. . Unfolding it, there was dis- played the figure of her lover, as she supposed, kneeling, while he held out his hands toward the obdurateheart.which he in vain attempted to “>| oats “ J- have wronged him,’ said Ellen, in a whis- per to her companion ;,‘‘if Linterpret these im- ages aright, he now sighs for.my favour ; and— would that we had known each other ere x» q too late! ” “He knows now,’ said lady Gerard; ‘apd in- mediately the dumb prophetess-was at "her side. She threw off a disguise, ingeniously contrived, and Ellen beheld her cousin William!; .... The magic mirror was but an aperture through the wainscot into another apartment; and‘the plot had been arranged in the first place by Mrs. Bridget, who had been confederate withthe handsome, tt somewhat haughty wooer, haying for his torment a maiden as haughty and intract- able as himself.. Thus, two loving. hearts*had nigh been broken for lack of an interpreter. William’s absence had taken deeper held on Ellen’s finely-tempered frame than was expect- ‘ed; and-it was with sorrow and alarm that he heard of her illness. His distant relative, Lady Gerard, te whom he had retired for a season, spake of the marvellous hand, which she was sure would cure any disease incident to the, human frame. It was absolutely. needful that a cure should be attempted, along with some stratagem, to conquer the yet unbroken obstinacy in which (as. with a double panoply) Ellen bad arrayed herself... The result of the ex periment has been shown. . She.was united to ber cousin ere a few months were old. and the “ merrie spring’’ ,.had melted in the warm lap of summer.

\ WINTER CAROL. Leaves are falling, Birds are calling, Let us fly, let us fly. Winds are blowing, Bummer’s going, Let us fly, let us fly. Flowers are dying, Breezes sighing, Let us fly, let us fly. Fields once blocmy, Now look gloomy, Let us fly, let us fly. From this bleak dominion, where winter waves his pinion, To a sky that’s brighter, on a breeze that’s lighter, Let us fly, let us fty. Where the hours are fleeter, where the night is sweeter, Where in gentler measure, life is linked with pleasure, ~ Let us fly, let us fy. Why sheuld we linger lonely, the two remaining only, When here the storms pursue us, and there the a aad woo us? ‘ To that happy sky, iene Let us fly, let us fly,

SUMMER CAROL, Bons are springing, Birds are singing, Let us fly, let us fly. Winter's going, Spring is glowing, Let us fly, let us fly. Like a maiden, Flow’rs array’d in, Let us fly, let us fly. Winter leaves the bow’r, that springing from.his Toon Ran 8 SO ind flow’r, ee 3 Let us fly, let us oo Bie: aye Laughing eeasons woo uS, storms no more pursue us, Bending trees inyite us, laving ean us, Let us ay, Vet et Why linger we thus lonely, two remaining only, When every once loved pleasure, forms a glorious trea- sae ae < S S To that happy sky, Let us fly, let us fly.

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38 a DAYS PLMASURE fs THE COUNTRY. A DAY’S PLEASURE IN THE COUNTRY. “ THERe are a great many pleasures of which I have not the slightest comprehension. All those included under the names of ‘rural enjoy- ments, unsophisticated tastes, country pursuits, are to me marvels and mysteries. + All my plans for the diffusion of happiness have even to my own eyes been itmpracticable; for all the world cannot live in London. I am, I confess it, born and bred, in theory and in practice, a Cockney. I have ‘no fancy for sitting in a punt, catching fish and Gold together, and going home with three gudgeotis and a sore throat. Neither do] desire to enact perambulating poulterer, accumulating landed property enough for a freehold, in the shape of mud on my boots; consigning in my secret soul every partridge to purgatory. I pre- fer a sofa to the most delicate green moss that was ever haunted by fairies. O, lakes that are so beautiful in poetry! O, prospects that are so lovely on paper! ye are about to lose for me all your charms—for I shall see them; and, alas! to see the beauties of nature is to reverse the old proverb, ‘ Seeing is not believing.’ ” Frank Staunton was roused from his reverie by the loud blowing of a horn, on which the guard was expending breath cnough to have lasted half an existence. Despite his soliloquy, he was fully alive to the exquisite though dusky landscape around: a purple shadow indicated the lovely lake of Ulleswater, upon which were flitting two or three scattered barks, with their phantom sails. Gleaming amid the trees, now in their thickest foliage, a light shone from every cottage: the moon was not up, but the evening star had many companions; and in the West one clear and lucid Jine, like melted amber, was yet bright with the memory of sunshine. The boughs of the hawthorn, oa which the dew was just rising, swept against the coach as it passed rapidly by; and the fragrance on either side told that the hay was making in the adjacent fields. The mail stopped at the corner of a lane, amid the clamour of a dozen young voices; asking, in every variety of tone, if “ their cousin was arrived.” ‘“ How d’ye do’s?” and “I am glad to see you's,” were soon despatched:—so was supper. Frank saw that his female cousins were pretty, ill-dressed, and with louder laugh and voice than were ad- mitted within his creed of lady-like. His uncle and aunt were of that denomination called re- spectable, worthy, matter-of-fact people, who have no nerves, and whose ideality has never been developed. ‘ We have chosen your bed- room,” said his eldest cousin, af parting, “ be- cause the nightingale sings im the tree opposite.” The room was very low, and felt very hot—for the sun bad been shining on it all day; and light and air were things never excluded from Ulles- water Cottage. Fatiged with his long journey, Frank burried into bed; but the instant all be- came hushed, his ear was caught by “ the mourn- ful music” of the nightingale, whose sweet com- plaint was now begun. ‘How very sweet!’ exclaimed our hero—five minutes, ten, nearly a quarter of an hour; and though he at first con- cealed the fact from himself, that incessant “jug * jug, trill, trill? was excessively tiresome. Now, Frank Staunton had really some poetry about him—nay, had published verses full of tenderness and feeling about moonlight, nightingales, roses, and recollections ; he had, therefore, a character to support: but it was at last not to be borne; he jumped out-of bed, dashed down the window, with an ejaculation of, “That cursed bird!” Among other metropolitan predilections, was that of late rising; but by five o’clock next morn- ing all the house was in motion: the children ran overhead as if, like the lances of old, they were shod with iron; and every cousin that pass- ed along the passage thought itan act of courtesy to knock at his door. He got up in self-defence; and as soon as he appeared, three parties at once contended for his‘company : his aunt wanted him to come and look at her turkeys—his uncle want- ed him to see his pigs; while the boys were equally impatient that he should join their shoot- ing party. As usual, clamour carried the’day, and he was dragged off to the rookery. With Washington Irving strong on his memory, @ rook-pie seemed little short of sacrilege. Sucha waste of powder and noise as ensued! the reoks screamed, the children shouted, and every mo- ment a gun went off close to his ear: and all this wasto be taken fasting. Long before thesummons came to the brealcfast-table, Frank had arrived at the second stage of fasting, viz. a sick distaste to food : an appetite is not, like grouse, the bet- ter for keeping. The rapid way.in which break- fast was despatched, did not permit of the hospi- table distress that would otherwise have been called forth by the sight of his undiminished pile of pr®visions ? There is a species of entertainments peculiar to our islands, called in Wales “ grass parties,” in Jersey “ milk parties,” and at Greenwich and Richmond “ pic nics :” they are days devoted to all those inconveniences which at less-favoured periods would, to use an expressive Irishism, “set you mad.” You give up the comforts of civilized life—tables and chairs are de trop—one glass does the work of many—and your din- ner is spread on the grass, for the benefit of the ants, earwigs, and other insects. It was for the celebration of one of these mistakes (for they are called pleasure) that the Sélby family assembled in a large cart, without springs, destined to tra- verse the roughest of roads that ever destroyed your nerves, and threatened your joints. Two young men joined the party, and, quite as matter of right, appropriated the seats by the two eldest girls; and Frank was jammed into an inconceiv- ably small space between his uncle and his aunt, both of whom maintained an unceasing flow of discourse—one touching his turnips, the other

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GARRICK'S PRECEP?PS TO PREACHERS. 39

mn her turlseys;. while the ¥; nger up #5 et Sa Babelish di they arrived at a nook in a small Sod <. father and mother, with the four younger ones, stayed behind to get dinner ready, while théy.en- joined the others to go and »waik for an appetite; —an injunction Frank, at least, thought very needless. However, off they went,under a broil- ing sun, over hedge, ditch, hill and dale; while to Staunton it was obvious that the two young men took an underbred pleasure ia tiring, of trying to tire, the London stranger to death. » “Sad was the hour, and luckless wasthe day, — ,. When fitst from Sehiraz walls I bent my way,” thought Frank, as he toiled up the half-dozenth hothill, for the sake of the prospect, which he alone was expected to admire—the others, as they observed, having seen it so often. Atlength they returned to the little wood; the stump of an old.pak looked very inviting, and there Frank was about io sit, when his second cousin, William, Caught his arm, exclaiming, ‘‘ Lord, mother! you have laid the cloth close by the.yasp’s nest.’ All hurried off—bat not till Staunton’s left hand was as an armoury, in which a seore of wasps had left their stings. All hurried eff,two or three dishes,and plates broken, also the gooseberry pie dropped ip the seuffle; but as soon as they were seated, due attention was bestowed on Frank’s Wounds: a key was produced from Mrs, Selby’s ponderous pocket, destined to extract the stings; and when, in spite of the nnivyersal declaration ba? it was the best thing in the world,” he averred his conviction that it was the worst,.and withdrew his hand, it had just the appearance of a honeycomb. Dianer proogeded; all seated themselyes on the grass, pobédy knowing what todo with their feet or their plates, Christians not being so handy as Turks. There was some romping, and a great deal of langhter excited by that local wit which is so utierly unintelligible to astranger.,..Mr. Selby ate like an Abyssinian, and drank Jike a Saxon: he was one of those true-born Englishmen whose morality isebeef, and whose patriotism is ale. he repast was concluded, and both he and his wife dropped off in their accustomed pap, with the mutual excla- mation, “ Frank,we haye a water-party in store for you to-morrow.” The party dispersed: Staunton saw the receding figures of his two fair cousins with the two young men; one of whom was entertaining his companion with the history of his brown mare’s cold, and the other was being eloquent in praise ef his liver-coloured pointer: the ladies, however, seemed very.well entertained. The wind had changed, and it was one of those raw, piercing evenings which pay Noyember the . delicate flattery of imitation : there was a melan- choly rustling in the leaves, a dim mist rising from the lake; andthe visitor. w ** the greenwood glade” alone, bis teeth chattering, and a small chill rain beatiag.im bis face. This small rain gradually took a more decided form and be- came a heavy pelling shower... Mr. Selby’s voice was heard calling on the party Lo assemble toge- ther: they did so, and egaim the cart bore its* a fe

crowded company. Suddenly it was discovered “that Staunton was missing. To make short of a _.long story, they called, they hunted, but in vain: it was now getting dark, and home they were dbliged to go—but minus their cousin. One sup- posed he was drowned, and another that he had fallen intosemeold gravel-pits; a third suggested that murders had been committed. ere now, .The evening closed im on a collecti ‘lugu- brious tales that are the. deligit of am English fire-side. But the next day, they. were, indeed, seriously alarmed ; for po tidings could be learned of Frank Staunton, a ghastly. fear seized.on me whole neighbourhoed——he might have Burked! Sacks and pitch-plasters'were.. day the sole topics of discourse in the nejghbour- hood of Ulleswater. Next morning, however, came the post, and with it a letter: it was from Frank Staunton, and ran thus ;— . My dearest Aunt—There. are. some “tempta- tions that are irresistible; that of the London mail passing by my path, proyed se to me. I called to the coachman, get up by the guard, and.was miles. on my. journey before I remem- bered aught but the happiness of a return.to town. LI .shall ever retain the most grateful re- collection of your kindness; I will send my cousins the prettiest of the new Annuals this year: but I’ve “made @ vow, and registered it in heaven,” never again to stir beyond the bills of mortality.— Your affectionate nephew, FRANK STAUNTON,

— se GARRICK’S PRECEPTS TO PREACHERS. Tux celebrated Garrick having been request- ed by Dr. Stenchouse to fayour him with his opinion as to how a sermon ought to be delivered, the English Roscius sent him the following judi- cious answer:—* My Dear Pupil: You know how.you would feel.and speak in a parlour, con- cerning a friend who was in imminent danger.ef his life, and with what energetic pathos of diction and countenance you would enforce the obsery- ance of that svhich you really thought would be for his preservation, You could not think of playing: the orator, of studying yoursemphasis, cadences, and gestures; you would be rself; and the interesting natureof the subject impress- ing your heart, would furnish you with the most natural tone of voice, the most proper language, the most engaging features, and the mest.suita- ble and graceful gestures. “ W hat you would be in the parlour; be.iahe putpit; and you will not fail to pleaze, to affect, and to profit. * Se. It is the power of attention which, in a great measure, distinguishes the.wise and greatefrom the vulgar and trifling herdef men, The latter out knowing the these uncunnected they pursue no énd ; they follow ne track. oop ies floats loose and disjointed en the surface of their minds, like leaves'seattered and blown about om the face of the waters. .

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USE OF PHRENOLOGY, &«.

A SCOTTISH BALLAD. BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. TaatT grumbly postman o’ the night, The beetle sounds his eiry horn, The lamb’s Jast bieat comes frae the height, She seeks her dewy bed till morn— ‘The harper kail has bumb’'d his strings, at his uncouth strain ; While every note the blackbird sings, I'm feared may be his last Amen. oofThen what can ail my bonny Jane, Wha wont. be sae kind to me, That here she lets me bit me lane, And strain my een out ower the lea 1— ’s naught, I ken, sae hard to bide, lt racks the very sou) within— A'd rather watch on cauld bill side, Or stand in water to the chin. !< The heatheock’s bay comes d@wn the gate, The glooming stern croops o’er the hill; Tik sangster cowers beside his mate, » And haso’ dear delight his fill; While I may sit an’ glower till morn, Nor hear a sound from tower or tree, Except yon craik’s among the corn, An’ be has tint his love like me. Poor bird, he’s lonely in the dell, And harps a note o’ black despair, And though forsaken like mysel, LT only jaugh at hingthe mair. His loss is but a motely quean, Of cutty-tail, an’ tawney hue; But sic a flower as my dear Jane, For love ne’er brushed the e’ening dew. ’Tis really mais than he@agt can bear, I shall gang daft, ere it be day; But yet the lassie is sae dear, I dowfa bide to gang away. Hush, Gollie! hush! What's that lI hear— A smothered laugh ayant the tree ? There's some sweet pawky listener near, The sweetest sound on earth to me. “Ha! pawky Jane, how came ye here, Round by the wrang side o’ the knuwe? This night, some ither lad, I fear, Has rowed ye in his plaid ere now." “ What's that to you? But [ thought right, To come an’ tell you to gang hame; lcanra come to court the night, Sae ye may gang the gate ye came.” “* Provoking elf! come o’er the dike, An’ woo till day light ope her ee—"” ** Na, thank ye, lad—befa’ what like, The wa’ shall stand "twixt you an’ me; ZT thought it hard that you should sit, _ An’ flite a’ night sae gruff an’ grum, Sae I tame ower on lightsome fit, To tell you that I couldna come.”’ Out ower the dike I laup—I flew! An’ ere she gat a blink to chide, Thad her seated on the dew, An’ closely ptese'd unto my side. But O! the tants an’ biiter scorn That L endured a while were sair, Yet never till the break o’ mom Did she propose to leave me mair. Lovehas a deal 0° Wefan’ gloom, Muckle to hope an’ sma’ to have; Yet there are little blinks 0’ bloom Sae sweet, the heart nae mair can crave—

Some tittle tints of loveliness, Beyond what angels can enjoy— © earthly love they hae nae guess, Though theirs is bliss without alloy. And there’s a joy without a sting, With a dear lassie by your side, A virtuous, lovely, loving thing, Whom you intend to mak’ your bride: That is a bliss, befa’ what may, That makes man’s happiness supreme It winna sing—it winna say, But lasts like an Elysian dream.

From the London Literary Gazette. , USE OF PHRENOLOGY. Away with all doubt and misgiving, sar Zoe Now lovers must woo by the book—=" = ©. = There’s an end to all trick and deceiving, oc « ad No men can be caught by a look. . Bright eyes or a love- breeding dimpie No longer their witchery fling ; That lover indeed must be simple Who yiclds to so silly a thing. 2 No more need we fly the bright glances Whence Cupid shot arrows of yore ; To skulls let Us limit our fancies, And love by the bumps we explore! Oh, now we can tell in a minute What fate will be ours when we wed: auth The heart has no passion within it - That is not engraved on the head. age* . a The first time I studied the science With Jane, and I cannot tell how, ’T was not till the eve of alliance I caught the first glimpse of her brow. Cc y finely e The largest I happened to see; Such ar, \’s far too commanding, Thought f, to be practised on me.

Then Nancy came next, and each feature, As mild as an angel's appears ; ? I ventured, the sweet little creature, . To take a peep over her ears: Destructiveness, tertible omen, Most vilely develuped did lie! (Though perhaps it is commons in women, And hearts may be all they destroy.) The organ of speech was in Fanny : [ shuddcred—’twas terribly strong! Then fled, for I'd rather that any Than that to wy wife should belong. I next turned my fancy to Mary— She swofe she loved nothing but me ; How the look and the indéx could vary! For naught but seffove did I see. Locality, slily betraying In Helen a passion to roam, Spoke such predilection for straying— Thought 1—she’1! be never at home. Oh! some were 80 low in the forehead, I never could settle my mind ; While others had all that was horrid In terrible swellings behind. At length "twas my lot to discover The finest of skulls, I believe, To please or to puzzie a lover, That m or Gall could conceive. *Twould 8 whole age to decipher The bumps upon Emily’s head ; So I said, I will settle for life here, And study them after we're wed.

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Original. MAHOMET. Mauomet was not that monster of cruelty he has been represented. to be. He often showed mercy to the vanquished, and even forgave per- sonal injuries.”*Oaab, son to Zohair, who had been one of his bitterést enemies, and for whose head a price had been offered, had the audacity to appear abruptly~in’the»mosque of Medina, whilst Mahomet was.there preaching to the peo- ple. Oaab recited some verses which he had composed in praise of the Prophet. He heard them with delight, embraced Oaab, and taking _ Off his mantle put it upon the Poet. The mantle was bought from Oaab’s family, by a Caliph, for the sum of twenty thousand drachmas, and be- came the most. valued ornament of the Sove- reigns of Asia, which they wore only at'solemn festivals. The last acts of Mahomet’s life prove that his mind was far from being tinctured very deeply with cruelty. On the evening before his death he arose, repaired’ to the Mosque, leaning on the arm of Ali, ascended’ the desk, prayed, and ad- dressed the audience in these words: “*Moslems, fam dying. None need longer fear me ;—If I have struck any of you, let him come hither, and return the blows upon my back. If I have robbed any of his property, let him repay himself from this purse. If I have insulted any man, let him now, in his turn, insult me. LE submit myself to you: do justice upon me."’ One man only stood forward, atid demanded three hmas. Maho- met paid him his demarid;aind would have added interest. ..He then -tenderly bade farewell to those brave citizens of Medina by whose valour he had been Geferided. He set his slaves at liber- ty, and gave orders for™his funeral. And al- though he maintained to the last the character of the Prophet, asserting, even in his dying ago- nies, that ‘he‘eohversed with the Angel Gabriel, he nevertheless shewed kind and melting affec- tion to his daughter Fatima; his favourite wife, Airzha, and to Aliyand Omar, his disciples and friends. All im Arabia lamented him with deep sorrow, and assumed the garb of mourning upon his death. The people howled, and rolled them- selves in the dust, Fatima died of despair. The poison which puta period to the Prophet's days had been given him, Some years before, by a Jewess, named Zainab, whose brother had been slain by Ali... This vindictive woman poi- soned a piece of roasted lamb which she served up to Mahomet." Hardly had Mahomet tasted the first mouthful’ of thé meat When he spit it out, and cried that it was poisoned. Yet so potent was the poison, thaty although immediately re- jected, it continued to afflict him through all bis subsequent life, and he died of its effects, four years afterwards, in the Bikes year of his age. The inhabitants of the East imue to regard Mahomet with unbounded’ ct and venera- * 4 tion. doétors assert that the world was made for him;-that the first thing God created, was light; and this light became’ the ‘substance of Mahorfiet’s soul. Some maintain, that the Ko- ran was uncreated: others have embraced an opposite opinion. Hence acrowd of commen- tators, and of sects; and ‘hence religious wars, which have deluged A’ia With blood-* ©” Mahoinet possessed from nature , the most splendid qualities—V alour,, wisdom, . a graceful figure, every accomplishment that can win affection, or command respect: the most enlightened nations, he w6uld have been a great mail; to an ignorant and. fanatic people he was naturally, and almost unavoidably, a Prophet. Hitherto, the Arabian tribes, placed among Jewish, Christian, and Idolatrous neighbours, had professed a superstitious medley of these se- veral forms of religion, intermixed -with that of the ancient Sabeans. They believed in a. deemons, sorcery: they worshiped the stars, and sacrified to idols. Mahomet passed the-first for- ty-four years of his lifedmunnoticed retirement, in which he continued the new doctrines that he wished to propagate; and after persuading the principal men of his own family,(the Koreshites, keepers of the Cooba, the most considerable persons in Arabia,) bégan suddenly to preach a new religion, hostile to all that’ were before known, and formed to kindle the a genius of those people. “Children of. Ismael,” said he,“I recall you to the religion which was professed by your fa- ther Abraham, by Noah, and by all the Patri- atchs. There is but one God, whois the Sove- reign of the universe, and is called the Merciful. Worship himonly. Be charitable to orphans, to the poor, to'slaves, to captives; be just to- wards all men; justice is the sister of piety. Pray, and give alms. Your reward shall be to dwell hereafter ip the delicious gardens ‘of Para- dise. Fight with valour, against the incredulous and the impious; fight, conquer, and. compel them to embrace. Islamism, or to pay. you tri- bute. Every soldier who falls in battle, goes to the immediate enjoyment of the treasures of God. Cowardice cannot prolong the term of life. The moment ae which eyery.one of us “must yield to the stroke of the Angel of death, is written in the book of the Almighty.” ~~ These precepts, dictated in a language rich, figurative, majestic—embellished witht re ments of verse, delivered from an Angel, by a prophet, who was at the same time a warrior, a poet, a legislator—to a people who were in their temper the most ardent in the world, the most pr Agena fond @F the Raaeetous, of . sae “eX Reet fate ve Orientale, ge ae

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42 ow MY LITTLS MAN. ... a = pleasure, of valour, of poetry ;—could not fail to be favourably heard. Mahomet. gained ‘many’ disciples; and their numbers were soon aug- mented by persecution. The prophet was driven by his enemies from his native city of Mecca, and forced to seek refuge in Medina.» The date of his flight became the wera of his glory, Hegi- ra of the Moslems. Al is one of the precépts,most assi- duously inculcated by the Mahometan religion. ae is recommended by various parables, and by Obe, among others, which is most particalarly e. Supreme Judge will, at the last day, bind die ‘who has not given alms a terrible ser- pent, whose sting will incessantly wound the griping hand that was shut to the unfortunate.” Se _ Py #er MY LITTLE MAN. “O"T's true, "tis pity; pity ‘tis, tis true !”—Snaxsreare. *Tarre was nothing to me more abominable the’idéa of “a little man’ I had been made ible by little men—the odious creatures! Pimarried a little man. Ridicule is the keenest weapon wherewith the feelings can be attacked, and mifie were wounded deeply and severeiy by it. “It was my misfortune to attract none but little men ; wherever I went, into what society 1 passed, there was sure t be some little man start Up, and endeavour f6do the agreeable for my amusement. Pour passe le temps t encouraged one of these gad-flies, and at length found that what I undertook for amusement, mere pastime, assumed another aspect; and the little piece of humanity that I looked upon as a plaything, soon became the chief actor in something more than a littleaffairede ceur. Well,“ things change their titles as our manners turn ;” instead of being an- noyed, T became pleased with the attentions of “ my little man;” and, at length,I gave my hand at the altar to my little man, and became une wife. I was the wife of my little man. So far, all went pleasantly enough: but I do not know how it was—the fraicheur themovelty of matrimony; went off. I saw nothing but my little man day after dayand the honey-moon spent in the horrible seclusion of Rookery Park, Was any thing but a month of sweetness. I was glad enough when it was over, for then Iwas enabled to return to the metropolis, and make one among the merry circles of fashion. But then, alas, alas! every thing wore a different aspect. I was no longer envied by the women, no longer the object ‘of the men’s devotion; a ace salutation greeted me, and body wished me joy;I and my “little man!” e I went, there also my little man fol- lowed me, of course; at the opera, beaux no fluttered round me like butterflies, attract- iny'diamonds, (or my eyes, as they said,) } nobody was near me but my little man. He was’a fond, kind creature; but that very fondness, that very kigdness which induced bim to be perpetually near me, proved any thing but pleasant to me; for I soon got tired of the eternal smiling lookey and kind words of my litile man. At the concert, my little man was my conduc- tor, but hel fre@uéitl¥ madéimbre discord than harmony: I used toreturn home in a dreadful state of ennui: nobody had told me that I looked beautiful that morning but my little man. I thought myself in a deplorablesituation. !! » Then I went to Almack’s: there kpictured a recurrencé of old scenes, and prepared: my arts of coquetterie accordingly! "I was) splendidly attired that night, and am sure’that’ 1 looked divinely. Well, alas! the usual finale}in-de> spite of my attractions, I danced with nobody but my little man. People did say that he was ofa jealous turn, and therefore the-men were fearful of incurring his displeasure... Dearjdear, whata sacrifice I thought myself to a little mant» But need not detail my safferings; let it suflice, that wherever I went there [ was sure towhearand see nothing but the little man. He was attentive. We appeared:so attached; that: we in the world’s opinion exemplified connubial happiness. Happiness, indeed! Happinessawith my little man 29W hen we wore beheld approach ing, it was whispered, “ Here»comes —— —— and her little man:’”’ Had 1 visitors, the, first question after my own health was sure: tesbe; ** How-is your dear little man.’’ _T would rather have heard inquiries:after my poodle dog. Well, thus 1 passed through ten years of married life, avery unhappy miserable creature, becamsed was a fine figure myself,and had for my-husband avery little man. » ae oy Alas! he died!—-the fettors were suddenly dis- severed, and I again became my mistress. “My year of widowhood expired: I returned; to the gay circles o' jety in all my wonted.loveliness. I was then bufeizht twenty, baving married at eighteen. I had felt very lonely in retirentent; but I ascribed that loneliness to the monotony of the scene wherein [ was, as it wereyeonfined. When I re-appea society,all, the: beaux came round me, as they had done ten years pre- viously ;-the days of my girllioodiwere revived, and Iwas again the object of universal homage. Then I thought I should be happy;—-for the mo- ment I was so. But alas! the -dreariness which I experienced in my seclusion was but the first thrill of that anguish which |} Iwas afterwards to experience in fullness... Ag the amusements began to tire, I felt weary; there was no one near me then to speakgin tones which only one canutter. When I returned home there was no one there to welcome me. with kindness and af- fection, WhenI was happy, there was no one to share my. joy, or when I was in sorrow, there was no one upon whose bosom I could lay my head, and find repose est... No; all had fled —all had passed away. ‘I had no husband—my happiness had descended with him. to his tomb. 1 am a widow, young and: beautiful—they tell me so—the men hover round me, and my own sex envy my attraction. Alas, alas! they little poe the fe Nig oe of ber who would resign station, splendour—could she Sad i call on existence. ha og dear, though once mag!” wre 4 ¥ _e ak at

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IRRITABILITY: OF GENIUS. = | ie Fe La Harpe, an autlior by profession, observes, that as it has been shown that there are some ma- ladies peculiar to artists, there are also sorrows which are peculiar to them, and which the world can neither pity nor soften, because they do not enter into their experience. ‘The querulous lan- guage of so many men of genius, has been some- times attributed to causes very different from the real one; the most fortunate live to see their ta- lents contested, and their best works decried. An author, with certain critics, seems much in the situation of Benedict when he exclaimed— “ Hang me in a bottle, like a cat, and shoot at “me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder, and called Adam!” Assuredly, many an author has sunk into his grave, without the consciousness of having obtained that fame for which he had in vain sacri an arduous life. The too-feeling Smollet has left this testi- mony to pesterity— Had those who are pleased to call themselves: my friends, been.at any pains to deserve the character, and told me ingenuously what I had to expect in the capacity of an author, 1 should, in all probability, have spared myself the incredible labour and chagrin I lave since undergone.” And Smollet was a popular writer! Pope’s solemn declaration, in the preface to his collected works, comes by no means short of Smollet’s avowal. When employ- ed ‘on the liad, he found it not only occupy his thoughts by day, but haunti dreams by night, and once wished himself fmitiged to get rid of Homer: and that he experienced often such literary agonies, witness his description of the depressions and elevations of genius :-- “ Who pants for glory finds but sbort repose, A breath revives him, or a breath o’erthrows.”’ Thus must the daysof a great author be passed in labours as unremiiting and exhausting a8 those of the artizah. ‘The world are not always aware, that to some, meditation, composition, and even conversation, may inflict pains undetected by the eye and the tenderness of friendship: When even Rousseau passed a morning in company he tells us it was observed that in the evening he was dissatisfied and distressed ; and John Hunter, in a mixed company, fotind that conversation fatigued stead of amusing him. Hawkesworth, in the second paper of the Adventurer, has composed, from his own feelings,-an eloguent comparative estimate of intellectual and cor- poreal labour. It may console the humble me- chanic. ‘ The anxious uncertainty of an author for his compositions, resembles that of a lover when he has written to a mistress not yet decided on his claims; he repenis his labOur, for he thinks ‘he has written too much, while he is mortified at re- collecting that he had omitted some things, which he imagines would have secured the : of his wishes. Madame de Stael, who has often entered

into. feelings familiar to a literary and political family ,ina parallél between ambition with genius, has distinguished them in this; “ that while ambi- tion perseveres in the desire of acquiring p genius flags of itself. Genius, in the society, is pain, an internal feyer which » require to be treated as a real di cords of glory did not soften the produces.” The acquaintances of the poet Collins l complained of his wayward manners itae ” bility; but bow,could they sympathize secret mortification.of the poet for emi l in his pastorals, imagining that they were posed on wrong principles; or with a agony of soul, burning, with his own, handa, unsold but immortal odes ?. Nor‘must we here the dignified complaint of the Rambler, wi which he artfully closes his work, appealing: t posterity. In its solitary occupations, genius contractwits peculiarities, and in that sensibility which” companies it, that loftiness of spirit, those q jealousies, those excessive,affections and ‘a sions, which view every ig as it passes ip i own ideal world, and rarely as it exists. in mediocrity of reality. They haye aban their country, they have changed their namé, they have.punished theapelr es with exile in the rage of their disorder, artes sought in vain, even in his secreted life, a refuge for bis he thought himself calumniated and he went and died in Sweden; and little did that man of genius think that his countrymen would beg to have his ashes. restored to them, The great.poctical, genius* of our. times, openly alienated himself from the land of hig brothers; he becomes immortal in the language of a people whom he could contemn ; he accep with ingratitude the fame he loves.-more life, and he is only tenly great on that spotraf earth, whose genius, when he is no more, Wi contemplate on Ais shade in anger and in s¢ row: - Thus the state of authorship is not friendly. equality of temper; and in those various humours incidental to it, when authors are often.affected deeply, while the cause escapes all berception of sympathy—at those moments the lightest inju to the feelings, which, at another time, make no impression, may produce even fury the warm temper, or the corroding chagrin of self-wounded spirit.. These are moments claim the tenderness of friendship, ai res a high esteem for the intellectual. of the man of genius—not the general i rse of society, not the insensibility of the a the devity of the volatile. * eras © “~- oe -< wen ung

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’ I CAN NEVER LOVE You ORR) BARCAROLLE Rae Soom. 96 Sings toe fe Giabe and, the Ed — Sex-T. 8. parry. oo SLLEGRETTO PASTORAL Bem ~~ Rs > & ° — Te have Warm . ervowsin store :— “Words mily not quite ex - a Hew sin- a ‘xe ere 7 bres*.* ce >... . 80 —

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= 7 & I cam ~never leve you less, awk ‘eer = >

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RECONCILIATION, dc. die pn GRIEF OF HEART). 5 ‘! ———— nee There are griefe That hunt like hounds our happiness away !” L. E. L. Fou. well I remember the moments so gay, When time flew unheeded and swiftly away; And I fondly imagined there never could be, Ia @xistence, a being more happy than me. How delightful to picture a long scene of joy, Of bliss and of raptare that never could cloy ! : is that prospect for ever, and past iIette of fancy, too brilliant to fast. like fairy-dreams—wiih it depart soul, évety wish of my heart, 1 pass the remains of my youth, ‘the is false to her vows and her truth ; whieh she plighted, that truth which she swore, neglected, and heeded no more. ‘ada as ean only appear whatnow can the lone world endear ? sua darts refulgent his brilliant beam, Di pe aeckmaes sheds her soft placid light on spe stream, to me—the abandon’d—foriorn ;— Te thy feelings more weicome the blast and the storm; Sater rsa orp tes soft, cheering, and mild, Cope egal wind of winter, dark, piercing, and wild! am maddening !—Oh, heavens that pain, ono through my bosom—ascends to my brain !— ‘Tis etomplished—’ tis over—I sink on the earth, More happy this moment than that of my birth; My sorrows are ended—my course nearly.run, ingr: and view what thy falsehood hath done. yeas! +e thee ?—Oh no—in the last gasp of breath, t thee, thou dear one, lov’d even in death! © »“’le ©) THE DEEP. BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. Tnene’s beauty in the deep ;— The wave is bluer than the sky; And though the light shine bright on high; More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow’s tints are only made When on the waters they are laid, And Sun and Moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean’é levél brine. There’s beauty in the deep. ad . a4 he ; ~~ — Aghe i : There’s musi¢ in the deep ;— It is not in the surf's rough roar, Nor in the whispering, shelly shore— They are but earthly sounds, that tell Tfow little of the sea-nymph's shell, That sends its loud, clear note abroad, Or winds its sofinese through the flood, Echoes through groves with coral gay, And dies, on spongy banks, away. There’s music in the deep. There's quiet in the deep;— Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Above, let care and fear contend, With sin and sorrow to the end: Bere far beneath the tainted foam, That fiets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There’s quiet in the deep. —_—— —- 4 RECONCILIATION. e 4 SKETCH. Srorcs and prudes may lecture young people on the folly and absurdity of their falling ia love; perhaps, were they to consult them, they never would: but, alasywe are not all wise,and who that has ever felt the first sense of ‘ Love’s young dream’ will, for a moment, grant a listen- ing ear to their abstract theory, which is in itself as poor and visionary, as the practice is absurd and impossible. Ido remember, when I was-young, before the spring of life had lost one bud of freshness; be- fore the mind's energies had fully expanded, and I was the veriest child of folly, then, and then only; was my heart touched with the beautiful } of love, which, once lost, may never eae and the object of my ‘Passion was two or three years my senior, but what was that in our eyes?, We loved each ardently and purely, and I must confess mpranty felt flattered by the preference shown “ beardless bey,” like myself, when I saw wealthier and li€elier suitors rejected for me. ‘Time trayelled on, and some months had elapsed or mutual and secret confession, .We wee realign bliss, pure and holy; our "esate | gew together, and new. seemed opening upon us, which, till had known. but by hearsay! Dreams of fu piness filled our minds, and every distant pros- pect, seen through “ Hope’s witard telescope,” was reflected with a brighter and a lovelier light than perhaps really belonged to it. But every eve who knows anything of the human mind, and of its pains and will be Well aware, that state.was but one of those de- ceitful symptoms attendant that dangerous disease amor primus. But streams are always rippled, eyen gentle wing of the light zephyr, as skims.on the surface. And soit was. _Some trivial misiake ; some little misunderstanding about something I had said, took place, and we were—human! Well do Lremember, that she had written me a note, rather hastily, perbaps, in which she stated, that if what I said was what I really meant, she must the affection professed as untrue, and re bh send back all her letters. Asit all, both hers and my own that she feared I had ae as it were, to “ends. This was too much for my ‘to endure, and I re- ‘Teasd Slips UMEIERY own tbs egece

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e.* ith'a note, full-of ‘tingled ‘pride and affection, plaining m of what I said; but T added, if this was not | sufficient to satisfy her; and if for some unknown ° reason she was stilfangry;1 Gould ufzé fo more; ; and that L could’ ot" ink of presenting myself ; at a ball, which was to. afterwards, at her father’s house in the country. But this was ‘sufficient; hearts will not long rebel against (Hémselves, atid! rectived; almost immediately, a note*full of tendérness ahd love ; the kindest by far I had. ever had, wherein she conjured me to burn, and, if possible, forget her rash note; and to-come out as*her “own dear Edward” had-alway8*eome before. Love has good feclings—Céuld 1—did I—refuse? “No! 1 blotted, as well as might be, the unfortunate cir- cumstance from the book of memory, and went to the ball. ; It was an‘autimn évening; I rode over on horseback early enough, it must be allowed, be- fore the guests had assembled. Soon after I arrived, one of her brothers told me Julia wished to speak with mie. “We metsand'we were alone. She took my hand, and exclaimed—* Edward wil! you forgive me?” ,J_pressed her to my bosom, and kissing her, J could only echoher own words, ’ and said, “ Jaliay will yow'forgive me?” She pressed her lips'to mniné, and that kiss 8 more eloquently, ajd more truly our reconciliation, than even the language of Demosthenes when re forth against the proud Macedonian. Jt ¢ language of the soul, in which the tongue but i : the whole. feelings. were em-, pr to utterance to so sweet a truth, that we were eyen dearer to each other now than evet. I whispered, “ It is so sweet a joy to re- concile two fond hearts, it might almost tempt us them to enjoy the reconciliation.” ward,” Said’ she, “ let us névér be to’ part ‘iff present ‘anger for joy-”_~ Shortly r we Ging, and T shall ever remem- y= eed of = happiest of ‘imy tn nolan: time our Joves were divulged t6 for our seé but, ultimately Julia to the "aa years have since ourselves, in our"@hilde@m, and still more so each other, we are, pefiaps; as really blest as is the lot of humanity. Bute hevér ean’ feel Spain as we hare felt; and t fitted to prepare us for the holier state ! = ate for falling in love! né “years “afterwards, I led wiy"blushing bride. Many ‘éd- * ‘tis}'and ‘happy’ with our Fouth, and been ej e place a few evenings, powers ; we were scoldéd © , cannot, attimes, - help regretting, that” ‘out feelings must decay j 7 conduct, and the true meaning {| . The beauteous Spring in Summer dies, And Autumn brings us pleasure, And still beneath the wintry skies, » Wakes many a sleepy treasure. + But time, alas! can never bring “Po age such flowers and feelings, As stil) in youth and beauty cling, ' Tn full a and soft revealings. >. as Alas! alas! &¢. a - ge 8 Tur fond, protecting loveof a is like the tall and ‘stat graceful foliage beside sémeé happ its leafy honours afford reviving’ shad spreading branches shelter the. melod sters of the verdant grove, who within ed precincts ‘nurture thei lested by the ‘wanton pranks Oh! Wi the effulgent Egean shield,’ far and wide its bright defensive.rays. id the timid, shrinking form of the best; most tenderly- beloved object of his‘warm héart’s mee. love and veneration. si The hallowed affection of.such a. is the far-off goal to which the adoring, ' t ardent wishes fly, borne upon the pinion of‘woman’s faithful and! Cheereéd by the smile of Such a the envious summer’s parching hi less winter's pinching cold, to her im no pang: they pass unheeded by her well-defended head, light.as the fleecy cloud; unrégarded as zephyrs balmy breath. Supported by his manly form, what sorrow can assail, what anxious care invade her bosom’s calm repose? Serene as the smooth surface of the glassy lake, unruffled by the storm’s rude blasts, her peaceful hours speed on pleasure’s wing. ' How beautiful is such a union! ‘How much moré rare than bédutiful! Oh! "tiga sight that ling love. tless being, t, the ruth- “Angels might delight to fix their lingering gaze upon, lost in mute rapture arid admiriig awe. Mutually giving and receiving strength, the blissfal pair tread life’s thorny pathy on light fantastic to8,; gaily tripping on, unmindfalof an, of care or woe—his powerful arm each danget- ous briar removes; her delicate fingers present his beauteous flower Se Billive We dive fa 8 it: —Neit then, to give séntencé like a*mag

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DRESS . v Y¥( ~~ wa . a ~ > ~~. > So SN WEDD] HUBIR. HANS aq fx = Aas ry { Lky appeared at Compeigne on the morning of her nuptials Published by L.A Godty & (0. Athenian Builitinas Philad* Feb’ 1833 uLS he UE THE

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