The Lady's Book 1834-02: Vol 8 Iss 2

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THE LADY’S BOOK. PaBRVARY, ASBdo om IL VESUVIAN®O. Ow one of the last evenings of a residence in Naples, ¥ visited the grand lion of the soil, Vesuvius. The sun was too fierce for an excursion over the five miles of fiery sand that have scorched the cuticle from so many a fair cheek of my countrywomen. I took a boat, and found the benefit of my prudence in at once escaping the death of St. Laurence, and hearing an infinity of Neapolitan gossip from my Lazzarone. But as we rowed under the little promontory that makes a rude landing-place to Portici, he insisted on my hear- ing the story of a pile of ruins that lay, covered with the green beauty of wild flowers and of rich Italian climbing plants, on a commanding point of the shore. “ There,” said he, with somewhat more of gravity than I expected from his bold and jovial visage— “there was the palace of the Conde Florestan de Al- cantara. When I was first in his service they called him a hermit and I know not what; for never was there a man who more hated the fools and knaves of Naples. But of that there was an end, like all things beside. “Suddenly news came of the old king’s death, and of the arrival of the Duca di Santa Croce, from Sicily, along with the new king, as his chief minister. This intelligence gave my lord new life. He became in- stantly another man. He went to Naples in a few days; and from that time the Alcantara palace was a round of entertainments. I never saw so complete a change in man. I could scarcely remember the fierce brow and bitter lip of the conde in the country, in the gay countenance and brilliant manners of the conde at Naples. Our palace was the constant ren- dezvous of the first personages of the state ; we had all the ambassadors, all the beauties, all the artists, all the distinguished strangers. Why there was no condessa ? was the question of every one; and undoubtedly if bright looks and noble offers could have established the daughters of the first names in the kingdom in the Alcantara palace, it would not have been long without a female head of the household. “ But an extraordinary personage, of whom the Ne- apolitans talk, and with good reason to this day, now came to check our festivity. The conde had, like all other grandees of his fortune, palaces or villas in differ- ent parts of the coast ; and as the weather changed, or the wind shifted, or it suited his humour, or possibly the still more changeable humour of some fair lady of the court, we all hurried from one to the other at a moment's notice. But after a whole summer spent in those ramblings, to-night in Naples, to-morrow night in Calabria, the night after on the shore of Tarento, and the night after, here in Portici, as if he wore wings, intelligence began to spread of the return of Joaehimo d'imola, or I] Fiorentino, or Il Diavolo, the name that belongs by right of highway to all our great men who dislike paying taxes, have a taste for collecting the public money, and scorn to die in their beds. This fellow began to molest our movements prodigiously. A mule laden with plate, a dozen hampers of Monte Pulciano, or a case of guitars, was sure to fall into his hands every time, and in fact we seldom made a jour- ney without paying a royal price for leave to change our prospect. The conde laughed at these losses for D | ad

awhile, and said that as robbery was the original trade of the country, that strangers like him were the natu- ral prey, and that if every rogue in Naples were to be sent to the galleys, we should have the most crowded fleet and the thinnest court of any kingdom under the sun. “ But Fra Joachimo’s proceedings at length began to have their effect. In this very palace of Portici the conde had assembled a party of the nobles. We had three days of feasting and gambling. The conde play- ed high, as was the custom of his class ; but he played fair, which was not the custom, and he lost accordingly. His money was spent magnificently on all occasions, but at play it flew. On the last day of the week there was to be an entertainment surpassing all the rest; a general invitation was sent to every distinguished personage for twenty leagues round. All was as showy as possible. Dancing, singing, and masquerad- ing were the order of the night. But, as some of the peasantry had spread rumours of Jvachimo’s band having been seen crossing the Appennines in the course of the week, I was ordered out with the game- keepers to clear the roads of stragglers. We might as well have saved ourselves the trouble. “ While we were beating every hedge along the high road for banditti, as if they had been hares, and turning every sound into the blowing of horns or the firing of carbines, Fra Joachimo had quietly walked into the palace with a party masked, taken his supper «)‘ in the coolest style, and then marching up to the table where the conde was at high play, pulled out a pistol, and transferred every sequin on the table to his pocket. . The same operation was performed in the same moment at every table in the rooms; the surprise was complete; the little resistance that was attempted was soon fi- nished by the sight of half a hundred fierce-looking fellows, armed to the teeth, and taking possession of the doors, while their masquerade brethren plunder- ed the company perfectly at their ease. Never was there a more thorough purification of the vanities of the flesh. Away went bracelets and necklaces, drawn from the polished arms and swan-like necks of the fair dames of Naples with the grace of a master of the ceremonies. Tiaras of diamonds, and chains of pearl, followed with the same delicacy of touch. Shawls, watches, stars, epaulettes, and purses, bade a like adieu to their owners; and by the time of concluding this new system of douane, never were generation of gran- dees less indebted to ornament. The banditti took their leave before daybreak ; and the first glimpse of dawn saw the whole multitude of the brave and fair flying homewards in all directions, hating pleasure for the first time in their lives, and penitent without the help of a confessor. “ This affair made a prodigious noise in Naples; for if you want to make a noise about any thing, there is no contrivance equal to engaging the women in it; and if you wish to make it eternal, you have only to give them an opportunity of talking of themselves. The conde was indignant at the insult. I had never before seen him in a thorough passion ; and this single specimen was enough to satisfy me, if I were to live

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74 IL VESUVIANO.

with him fifty years. He offered enormous rewards for the seizure of the banditti, but they seemed to have sunk into the earth. He spent days and weeks gallop- ing over the country, wherever there was a rumour of their having appeared; but he might as well have been asleep on his sofa. Fra Joachimo had the claws | of a wolf, but he had the wings of a falcon, and we should as easily have caught either in the fair field, as this swifi-footed amateur of bracelets and necklaces. But the conde had his enemies, like all other great men, and they made the most of the disaster; pro- nounced that the strong box of the palace had been thoroughly emptied by the band; that his bankers looked sullen; that equipages, establishment, and fetes were at an end ; and that the illustrious city of Naples was to be honoured with his presence no more. “These stories came flying about the country so thick, that they even reached us on our travels in chase of Fra Joachimo. ‘The innkeeper, at one of the most miserable places where we put up among the hills, had the insolence to ask “ by whom his bill was to be discharged,” with the addition, that he was be- ginning to think that “ neither master nor man was likely to be troubled with more money than they could manage.” I answered his hint by a lash of my whip, which will make his forehead a sign to all impertinent innkeepers while he lives, and answered his bill by taking that and his words directly to the conde. Ile | | | | | | | | | | | flung me a handful of sequins on the spot, antl bade | | nance of a marble statue was never more fixed in me ‘pay the scoundrel, and keep the remainder for myself; but as I had paid the scoundrel already in the only coin fit for him, I deposited the sequins in my pocket. The event, however, slight as it was, put a stop to our chase. ‘For Naples,’ was the order, and to Naples we instantly drove. Our entry was like an ambassador's, and the lazzaroni swore by all the saints that the earth never produced such a magnifico. The whole mob of fashion were exactly of the same opi- nion; and if popularity were to be measured by eating, drinking, and dancing, the King of the Two Sicilies had not in his dominions a cavaliero so much adored by man, woman, and child. “It had been one of the wonders of the household, that among all the brilliant figures who flourished at our balls, the conde had never selected any donna as the object of his particular attentions. He talked, Jaughed, danced, and made love; but unluckily it was with all alike, and the conjectures of the fair dames were turned upon all kinds of strange modes of ac- counting for this prodigious breach of good manners. At last they were satisfied that the iron-hearted conde was not accessible to any of the darts of Cupid. The <apitano commandante of Principato Citra had lately made his appearance at court with his Spanish bride. She must of course choose a cavalier. The conde gallantly offered his services, but the lady’s choice fell upon the emptiest coxcomb about court; a fellow who bore the distinction without either joy or sorrow, and followed her te church, to the concert, and the ball-

| | room with the most becoming punctuality of his pro- | fession. The conde Florestan laughed at his detea and from that moment he had nothing to do but to} outshine the world. Always splendid, he became now | how the remedy may lie in my hands, I am unhappily wildly sumptuous. He built a palace on the side of Vesuvius, as if in scorn of the chances of eruption, or } as if he took for the emblem of his wild career the ! crater above. the luxury, the boundless prodigality of the Conde ¥ lorestan. wealth flowed in to fill up all his expenses, and many a needy Italian prince envied him the possession of those American mines which lighted the chandeliers of the Vesuvio palace. But play was now his chief delight. He drove gaming to the most glorious ex- cess; no man was welcome who'would not play, and few were unwelcome who would. Italy is a Nothing was heard of but the waste, But his Spanish agents served him well; | — nation of gamesters, and he of course had full rooms. But the conde’s inexhaustible purse was the grand attraction, and it bled freely: he seemed even to take a strange delight in losing: he absolutely flung away his money, and in the delight of the game buried al] his other feelings. If to one man on earth he had a determined personal antipathy, it was to the capitano; yet that man made immense sums by my master’s play, who actually threw the game into his hands: and many a rouleau have I scen flung over to him by the conde with a smile of triumph, as if he were rejoiced to make his fortune. The capitano was a sullen, rough soldier, haughty in his looks, and insolent in his lan- guage; he had served long in the continental wars, and this was enough to give him ground for merciless contempt of the Neapolitans, army, fleet, and nobles. The Conde Florestan shared his sullen looks; but he laughed them orf, and his purse was too useful to the capitano to suffer a quarrel between them. But the bride was a creature of another mould. Among the Spanish beauties who were perpetually crowding to the gay court of Naples, the capitanessa was beyond all comparison the handsomest, and, I might say, the most unhappy. In my attendance at the palace, I had often seen the lazaroni round the gate kneel as if to worship her as she alighted from her carriage. She was in the very spring of life, with a pair of large black eyes that looked like stars, and an expression of face as fine as the picture of a muse; but the counte- melancholy. It was only when the conde passed by or spoke to her that life seemed to return, and then it was in bitterness. Her cheek flushed with indignation, which she took little pains to suppress; and her an- swer to his language of ceremony. was always the language of disdain. The cause perplexed me fora while, but a conversation which I overheard let me into the secret. “On one of our masquerade nights, as I lingered under the windows to catch the fresh air of the gar- dens, two masks came out from the rooms and stood in the balcony. “*T have sought you, Conde de Alcantara,’ said 2 female voice, ‘and sought you to make a remon- strance.’ “* Your excellency does me too much honour,” was my master’s answer. ‘ But how can I haye offended?’ “* No more of this, conde. The life that the capi- tano leads is owing to you: he plays perpetually, and to an enormous amount.’ “ «IT was not aware that he had suffered at play. I think fortune, that smiled on him in the most essential crisis of life, seems not to have refused her smiles even in such trifles as the concerns of the hazard- table.’ “*Conde, I am not to be deceived. for play has been pampered in him. He has been fortunate, if to be lured to ruin be fortune. His dan- gerous propensity might have slept but for his success in your palace; but now he lives only for gaming. The passion t, | Conde, this is your doing.’ “* Your excellency must always be in the right; but ignorant. Permit me to say that, delighted as I should be to attend your excellency’s slightest wish, I can scarcely belicve that the capitano will be satisfied wit? receiving me in the character of a mentor.’ “ There was silence for a while ; and the capitanessa seemed to have been weeping; at length sbe burst forth with a torrent of reproach. “*1 know your design well; you are determined on his ruin. You have plunged him jato a pursuit frora which no man ever returned guiltless. His con- tinual sittings here are observeu. His enemies about the king are not idle. His absence from his govern- ment has been prolonged beyond royal patience. If! sli

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——— rooms. grand 0 take away ied all had a itano ; play, | many conde red to rough is lan- Wars, rciless iobles. but he to the ut the ig the ing to eyond iy, the I had s if to She large sion of ounte- ed in ed by hen it ation, or an- rs the » for a et me gored > gar- od in aid @ pmon- ” was led?” capi- , and y I ential miles zard- ssi0N been dan- ccess ning. ; but ppily 10uld can with nessa burst ined ursuit con- ibout vern- II IL VESUVIANO. "5 eondescend to come under your roof, it is to watch ever him, to force him away if possible; to prevent him at least from some act of despair, when he finds abat he is undone, for undone he will be.’ “The conversation then sank, or was broken off by the passing of a group of masks, and I heard no more. “ Two nights after, as we were returning from the epera, at the corner of one of the narrow streets that lead from the San Carlos by the Santa Croce gardens, some drunken quarrel stopped the carriage. The eonde impatiently sprang out to inquire the cause, and mingled with the crowd. In another moment I heard an outery ; he had been stabbed in the side ; but whe- ther by one of the mob accidentally, or by an assassin, none could tell. All fled instantly, and I carried him bleeding and speechless home. The wound was all but mortal, and the conde languished for some days without hope of life. No discovery of the perpetrator of this act could be made: but it excited universal interest; and among the most frequent inquirers was the capitano; a civility which by those who knew his iron nature was reckoned miraculous; but which the multitude not unfairly attributed to his fear of losing a friend who was so useful to his revenue. “During the height of the conde’s fever, the door of the chamber opened une night while I was sitting by his bedside, and a person whom I took for one of the monks of San Georgio appeared ; saying that he was come to confess the patient. I left the room, of course, but waited within hearing. ‘The confession seemed long; and fearful that it might exhaust my master, I approached. In the darkness of the chamber lighted only by a single taper, | was unseen. The confessor’s words were those of no monk. “*Florestan, I have learned too late the desperate weachery practised upon us both. But this day I heard it from my husband's, my betrayer's lips: in a transport of folly or absurd jealousy or frenzy, he in- sulted me with charges that he well knew had no foundation, but in his own taunting heart. He detail- ed the whole long tissue of artifice which separated ws in Grenada; which had made me, in my madness, pronounce you the most faithless of men; and in my still greater madness believe him capable of truth, fi- delity, or honour. With the bitter triumph, less of a man than of a fiend, he showed me the trivial sus- picions that I had taken for proofs; the giddy surmises that J had shaped into facts ; the whole system of wil- ling deception into which I had plunged blindly, to aid his purposes and destroy every chance of my own escape. But you do not hear me—you close your thoughts against the miserable being who has come to wake a last acknowledgment of her own error, to so- licit your last forgiveness, to relieve her burthened, her breaking heart, and to die.’ A deep groan from the conde was the only answer. I heard loud sobs and wild sighs. In the fear that he was dying, I drew aside the curtain. The stranger was kneeling beside the bed; the cowl was thrown back; but to discover the countenance baffled me; the hands covered it; and, on my making a movement towards my master, the cowl was instantiy drawn down, and the figure started from its knees and was gone. “But whatever my curiosity might have been, it * was soon divided by the visits of others equally mys- terious, and coming in all kinds of disguises, which though enongh to escape the eyes of the household, Were not sufficient to conceal them from mine, sharp- ened as they were by the first interview. Sellers of Various toys, jewels, or embroidery, chiefly in the dress ¢f females, were perpetually soliciting to see the conde; and even in his feeblest state the request was seldom refused. On those occasions I was excluded. ‘Those merchants were evidently the bearers of letters and ether intelligence which deeply agitated the invalid. Bat all my attempts to shut them out were useless. The conde’s command was for their instant admission; and I was left to conjecture. The monk came no more. But I one day found flung on the escrutoir a fragment of a letter, with these words :— “*To see you is impossible, if it were not unne- cessary. I have ascertained on the fullest proof the hirer of your assassin. The attempt will be made again and again, till it succeeds. Beware—but if feeling remain in your heart for one who so deeply wronged you, and so fatally wronged herself, make no eflurt to revenge this crime—make no effort to see me—either would only make me miserable. Farewell, Florestan, and remember.’ “The conde recovered, though he had four physi- cians of the court to attend to him. But to complete the cure he was ordered to reniove to his palace at Portici. The gardens were rich, the prospect was unrivalled, and the air health itself But the pleasure had its peril. Fra Joachimo began to give notice of his movements towards the capital, by the plunder of some house or traveller every night. The troops sta- tioned to guard the roads could do nothing in pursuit of this extraordinary personage, who seemed to be every where at once ; and like the honest Italians they resolved that, as to waste their time in running afier a phantom was folly, the best thing they could do, was to pile their arms and go to sleep. Half a dozen of their patrols were carried off in this condition, arms, accoutrements, and ammunition—before they could find eut that sleeping in the face of the enemy was con- trary to prudence. But nothing could change the sumptuousness of the conde’s style of living. He laughed at Fra Joachimo, renewed his fetes with his returning health, and established his hazard table on a more desperate scale than ever. Gaming had been his pleasure before ; it was now his passion. He sat up whole nights at the table; and losses produced no other effect on him than an extravagance of high spirits. But the effect was not the same upon all. The capitano, in the interval of my master’s illness, had continued to play, and, unluckily for himself, fall- ing into harder hands than the conde’s, was on the edge of ruin. When he returned to our fetes, I never saw aman so changed. The bold broad visage was dwindled down into narrowness and misery. Its soldierly bronze was as sallow as if he had been a sick girl; and the voice, whose very sound had been inso- lence, was broken and sunk into a whisper. Night after night he played; but fortune had deserted him. In his distress he borrowed of the conde; and as fast as he borrowed the loan flew from his fingers. At length a rumour went abroad that a large sum of money belonging to the royal treasury of the Princi- pato, entrusted to the capitano’s care, had been unac- counted for. I saw him on the night when the ru- mour was first whispered in the palazzo; and if the capitano had an enemy, that was the night for him to enjoy his triumph. He played with the madness of a man to whom death or life was in the stake. Rf “On that night I marked the conde’s manner to be singularly disturbed. He was the capitano’s opponent, and as the piles of gold rose before him, he often smiled with an expression of fierce delight. As the stakes doubled, and the game grew at oncé bolder and more in his favour, his exultation perpetiially betrayed itself. At length one critical throw cate. Ali ga- thered round the table. There was not a whisper among the multitude. Every eye was fixed on the board when the die was next moment to terminate this furious game. The box was in my master’s hand. I glanced at him as he raised it to make the throw. His lips quivered, his countenance was burning ; and if ever a prayer was made to the powers of chance or of evil by the eye alone, it was in that wild, upturned eye. The die was thrown. ‘Ruin!’ howled the ca- pitano, as with his meagre hands grasping the die he

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76 IL VESUVIANO. fell backwards on the floor. ‘ Revenge!’ muttered the | eonde, as giving one look of bitter triumph at his fallen enemy, he rushed from the room. « Events of this kind were so common among the higher ranks of the nobles, that the wreck of the un- fortunate gamester made no pause in the entertain- ment; the same ruin was going on at fifty tables through the house at the same time, and when the summons for supper came, no one thought of the ca- pitano. The conde was in his usual temper, neither elevated nor depressed, but doing the honours of the banquet with the ease and high courtesy of his rank. Never was there a more sumptuous entertainment, even among the extravagances of the noblesse ; and seldom assembled a party who less thought of care. In the midst of the festivity a note was handed to the conde, and he followed the messenger to his study. As I passed the door I heard voices in rapid conversa- tion; and a small window looking into the garden gave me an opportunity of gratifying my curiosity to know the occasion of the unseasonable billet. To my utter astonishment, I saw the handsome and haughty wife of the capitano kneeling at the conde’s feet. 1 could catch but a fragment of her words— Florestan, you have had your revenge. You have undone my unhappy husband. He deserved your abhorrence and mine. I acknowledge that he had deceived us both —that all my early hopes of happiness were blasted by his treachery.’ Her voice was lost in sighs. The conde raised her from the ground, and led her towards the casement to restore her by the cool air. She had been incomparably the handsomest and most superbly attired of the crowd of ladies at the palace during the evening ; and when the conde drew the mantle from her head, I was actually dazzled with its sudden blaze of diamonds. But when she turned, and looked on | the single twinkling lamp that lighted the chamber, | as if she saw in it some image of her own unhappy | heart, I never saw so much melancholy and beauty in | the face of a human being. After gazing awhile, she suddenly turned and said, ‘ Conde, you have heard my | misery. I have made my last confession to the ear of | man. I may not live long; I must not live long. There is at this hour an impression on my mind, that speaks, as if it were the voice of a spirit. But I im- plore you, if you ever remembered me in the long and | wretched years that have passed since our parting ; if | you still do not hate me; if you would wish me to think of you in that world to which I am hastening, save my wretched husband.’ The conde had listened till now, with a declining head and eyes fixed on the ground. But at the mention of the capitano, he sprang up. His eyes blazed with sudden fury: he cursed him as his destroyer. ‘Save him!—save the cold- blooded traitor! Save him who has made me for years the most miserable of mankind—who has stretch- ed me on the rack of disappointed hope, of degraded honours, of undone love—save the capitano, save your husband? No! may this right hand perish from my side, if I would not give it—if I would not give for- tune, name, and life, to strike him at my feet, and to ring in his dying ear—that I knew his treacheries ond thus at last repaid them!’ “The lady shrinking from his fiery violence of ges- ture and language, buried her face in her hands and wept aloud. But suddenly recovering, and dashing the tears from her cheeks, she advanced towards him with the step of an empress. ‘Conde!’ pronounced she in a solemn tone, ‘ you have scorned my entreaty —now refuse, if you dare, my command. From this hour we are strangers to each other. It is my first duty to save my husband from ignominy, wretched | and guilty though he be. Your revenge, bitter and deadly revenge, first tempted him to the gaming table. You alone are enswerable for the consequences. You | are high-minded, determined, and sagacious: he is weak and worthless, a tyrant and a fool. He has em- bezzled the money of the state; he has lost it under your roof: this night he has made a desperate effirt for its recovery. The sum that he has lost within this hour was the sum which he had gathered to stop in- quiry to-morrow, until he should be enabled to repay the whole. I have left him in the agonies of one over whom public shame, perhaps public death, is irapend.- ing. Refund that money which you have won of him, and entitle yourself to my prayers while I live.’ She paused : there was no answer. ‘ Then, Florestan,’ she added, in a low sepulchral tone, ‘I know what you have been; I know what you are; and I know what you shall be.’ She remained with her mysterious eyes fixed on him, her lip compressed, and, her cheek pale as death. “The conde had been leaning against the pedestal of a bronze, as motionless as itself, but at those words he started, and gazing haughtily on the fair accuser, pronounced— You know whatl am! So be it. But who has made me so? Who flung me from my rank in life?) Who drove me, despairing and undone, into my degradation? Who has made the face of woman hateful to me for life, and the face of man seen only as an enemy or a victim? Who has driven Florestan out into the wilderness as a beast of prey; to run through a career of abhorred life, and to perish in the midst of public execration? Your husband has done this ; and now, by every power that exists in the mind of man, he shall rue what he has done. Lady, I am a lover no longer: our only tie is that of mutual misery. Years have subdued all that was fond or feeble in my nature. I have extinguished my weak- ness in the bitterness of privation, in flight, in rapine, in the scorn of the idle and contemptible beings that make up the sons and daughters of greatness in this contemptible land ; in the association with the daring, the merciless, and the ruined like myself; and, more than all, in the determination, the solemn, sacred, sworn determination of revenge.’ “The lovely lady struck her hand on her forehead as if she had heard her sentence of death. The blow forced an aigrette from her hair, and the diamonds flew sparkling over the fluor. She uttered a scream of joy. ‘* Why did I not think of this before? she ex- claimed ; ‘he may yet be saved.’ She tore the jewels out of her hair; and with her raven locks disordered, and her hands full of precious ornaments, she rushed tothe door. The conde made an effort to detain her; but she sprang from him with the fleetness of a deer, and darted from the room. My master’s countenance continued in its gloomy mood. He went to a secre- taire, wrote a few lines, with which he despatched me to Naples, late as the hour was, and I saw no more of him for the night. The nobleman to whose house I sent was ¢ither absent or indolent, and I was kept waiting during the day for his reply. “Towards evening I lounged down to enjoy the cool air at the port. A crowd of cavalry, round some carriages, were coming along the Strada di Toledo. I climbed a balustrade to see what they escorted. To my wonder, I saw several of my fellow attendants tied with cords in the carriages, and at the close of the train, doubly guarded, the conde. I was overwhelmed with alarm and sorrow ; and followed the escort. They stopped for a few minutes at the palace of the minister of justice, and then turned,off and entered the castle of St. Elmo. A confused story soon made its way through the city; but all agreed that the capitano, re- turning from the conde’s entertainment, had been stop- ped by banditti, who robbed him of a vast amount im jewels: that the story of the robbery had been at first conceived to be a contrivance to screen him from the effects of a charge of embezzlement, but that evidence tad suddenly come forward which fixed the plunder upon the Conde de Alcantara! All Naples was m

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IL VESUVIANO. 77 astonishment; but other intelligence came in rapidly, which made it more than probable that the splendid Count Florestan was one with Fra Joachimo himself. The clue once given, the discovery was not far off. That he was a Spaniard of noble family was known; but where his estates lay, by what means this extra- ordinary expenditure was supported, or how his occa- sional deficiencies of revenue were so suddenly and profusely supplied, was a national riddle. Among other recollections that now grew upon the public were his strange periodical absences, his declared passion for wandering among the wildest districts of the mountains, and the mysterious interviews which he held during the time when he was unable to stir from his chamber. Even his singular personal activity, his power of enduring fatigue, his seamanship, and his skill in the use of the pistol and sabre, at which I ‘never saw his equal, made a part of the general proof. I resisted the evidence long, and, where I dared, ar- gued fiercely fur the honour of the conde; but how was I to resist all the world ? “The story at length passed away like other wen- ders of a week. The conde lay in chains in St. Elmo; and the capitano was sent back to his government, where he soon after died. T'wo years passed over my head, while I was catching tunnies or carrying pas- sengers between Sorrento and Naples, with now and then, I will confess, a little smuggling to amuse the dullness of life, and cheer the donnas of Ischia and Capri with rum and coffee. But one wild evening, I earried over in my boat a passenger, whose voice I well knew through all her mufilings. It was the ca- pitanessa ; I found that she knew me too. We steered for the back of the mole. The wind blew a gale; the main fell heavy, and there was no fear of meeting any of the custom-house officers. There never was a finer night for contraband. But we had other things to do. The lady asked me whether, if I had the opportunity of helping my master to escape, I had the will. I awore by the bright eyes of my mistress, that to save the noble conde, if he were ten times Fra Joachimo, I would go through fire and water. I need not say how the affair was done ; but before the clock of St. Elmo struck twelve that night the wall was scaled, the conde’s fetters knocked to pieces, and himself and the lady tilting over the waves a mile down the bay. “Yet whatever service I might have done to my bold master, I did but little to the traders and travel- lers within fifty miles of Naples. For from that mo- ment, scarcely a man of them arrived without leaving a pack or a purse on the road. The old stoppages were child’s play to what happened now every day in the week, and every hour from sunset to sunrise. It was less like the desire of plunder than of revenge. The cavalry were sent out to hunt down the banditti, and were always either baffled, or fairly met and tho- roughly beaten. But the chief scene was the neigh- bourhood of the mountain, and not a philosopher dared look for a pumice-stone, nor a pilgrim say an ave be- yond Portici. Il Vesuviano was the name of this new terror of the land. ‘The royal courtiers were no losger able to carry cheegecakes and compliments for the use of the princesses, and the ministerial profits by stock- Jobbing were cruelly suspended. Il Vesuviano went on flourishing more and more. The veterans of the service walked off to him by whole companies, and their officers were, perhaps, only sorry that they could hot follow their example. The pomp of I] Vesuviano, the pay, the feasting, and the fine clothes of his troop, were the universal talk; and if it had been the time of sending kings about their business, I] Vesuviano might have figured as the founder of a dynasty. “ But the affair was now become serious, and little less than an army was ordered on the pursuit of this king of the banditti. I was lying by the mole in the €vening, as they marched along the Chiaja, and I fol- lowed them in my boat along the edge of 1 2 bay. It was known that Il Vesuviano had been ..2n on the mountain within the last twenty-four hours. The troops took possession of the passes before night-fall, and the attack was to be made on all quarters at once, by signal from the city. “T lay on my oars watching the course of affairs, and half inclined to spring on shore, and take a part with my old master. But how could I be sure that he was on the mountain, or that I could find him if he were. As I watched eagerly for every sight and sound, I saw the lights hoisted on the battlements of St. Elmo, and immediately afier came the rattle of musketry. But a deeper rattle than ever was made by musketry soon echoed over the shore. I looked up and saw a heavy clond slowly creeping up the crater and spreading over the sky. ‘The firing went on as the troops advanced up the road, and they seemed to be desperately resisted. But the lightnings over their heads began to glisten, and the flashes of the engage- ment were like the light of glow-worms to it. The cloud now rolled up with great swiftness, and spread over the sky, in a thousand branches, like an immense palm tree. As the darkness increased, every branch became a column of fire. The roar from the crater was now tremendous, and with every explosion up burst volleys of rocks, red as metal from the forge. Vesuvius was in full eruption! I pushed into the centre of the bay to escape the falling rocks, and there, Santa Vergine! the sight was grand and terrible beyond all that I can tell. From Posilippo to Portici, round the whole semicircle of the city, all was as bright as if it was in a furnace. The sulphur-blue of the fame touched every thing with a wild and ghastly look. But, as is common in the eruptions of the volcano, with the more furious explosion, its colour changed, and for some time it threw a golden hue over the whole city. The casile, the _ the chiaja, looked as if they had been suddenly sheeted with gold. The bay was liquid gold: the mountain, the sky, all were covered with this glorious blaze. I could see the crowds on the roofs and battlements waving their caps, and hear them shouting with delight and wonder at the magnificent spectacle. But another and more awful explosion came, and Vesuvius shot up a pillar of flame the whole width of the crater, and which was said to be three times the height of the mountain. The mighty column, ten thousand feet high, was of the deepest colour of blood, and it covered the whole scene with fierce crimson. All Naples seemed to be deluged with a sea of blood. I saw the crowd, smitten with horror at the conflagration, which they thought the beginning of the conflagration of the world, rush- ing away along the shore, and dropping from the roofs and walls to hide themselves from the coming of the hour of judgment. The lava new came burning and bursting down to the sea-shore, and some of the vil- lages began to blaze. I pushed towards Portici to render what service I could. As I was rowing round a point of rock, a man sprang into the boat. “ Have you seen the captain?’ were his first words. “ «What captain ?” “«T] Vesuviano. I left him a few minutes ago, making his way down the ravine to the beach.’ “« Has he beaten the soldiers ” “« How can you ask such absurd questions? Did they ever stand him? We gave them one volley, and they did not like it well enough to make them wait for another. But the lava is another sort of enemy ; and Il Vesuviano himself may not be able to make battle against that. Row for the thicket on the right of the point.’ 2 “*T asked no further; but shot the boat among the rocks and climbed up the precipice. There, indeed, I saw a tremendous spectacle. The lava in taking its way to the shore had been divided into several streams

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NATURE, &c. by the ridges of rock that lined the beach. On one of those ndges I observed two figures standing—one of them. leaning on the other and apparently hurt. We bounded over the crevices and soon reached them. Their worn-down countenances and wasted forms gave | me no recolleetion of them; but the conde’s voice soon | made him known. He thanked me fur my offer of | service ; but said that he believed he had received his | death-wound in the skirmish, and at all events had no | power to move further. It was the capitanessa who | vas by his side! He implored her to leave him; but she refused, and bursting into bitter cries, charged herself with having betrayed him to his ruin—with having in a moment of mad wrath and rash zeal to worthless husband, revealed her knowledge She de- save a that Fra Joachimo and the conde were one. clared that her only hope now was to die with him. I proposed to my comrade that we shouid carry the | conde to the boat; but we had not gone a dozen steps, when the volcane exploded again. ‘The roar deafened us. A shower of fiery stones fell; and in my blindness and suffocation I was flung, | knew not where. Whem I recovered, dawn was breaking over Lorrento; and I found that I had been thrown within a few feet of the shore. My first effurt was to look for my master and the capitanessa. I found them both, but they were lifeless ; they had fallen clasped in each other’s arms, and had probably died in the fiery blast, and without a struggle. Their features were, of course, still pale ; and wasted away, from the anxieties and hardships of their late life; but they had recovered their calmness and neble beauty. With the help of a monk from a neighbouring convent, | had the rites of the church pertormed over them; and with more tears than I ever wish to shed again, | buried the lovely and the bold in one consecraied grave.” NATURE. I ove to set m ‘That overhangs the billowy decp, And hear the waters roar; I love to see the big waves fly, And swell their bosoms to the sky, Then burst upon the shore. — >on some steep I love, when seated on its brow, To look o’er all the world below, And eye the distant vale ; From thence to see the waving corn With yellow hue the hills adorn, And bend before the gale. I love far downward to behold The shepherd with his bleating fold, And hear the tinkling sound Of little bell—and mellow flute Wafted on Zephyrs soft, now mute, Then swell on echoes round. I love to range the valleys too, And towering hills from thence to view, Which rear their heads on high; When nanght beside around is seen, But one extended space between, And overhead, the sky. I love to see, at close of day, Spread o’er the hills the sun's broad ray, While rolling down the west; When every cloud in rich attire, And half the sky that seems on fire, In purple robes is dress‘d. I love, when evening veils the day, And Luna shines with silver ray, To cast a glance around, And see ten thousand worlds of light Shine, ever new, and ever |! O'er the vast vault profound. wight, I love to let wild faney stray And walk the spangled milky-way, Up to the shining height, | : Where thousand thousand burning rays Mingle in one eternal blaze, And charm the ravish'd sight. I love from thence to take my flight Far downward on the beams of light, And reach my native plain, Just as the flaming orb of day Drives night, and mists, and shades-away, And cheers the world agaia. THE AWAKENING OF THE WIND. Hvurnrau! the wind. the mighty wind, Like lion from his lair up sprung, Hath left his Arctic home behind, And off his slumbers flung ; While over lake and peaceful sea, With track of crested foam, sweeps he. Hurrah! the wind, the mighty wind, Hath o’er the deep his chariot driv’n, Whose waters, that in peace reclin’d, Uplash the roof of heaven ; Then on the quaking cliff-bound.shore They fuaming dash with deafening roar. The ship loom'd on the waveless sea, Her form was imaged in its breast, And beauteous of proportion she, As ever billow prest; And graceful there as stately palm, She tower'd amid the sultry calm. Her flag hung moveless by the mast, Her sails droop’d breezeless and unbemt, And oft the seaman’s glance was cast Along the firmament, To note if there he might desery The wakening gale approaching nigh. On came the wind, the reckless wind, Fast sweeping on his furious way, His tempest rushing pinions brined In wrathful ocean’s spray ; On came the wind, and, as he past, The shriek of death was in the blast! The tall ship by the shrouds he took, To shivering shreds her canvass rent, Then like a reed her mast he sheok, And by the board it went; While yawn'd the deep with hideous dia, As if prepared to gulp her in. ¢ With fruitless effort on she reels, The giant wind is in her wake, The meuntain billow’s coil she feels Around her like a snake; Lock’d in that unrelenting grasp, She struggling sinks with stifled gasp. Hurrah! hurrah! the victor wind Hath swept the ocean rover down, And lefi a shipless sea behind, With many a corse bestrewn ; And swift, unfetter’d, strong, and free, Like eagle on his path, speeds he!

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THE LAST INDIAN. Original. THE LAST INDIAN. “ A noble race! but they are gone, With their old forests broad and deep, And we have built our homes upon Ficlds where their generations sleep. Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, Uprn their hills our harvest waves, Gur lovers woo beneath their moon, Ah! let us spare at least their craves !"— Ir was nearly the close of a imild, late in autumn day, in the year 1734, that Edward Winslow found himself in the midst of the beautiful and picturesque region bordering on the Willomantic river, some twenty or thirty miles from where Hartford now re- flects her turrets and spires from the bosom of the pure Connecticut. Edward Winslow was a pilgrim; young he was—but his young heart beat high with the noble principles of civil and religious free- dom which had induced thousands to forsake their re- vered and loved father land, and seek a refuge from oppression, on the rock-bound shores of New England. One. year before, a settlement had been commenced at the mouth ef Farmington river, on the bank of the Connecticut, and surrounded as they were by savages, every settler was obliged to be continually on the alert, and with a firm reliance on the God of their fathers for protection, these frontier posts, those forlorn hopes of civilization, of which Winslow was one, neglected no possible means which circumstances admitted, of se- curing their safety. Suill the history of such settle- menis proved that the wily savages were frequently an overmatch for the whites, and not unfreqnently succeeded in lulling them into a security the mere fa- tal, because evil had ceased to be suspecied. The indians had seen during the summer, with anxiety and alarm, the gradual influx of the pale men; they had heard the axe of the woodman as it felled the majestic forest, so sacred in the eyes of a red man. They had seen the red deer scared from their haunts on the banks of ihe Connecticut and its tributaries—they daily saw the blue smoke curling up from the rich plains and beau- tiful valleys they had so long been accustomed to con- sider their own. “The white men are like the pigeons in the woods,” they said, as they saw their continual encroachments ; “the last of the flock that rises, flies beyond all that preceded him.’ And in secret council they had re- slyed, when the river was frozen over, and the snows had rendered all communication with other parts of the country impossible, to assert the rights given them by the Great Spirit, and with a single, but deci- sive blow, to free their country from their hated intru- ders. But, though the passions of the savage, deep, dark and treacherous, were at work within, without, all was fair and peaceable as the cloudless sky of summer. Their friendly relations were not in the least interrupted ; it even seemed at times, their friend- ship bordered on officiousness; and the probability is, that the death-blow would have fallen while the hand that inflicted it, would have remained unknown and unseen, had not one of the native warriors while on a visit at Boston, and under the combined influence of strong water, and the grossest personal provoeation, been fur a moment thrown off his guard, and given fome hints, vague indeed, but sufficiently alarming, of what was in contemplation among the interior tribes. He was instantly taken into custedy ; but nota word of information further could be obtained from him. To intimations of torture or death, he wasas impassive as a statue; and a council of the principal men of the colony was held to consult upon the best course to be pursued in the emergency. As is usually the case at such times, there was quite a diversity of opinion in the body as to the measures proper to pursue. Some of the more ardent were in favour of immediately de- spatching a few companies of troops directly to the Connecticut; but this was overruled on the ground that it would weaken their own province too much. Some thought a notice of ihe impending danger would be suflicient—as if once put on their guard, the river settlements would be strong enough to repel any at- tack, and maintain themselves through the winter; but then how was this intelligence to be sent? It was tov late in the season for a vessel to attempt the dan- gerous navigation of Cape Cod, and the Vineyard, and who would hazard a journey through the wilderness on foot? The probability is, that nothing would have been agreed upon, had not the youngest of the mem- bers of ihe council, Edward Winslow, volunteered to perform the dangerous enterprise of passing to the Connecticut himself, unaided and alone. There was a general exclamation of surprise at the offer, and a thousand objections were started; but Winslow had weighed his subject well. lis resolution was taken, and he was not to be diverted, and having received his few simple instructions, the next morning he was on his way. As faithful historians, however, we must here state, that many of the pilgrims ventured to hint that the dimpled cheeks and dark eyes of Miss Charity Hooker, with whom he had become acquainted at Boston, but who with her parents had now removed to the Connecticut, furnished stronger arguments for un- dertaking the journey, than could have sprung from a simple desire to save that handful of colonists from the inroads of the savages. ‘The indian who had given the alarm, was detained under pretence of further ex- amination, until the impossibility of his reaching his native tribes before the arrival of Edward was made certain, when he was dismissed with such presents as were best calculated to eflace the unfavorable impres- sion which his confinement must have made. At that time a journey from Boston to the Connecticut, was deemed a more important undertaking than would be one now from the former place to the Rocky Moun- tains. The departure of a distinguished individual was mest frequently marked by a public fast, and the return was signalized by a thanksgiving. ‘The honest pilgrims had never dreamed of Mac Adamized roads, and stages to ran against time, and steam coaches to annihilate space; and lad such visions of the future been presented, it would only have confirmed them in their belief of the power of witcheraft or old Nick, and a double portion of mortification and penance would have been enjoined as the certain result. It was on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Boston, that we have introduced young Winslow to the reader. He was weary with climbing rocks and threading the intricate forests, and as he-knew by: the long ranges of blue hills which marked the: valley, of

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80 THE LAST INDIAN. the Connecticut, that his next day’s journey must be an easy one, he concluded to descend from the eminence where he then was, into the valley, and defer the as- cent of the western hills untii the coming day. The shades of evening overtook him as he reached the margin of a small lake or pond hidden amidst wood- crowned hills, and precipitous rocks, and every thing near was so still and beautiful, that he resolved to pass the night on that spot. For this purpose he se- lected a nook in the overhanging rock, covered with a thick growth of evergreens and matted ivy. Before him lay the deep calm water into which he could have tossed a pebble, and which already reflected from its clear surface some of the earliest gems that sparkle on, and grace the diadem of night. On one side, a little lower, and but a few feet distant, was a large platform of smooth naked rock, part of which pro- jected over the water, and on which Edward noticed what he thought the blackened traces made by former fires. Beyond rose the forest-covered hills, terrace after terrace, exhibiting all that beautiful variety of" colours which marks the autumnal season, and as the twilight deepened, their massive, rounded, but indis- tinct piles, appeared to be boldly sketched on the dark blue sky. The young traveller’s repast was soon over, his arms carefully examined and put in order; for though he had not met with a single indian in his route, he well knew they might be hovering near with deadly intent, and then commending himself to his Maker, he calmly stretched himself on the moss- covered earth to his rest. Winslow had not slept long before he was awak- ened by voices, the deep toned guttural sounds of which convinced him at once that they proceeded from savages. The moon had not risen, but there was a red glare on the sky and brilliant flashes of light on the dark wood, that showed him a large fire had been kindled near. Carefully drawing himself up, he crept to the edge of the rock, and pushing away some branches of ivy, he was somewhat startled at beholding the platform of rock below him occupied by two sa- vages, whose bodies were decorated with all the ex- travagant paintings and decorations, and symbols. which were accustomed to designate the bravest of their warriors. A large fire had been kindled on the centre of the rock, and piles of dry fuel had been pre- pared—quantities of which were occasionally heaped on the flames. The two indians were employed in walking slowly around the fire from west to east, fre- quently stopping and gazing on the east, as if anxiously watching the rising of the moon. There was some- thing in the dark and desperate countenances of the warriors, as the flashes of light shot up and revealed their features—in their significant attitudes, and their impatient gestures, that caused young Winslow to hold his musket with a firmer grasp, and half unsheath a tomahawk which he knew how to wield with the practised dexterity of the red men before him. At times he imagined that their dark piercing eves were fixed on the cliff where he was lying, and acquainted as he was with the habitual cunning and cruelty of the indians, he felt that his life was suspended on a hair. Frequently he endeavored with his eyes to penetrate the gloom of the surrounding woods, in or- der to discover if possible, whether the two were alone, or supported by others; but the clustering groupes of savages which the flickering light seemed at one moment to reveal in the forest recesses, vanished with the flame whose brilliance had created them. At last the moon showed its silver horns over the eas- tern hills, and its appearance was welcomed by a shout of triumph, which reverberated in successive echoes from lake, glen, and wooded hill. One of the savages was evidently a person of high distinction; the bear-skin which was carelessly thrown over his shoulders, but partially concealed his fine and strongly marked figure, which might have served for a model of some of the finest efforts of Grecian sculpture. His weapons were in the richest style of indian decoration, and on the rifle which lay near, Edward saw inlaid in | silver, the lily and the cross of France. There was | a conscious dignity in every movement, and a lofty | firmness in every step, and a sudden flash in his dark |} eye, Which showed that he could at once command | and execute. From the first, Edward fancied he ex- | hibited features to which he was not a stranger; but | it was not until he stood attentively watching the | rising moon, that Winslow recognized the proud form of Miantonimoh, the daring chief of the Narragansetts, and the most inveterate and untiring enemy of the whites. Winslow had seen him once, while on a visit at Boston during a short cessation of the hostili- ties in which he was generally engaged, and the im- pression made was not to be mistaken. The other in- dividual was old. His body was wholly uncovered, and his long silver gray hairs fell over his tawny shoulders like the streaming foam of a water-fall over the dark rock beneath. In him, Edward at once saw the dark features, keen sunken eye, and slightly bowed form of the celebrated Poponnoquet, the great powow, prophet, or magician of the New England tribes. He Was unarmed, and as his tall motionless figure stood on the verge of the rock that hung over the lake ; his arm pointed towards the ascending orb; his dark sha- dow thrown by the flames far over the sleeping wa- ters, and his eye lighted up with an expression most unearthly; his figure seemed to dilate, his attitude be- came more impressive, and in the powerful workings of his features, the young traveiler fancied he be- held the embodied passions of beings he trembled to name. Winslow was so well acquainted with most of the indian dialects in the country, that he found no difhi- culty when the silence was at last broken, in under- standing that the object of the indians, was sacrifice, and that the clear rising of the moon was deemed a propitious signal. The flames were now allowed gra- dually to subside; no more fuel was heaped on the coals, but the glowing masses stil} gave a light which distinctly revealed all that was passing. A milk white dog was brought forward by the chief,‘and his head severed from his body by a single blew of a hatchet. A quantity of the blood was then caught in a gourd, and the head and entrails, with various ceremonies and incantations were cast upon the red coals. These were followed at intervals by different articles, the nature of which, Edward was unable to conjecture. At last the prophet produced from some hidden receptacle, a kind of bag, and drew from it the head and hand of a human being, and as he laid them down before the horror struck Winslow, he saw by the features, and the long beautiful hair still dabbled in blood, and the small de- licate hand, that they must have belonged to some vic- tim of savage barbarity, and he remembered with a shudder, that the day before he left Boston, intelli- gence had been received that the young and lovely daughier of Prentiss, of Dedham, had mysteriously dis- appeared, and it was feared she had fallen into the hands. of some vindictive and lurking savages. Win- slow knew that the indians sometimes thus mutilated those they had slain, and he knew too that the belief was prevalent among them, that the head and hand of the victim thus offered to the Great Spirit, transferred the wisdom and ‘strength of the people to whom the victim belonged, to the conquerors. These were cast upon the pile, and blood from the gourd was at inter- vals sprinkled over the whole. It was more than two hours before the several articles offered in sacrifice were consumed. By this time the fire had mostly be- come extinct, and the little that remained, was put out by repeated applications of water. When the ashes were dry, they were carefully gathered by the powow, = —— 2 s&s = — pn aoa Lana

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THE LAST INDIAN. 81 and placed in the gourd from which the blood had been sprinkled upon the sdcrifice, the gourd was then handed tothe chieftain, while the prophet advanced alone to the margin of the rock. Although the fire was extinguished, the moon now shone brightly, and the powow at last beckoned the chieftain to approach. The former took the gourd from the latter as he came up, and waving it thrice around him, said, “The Great Spirit is pleased—the sacrifice is accepted ; the mist which hides the spirit land, is swept away—speak your wishes, and they shall be gratified. Chieftain, what wouldest thou know of the future?” The chief did not raise his eyes as he answered, “ I would know whether the pale faces are destined by the Great Spirit, to possess the shores and the lands of the red men.” The prophet turned slowly to the lake, took a hand- ful of the ashes from the gourd, and pronouncing a few words over it, dashed it far over the water. A gentle south wind drifted it onwards with the red leaves that were slowly eddying down, and both were soon lost in the wave below. ‘To Winslow's great surprise, not to say terror, the act was followed by a hollow rumbling sound, the rock on which he stood, jarred hard, the surface of the calm pool below began to heave like a boiling caldron, anda thick mist soon shut out all view of the water. This lasted but a moment, and then the masses of fog rose and moved gently off upon the night breeze. “Chiefiain now look!” exclaimed the sorcerer, pointing over the lake; and Edward's eyes instantly took the same direction. ‘To his astonishment,a change had come over the scene like that which takes place in a moving panorama, or a dream. ‘The ocean in mi- niature was before him—its rocky margin indented with bays, and tiny rivers gently flowing onward to the sea. He saw ata glance, the shore was that of New England, and the villages and homes of the pil- grim fathers were before him, fresh, distinct, and per- fect, as he had left them scarce a week before. Ships were seen coming across the dim blue expanse of ocean, and pouring their multitudes upon the strand. Smoke was seen curling up in the thick woods, and the sun broke in upon lands which the forests of crea- tion till that hour had covered ; and while he gazed, cities sprung up, and tall spires rose to point the christian worshipper the way to heaven. “Enough, enough! I have seen too much of this,” said the warrior, groaning aloud; and while he was speaking, quick as thought, the whole spectacle had vanished. The still lake lay glittering in the pure sil- ver light, the slow falling leaves gently dimpled the mirror’d surface, and Edward had much ado to con- vince himself that what he had seen, was not the fan- tastic conjurations of an excited imagination. But he could not long doubt its reality; for there stood the savages on the verge of the rock near him, and there too was shining down the clear moon from her place in the pure sky. “ Wouldest thou know more my son?” asked the old man after a pause, and still holding in his hand the vessel of power. “Yes,” was the reply in a voice which seemed to have gathered firmness, as if to meet any disclosure which the unfolding of the roll of destiny could make, “though the pale faces come numerous as the leaves that are falling in the woods, ‘ia shall be met. I would know whether the blow $trike, will be suc- cessful. Shall the white men fall like the arrow stricken deer ?—shall I tear their flesh, afd drink their blood?”"—and as he spoke, he fiercely grasped, and half unsheathed the bright knife which usually hung suspended from his belt. The hoary magician put his hand into the gourd, and with the same low muttered incantations, cast a act was followed by the same mysterious results. When the mist cleared away, Edward saw a wide spread wooded country before him, with rivers meandering through it, and the sea washing its borders. He re- garded the region attentively, but its features he could not at first recognize. In the midst of this tract, and surrounded by dark swamps and gloomy morasses, on a kind of island rose an indian fortress. The palisadoed walls were plainly discernable, and the smoke of a hundred wigwams curled slowly from within up inte the blue sky. Crowds of warriors were visible, all painted for war; some returning from the plunder of white settlements, displaying as trophies, numbers of scalps strung on the long silken hair of some of the unfortunate victims who had fallen into their power ; others dragging along some miserable captive, destined to grace with his accumulated sufferings, a savage auto de fe. A ship was seen in the distance entering a beautiful bay, a number of miles distant from the place of strength, and a small band of armed men were landed from her. ‘They immediately marched towards the fort, which they were evidently intending to attack. They were few in number compared with their foe ; but their firm step and undaunted bearing, showed they were men resolved to “do or die.” A night was spent in the forest, and as the morning came on, with the wariness of the panther, they crept towards the battlements they were intending to assail. All within was silent as grim death; the inmates had no suspicion of the thunderbolt that was ready to fall upon them. Winslow held his breath from excitement, and the chieftain who sivod beside the prophet, exhibited the most ungovernable emotion. His dark flashing eyes seemed starting from their sockets; his hand grasped and half drew his tomahawk from the belt; his right foot was thrown forward as if waiting to make a death-spring on the assailants; his broad breast swelled and heaved like the resistless waves of the sea; and his iron sinews appeared drawn and braced to their utmost tension. The white men were already within a few feet of the palisadoes, and the fatal word of assault was about to be spoken, when the barking of a dog gave the alarm, and a thousand warriors at once sprung to their feet. Murderous vol- lies were poured in upon them—the palisades were instantly forced; but the daring assailants were now compelled to fight hand to hand with fearfully superior jnumbers. The chief was frightfully agitated as he beheld the struggle—his tomahawk was brandished in horrid circles around his head ; his teeth were clenched ; his eyes flashed, and his whole soul seemed suspended on the issue of the conflict, which for some minutes was doubtful. All at once red volumes of flames burst forth from the fort; fire had been communicated to the combustible materials of which the wigwams were built, to drive the savages frag) their lurking places ; the little band of assailants were withdrawn to the outside of the line of defences, and Winslow saw the fate of the day was decided. Every indian that showed himself without the barricades, was instantly shot; the resistless flames were consuming thuse within, and disheartened and subdued, they fell without at- tempting toescape. The chief drew his hand in agony over his brow; “I can see no more—the destiny of my nation is accomplished—the Great Spirit wills that the red man’s race must be destroyed ; but if I cannot save them, I can at least perish with them.” And again the panoramic scene disappeared like the thin mists of the morning before the rising sun. Both parties remained fora few moments in silence ; the chief seemed overwhelmed at the undoubted cer- tainty of the utter desolation of his people; and the sorcerer was evidently shocked at the extent of the evil his incantations had showed forth. At last he slowly turned to the warrior, and said, “ Seekest thou handful of the potent dust upon the waters, and the D2 to read the mind of the Great Spirit further?”

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82 THE LAST INDIAN. “I do;’ and there waa something. of sternness in the reply of the chief—*nothing worse:can be in store for me, or my race; and [ would know whether the pale men are always to be free from evil; always under the protection of him who has evidently de- serted his red children. If there is one course more bitter than another in store fur them, let me see and enjoy it now.” The neeromancer again sprinkled the potent dust over the still waters, and again the lake heaved, and foamcd like some vast vessel of boiling water. The mists graduaily passed away, and Edward saw himself standing near the marginel the ocean. A broad sheet of water was spread out before him; ships were sail- ing upon the cali surface, and the warehouses which sprung up amidst the clustering dwellings on the shore, gave tokens of the beginning of business and wealth. All the inhabitants were active and happy. The house of God which sent its spire toward the heavens, was thronged with devout and sincere worshippers, and the young aud the loveiy glided about in the miniature picture, like the glad microscopic beings that inhabit the pistilsof the ruse. , While Winslow vazed, a change like a deepening shadow, came suddenly over the whole scene. ‘The streets were nearly deserted ; the house of God almost forsaken; men glided silently through the placy, starting with terror, and looking with suspicion upon all they met; friend avoided friend as they would a deadly enemy ; and the ele- ments of society, and ail confidence of man in man seemed to,have been broken up from the foundations, and totally desiroyed. Miserable men and women accused of the most dreadful crimes, were driven in crowds to the prisons, and from thence before the stern and unrelenting administrators of justice—the whole population appeared to have become accusers and iniormers; the accusations of the weakest and most ignerant child, against men whose whole lives had been. without stain or reproach, were listened tw and acted upon without delay er suspicion. The demon of superstition increased its demands for blood, im proportion to the frequeney of the victims offered at its shrine. None could promise themselves exemption from prescription, or consider themselves safe from @ vielent and, shameful death. ‘The old and the young ; the stern soldier, and the beautiful maiden, were alike included in the denunciations. the village was a gallows which groaned with the multitudes sent there to expiate their crimes; aud in another part was tie place of torture, where those ac- eused of crime, and retusing to conéess their guili, were subjected to. the must horrible sufferings. While Win- slow beheld, a crowd came pouring out of the temple of jusuee. Amid ihe throng,and tighily bound, walked aman in the prime of life; his step was firm—his | look that of conscious innocenee. He approached the place of torture, aud unbidden took the place as- signed for the victim; he was laid upen his back, planks were placed on his breast, and these were sub- mitted to the slow action of a powerful screw. The agony was iniolerable: the first few turns of the en- gine caused the blood to hastily flush every feature, and crimson his high brow; but this was only for a moment, and then it receded, leaving him as pale as ashes. Persisting in his innocence, the torture pro- ceeded unul the blood gushed from his mouth, his eves, and ears; his eyes started from their sockets; his face was swollen and livid, and when in the last agony, and under excruciating suffering, his bloody tongue proiruded from his lips, some of the wretches around iim, who had so long been engaged in spiritual conflicts with the powers of darkness, that they had eaught no small portion of the spirit of their antago- nists, with a cane rudely thrust the parched and swollen organ back into the mouth. L-dward trembled like an aspen leaf at the: shocking: | could not resist. spectacles before him; it appeared as if the wing: of the destroying angel had been spread over the land of the pilgrims ; as if“ mene: tekel” had been inscribed, on their prosperity, and “finis’” written: on the page of their existence ; and while his heart sunk within him, he saw that a glow of exultation had come like a fiery gleam over the warrior’s. brow, and that his dark eyes shone with a light almost unearthly,.as he beheld the miserable fate of the hated white men. “No more of this,” sald the chieftain, at length as the struggles of the unfurtunate victim ceased im death—*the pale faces are unworthy of such a man; he should have been a red warrior, and chased the white men 2s the eagle pounces upon the wounded deer, and these panthers and wolves that are devouring The Great Spin each other, taunt us with cruelty! will judge between us.” The voice of the sachem seemed to dissolve the magic spell, but not until the young traveller saw in the place before him the superb bay of Salem, and had read on the breast of an individual suspended from the gallows, “Executed for the heaven-daring, God- provoking, and soul-destroying sin of witchcraft.” Both Miantonimoh and the magician, now stood for some little time in silence, but the glow of exultation gradually faded from the brow of the warrior, and | turning to the man of destiny, he said, “There is yet | time before the moon passes the meridian, to once mare lift the curtain of futurity; I would know the fate of the red man, when thousands of moons shall have pas- sed away—when the leaves of hundreds of summers shall have fallen on my grave. Will they still chase the red deer on the lands given them by the Great | Spirit, or will they melt away like snow flakes on a rock? Will they lose their freedom of action, and like cowardly dogs, crouch and. hide before these pale faces who have gained a fvoting on our shores ?” “ Your wishes can be obeyed,” replied the powow; “but let the wise one say there are sights which none ever desire to behold but one.” “ Miantonimoh fears not,” was the reply of the chie& and the magician again took his station on the oveo- | hanging margin of the precipice. Instead. of a part of | the contents, he now emptied the gourd at-once upem | the motionless waters, saying as he cast the: empty ves | sel from.him, “ Go—thou wilt never more be wanted!” | In one part. of | There was the same trembling of the earth, the same | hissing and commotion. of the lake, the seme dark and massive volumes of vapour rising upwands, and. whem | these passed: away, a horizon of ferule and richly eut | tivated country, of an extent which astonished Winr | slow, was spread out like a map befvre him. Long ' and large rivers rose trom magnificent lakes, and flowed } to. the sea, Cities and villages, and spires were springing up in every direction, and multitudes, of | men covered the earth. The forests had disappeared; the deer and the buffalo had forsaken the plains, ané vanished irom the hills; and the few scattered rem- nants of the noble race of red men were cooped up bg white settlements, poor, dejected, spiritless and ru- ined. Far away in one section of the landscape, 2 few were collected together, who seemed in some small degree to have escaped the coftaminating influ- ence of the whites, and avoided the common degrada tion. Surrounded and pressed upon by the whites, they remained firm—exposed to the arts, the vices, and the bribery of those who hemmed them in, they remained comparafiely pure and immoveable. Buta storm was evidently gathering against them which they Their land of harvests and of gold, was coveted by the avaricious men who had already spoiled them oi far the greater part of their fair por sessions, and who now pointing towards the setting sum tauntingly, told them that there they in future could find a home, and a grave. Edward too leaked ig that direction, and saw a mighty river, which pol- ling nor un ora the ma €0l bef

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f tv 88,7 cen FT hUrhlUw hm atlas | THE POLE’S ADIEU, &c. ————a ling from the frozen lakes and boundless snows of the north, measured with its tortuous length, half a con- tinent, and was lost in a sea, bordered with groves of orange, and the richest fruit of Persia, It was in vain the red men called upon the honoured and venerable man who governed the country ; their great father eould not save them; in vain they appealed to the Jaws of the land—it was decided the laws could not reach them; and oppressed and crushed, slowly and sadly they left the loved land of their fathers, put out the “fires of their hearths, and crossed the majestic river. Years rolled away; conflicting interests, and conflicting tribes made sad havoc with the unfortu- nate exiles—already in their new residence were they again jostled, and crowded by the whites; already had the diseases and the vices thus contracted, frightfully reduced the numbers of the red men, and already the grasping and merciless oppressor, ready to pounce upon the valuable possessions which had been solemnly suaranteed them forever, was pointing to the long ran- ges of mountains which rose between them and the calm blue western sea, and urging the disheartened and broken spirited race to again remove. Winslow shrank with abhorrence from the idea that those who called themselves civilized and christian men, could be guilty of such gross injustice, and he mentally exclaimed, as he passed his hands over his eves, as if to forget the scene before him, “ are the de- scendants of those who suffered and fled from persecu- tion, become dogs, that they should be guilty of such cruel wrong?” While these painful thoughis were passing his mind, for a moment he ceased to gaze on the picture, and when he again lifted his eyes, the whole scene had changed; white villages, populous and thronged, occupied the plains which but a little before, were covered with the habitations of the red men. In-vain Winslow sought to discover the retreat of the hunted and proscribed natives—they had va- nished like the herds of buflalo they had once fed upon. At last, from what appeared to be a temple of justice, he saw one poor, lone, solitary indian, driven forth like a dog by some of the pampered menials of power. He ofiered no resistance—he shed not a tear; but when they reached the street, he turned, and: bitter were the words to which his oppressors were compelled to listen. “Tam the last of the red men,” he said, and as he spoke, his furm scemed to dilate, and he assumed. the erect port and proud dignity of the native warrior; “the last leaf that lingers in the autumn woods, is not more willing to fall and join its crushed and scattered comrades, than I ‘to fly“to the bosom of the Great Spirit. Triumph now if you can, but think not to evade or escape the vengeance of him to whom you proudly appeal as your deity. He is just—and the long arrears of injustice and blood, of foui oppression, and unprevoked wrong, are all written out, are ready to be produced, and will assuredly be required at your hands. I die—but the red man’s blood cries against you from the ground ; its voice will be heard, and. it will be avenged. Go, and while you trample on my grave, say, ‘ there lies the last indian.’ ” As these words were pronounced, a sudden cry caused Winslow to turn towards the rock on which the chief and prophet had been standing, when he saw the latter tottering on the verge of the cliff, and in the act of being precipitated into the abyss of water below. Whether the intenseness of his gaze had caused him to lose his balance, or whether the dvom of the race of red men, which his incantations had shadowed forth, had made him sick of existence, Winslow, knew not ; but for a moment he was half suspended. in the air. There was a swifi descent, and a scream which rung through Edward’s ears for months; then there was a heavy plunge in the deep water; a few bubbles rose to the surface of the pool, and the eddying waves closed upon the magician, and settling in silence, told that all was over. The warrior stood for a moment intently regarding the spot where Poponnoquet had sunk, murmuring as he did so, “Willingly would, I follow thee, revealer of destiny; but there are yet wrongs for me to avenge; there is yet blood for me to shed—like the eagle I shall seize my. prey—like the wolf I shall devour my enemies, and“live or die, it shail never be said that Miantonimoh.ever, feared the face of a pale man.” As he spoke, he drew. his, bear- skin around his shoulders, and turning from. the water, plunged into the dark wood with the swiftness of an arrow, leaving the young traveller at liberty. to colleet his scattered thoughts, and bredthe more freely, Edward rose uyen his feet to look around, and. com, vince himself that all which, had. passed, wag, not.a fevered and frightful dream; but, when, he. felt gentle breeze of night fanning his brow,;. when the autumn leaf eddying. down. on the seuth when he beheld: the beautiful moon, which had lently, gone up and taken her place in, the clear hea- vens 2s the undisputed queen of night, and: saw. her pure beams floating over the dark lake like a.silyer mist, he could doubt no longer that all he had sega vas real, and was compelled to admit that heayen.and earth had mysteries which his philosophy was utterly j unable te weigh or fathom. THE POLE’S ADIEU. Svar of my soul, farewell! I go to death and danger— I haste to meet in conflict fell The proud invading stranger. { leave thee, love, to save The land we dearly cherish. To break the yoke that binds the brave, To rescue or to perish. Star of my soul! thy light No more will shine before me ; The flame of war glares redly bright, Destruction hovers o’er me. ¥et mourn not, love, for me ; Remember, though we sever, The patriot brave who falls will be With glery crowned forever. A SIMILE. Tuat little cloud how bright it seems, Now floating near the distant west; Enrich’d with evening's glowing beams Slow fading on its mountain crest. That little cloud in beauty drest, Hew many fairy things it owns, No radiant star scems half so blest, Tho’ sporting in its ether zones. But see! the borrowed hues are fled, And all its transient dreams decay; Its furms are passionless and dead, And dim the pleasing charm of day. So fades the light of many a dream, So steals the joy from manhood’s glade; And leaves o’er memory’s varied scene, The leaden hue of evening’s shade.

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THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. Original. THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. TueEne is something of moral sublimity, in the un- bending firmness with which we see the virtuous man struggling with the storm, and triumphing in the panoply of his religion. It is easy to” be resigned to suffering ere the cloud has yet gathered or the thun- der burst over our heads—but in the strength of re- ligion to wrestle with the power of the destroyer amid the darkness below, to fix the steadfast eye on the eternal light above, as link after link is broken from the chain of our earthly hopes, to feel how the heart clings yet more closely to those that are not of this world, to stand as it were alone upon the shores of life, and see the last plank swept away from its shat- tered wreck, yet supported on the rock of ages, to feel the eternal hope deepening and strengthening but more intensely within us, this is indeed the most beau- tiful comment on the power of the Christian faith— Powerful indeed must be that religion which can so overmaster the love that is stronger than death. The memory of the dead is a solemn and an enduring memory—a love of the most sacred and chastened ten- derness. When the world looks gloomy around us, and dis- appointment and sorrow have bruised the spirit, the heart loves like the woman of old, to go to the sepul- chre to weep there. It loves to contemplate through the moral twilight that envelopes it here, the brilliant heaven whence its sun has gone down; or to gaze with intense and solemn joy, on the bright track of his departed glory. We feel that the dead can never be as nothing to us, while yet an office is left that affec- tion can perform; and though all that remains of our lost ones be the fading flowers and the undying love, the heart still gathers together its hoard of sacred re- collections, that it may brood, in the silence of affec- tion, over its secret and mournful treasures. It is now many years, since a young man, I went to pay a visit of a few days to a venerable clergyman, an early and an intimate friend of my father, but whom I had never seen. Residing in the heart of the country, in the quiet discharge of his sacred duties, his life had glided away like the Summer stream, in the quiet sunshine of tranquil affection. The cloud had indeed at times gathered over it, but it had passed away. He had bowed to the hand that laid his hopes in the dust; and when the bitter cup was removed, he had drunk consolation from the fountains of ever- lasting life. One by one, the wife of his bosom and the children of his hopes had dropped away, and left him almost alone. Yet one still remained, who was all the world to him. Often have I heard him bless God, that when the voice of His rebuke was heard, He had spared her, who now in“the freshness of her beauty was ever at his side. The picture I had formed to myself of Mr. Vernon, was that of a stern, severe old man, with whom every smile Was a crime, and every word a rebuke. This impression was very far from being a_ pleasing one to me, who had suffered all my life from a pain- ful degree of mauvaise honte, which my limited in- tercourse with the world had not yc: been sufficient to banish. I remember it was a fine morning in May, as bright and as beautiful as my own young hopes, that I found myself at the village, within a few miles of which, Mr. Vernon resided. As I rode towards the house, I made many doughty resolutions against bashfulness and timidity, and resolved to prepare in my own mind my introductory speech, and to commit it firmly to memory. But in the midst of my boldest resolutions, I felt my heart, beating with painful rapidity; and when I at last arrived at the door, it had increased to that unaccountable flutter, which was so sure to pur- sue and annoy me whenever I felt desirous of ap- pearing to advantage. [ knew not then what I have since learned, that bashfulness is only pride in dis- guise. It was with a trembling hand, that I raised the knocker, sending forth a single, solitary, faint rap, which spoke audibly enough of my besetting annoy- ance; and after a dozen such efforts, in which, out of patience at the delay, I grasped the knocker as if to beat in the door, but which, nevertheless, ere coming in contact with it, always contrived to sink into my accustomed single faint rap, a servant appeared who conducted me into the parlour of the parsonage. As I foilowed him with increasing trepidation, I endea- vored to repeat my lesson to myself; but my head was becoming confused, my joints trembled, my heart beat as if it would burst through my side; I felt a cold perspiration start from every pore. He threw open the door ; but instead of the severe old man whom I had expected to see, a beautiful young creature, his daughter, rose to receive me. To one of my consti- tution, this was an evil of no small magnitude. I re- collected, however, that my introductory speech was to be made, and agitated and confused as I was, I en- deavoured hastily to recall it. At first I could not get the beginning, and after I had with much difficulty succeeded, I forgot the end. ‘I am come sir,’ said I—but my head was become contused. I endeavoured to repeat a lesson, not to express a sentiment. I paused—looked silly—picked the fur from my hat, and like a schoolboy endeavour- ing to repeat an ill gotten task, began again —‘I am come sir—your intimacy with my late father,'—utterly unable to recollect another syllable, and in my confu sion equally so to frame any thing, in a faint and des- pairing tone, and letting my voice fall at the last word as if I had actually accomplished my speech, I re- peated, ‘I am come sir.’ Confounded at my own con- fusion, I now desperately raised my eyes to observe the effect of my harangue ; and was overwhelmed at once at recalling what in my flurry I had forgotten, viz: that I was addressing a lady. I stood aghast. I saw the ill suppressed smile lurking at the corners of her mouth, and in her expressive eye, as she slightly bowed to an assertion that I had so well authenticated. My first impulse was to rush out of the room—but I was not destined to escape so well. Horror-struck, I recoiled a step, and in doing so, stumbled over ax un- lucky foot-stool that stood behind me. For an instant, I stood vibrating backwards and forwards like a pen- dulum, endeavoring to regain my balance. It was all in vain; so after oscillating to and fro for some seconds, at lengin I gave up the point, and dropped quietly down upon the floor. Would that that had been all. But in my fall, I instinctively grasped at the back of a tall old-fashioned armed chair, on the cushion of which a pet lap-dog was quietly sleeping; while a prim, demure, old-maidish looking cat, sat napping beneath it. Over came the chair, but not alone ; for in falling it struck against some flower pots that the fair Jeannette had just been watering. It seemed as if, Sampson-like, I had pulled down the pillars of the house, and lay with all the Phillistines upon me—such a screaming of cats, crash of flower- pots and yelping of dogs, blending with the jar as if an earthquake had shaken the building. Unlucky

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tly od. THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. 8&5 -_—_—__ to the last, my shoulder fell upon the cat's extended tail, and while she was tugging and scolding to re- cover her property, the dog, followed by the cushion, came tumbling upon my face, and then rolled over upon the cat, who enraged at this new assault, screamed and scratched and fought, and for a moment it seemed as if all the furies were fighting about my ears. Happily the cat at last extricated her tail, after having well scarified the dog, who, in her opinion, was the offender; the dog slunk off, shaking his ears, his heart boiling with anger against his ancient enemy the cat, who he doubted not had raised all this tumult, for the sole purpose of clawing his hide. When the noise and confusion had somewhat sub- sided, and I was able to disinter myself, I raised my- self slowly on my elbow, and ventured to examine if all were indeed quiet at last; but the first object that met my eye was Jeannette, almost exhausted by con- vulsions of laughter. I could endure no more, but joined in the laugh with my whole heart, till the beau- tiful creature sunk fairly exhaused into a chair, and I rolled again upon the floor. From that instant my bashfulness was over. That laugh had made us ac- quainted in a moment. Every thing about Mr. Vernon, whom I found the very antipode of my imagination, looked happy; and with a father’s pride he attributed all to his daughter. I praised his flowers—it was Jeaanette who planted them; I admired the disposition of his walks—it was Jeannette who planned them. The very birds seemed fearlessly to approach her. I remarked it to her father. “ All love her,” he replied. Gradually I became quite domesticated in the family. The almost constant companion of Jeannette and her father in their morning and evening walks ; in the heat of the day they would often retire to a beautiful grotto, the work of Jeannette’s taste, and there I read to them, while she worked with her father at her side, and the little pet dog Tray, to whom Ihad been so unceremoniously introduced, at her feet. In the course of our now daily rambles, I noticed a small inclosure, whose singular beauty tempted me to anearerview. “That,” said Mr. Vernon, “is my family burial ground.” It was situated ona gentle eminence, at the skirt of a deep wood, while a noisy little brook that ran through, aided by its perpetual and monoton- ous sound, to produce that soothing but solemn train of thought, so naturally connected in the mind with such a piace.- We entered it. A sad but beautiful serenity reigned there. It was surrounded by a low white fence, around which woodbines and honey suckles had been trained. The graceful willow wept there, and there the dark cypress reared its funereal branches, mingling their foliage with that of the graceful queen-like elm. Flowers were breathing their rich odours, and holding up their beautiful cups ; and associations of tenderness and of all sweet things, clustered around the spot. A feeling of pride kindled in the father’s eye, as glancing affectionately at his daughter, and gazing around with an air of pleasure and satisfaction, he said. “It is her work.” “Here,” he said, after a short pause, “here is my family, and,” pointing to a vacant space between two graves, “ there will soon be my home.” I saw the tear start into his daughter's eye. He too saw it and was silent. Our visit and conversation had thrown a degree of sadness over the countenance of Mr. Vernon. With the quick eye of affection, his daughter observed it; and on our return, playfully seating herself at the piano, as her fairy fingers flew over the keys, the awakened feeling was charmed away. But amid the playful vivacity of her manner, I noted the anxious glance with which she observed him, and when it met the affectionate smile with which he watched her, I knew that not for diadems would she have ex- changed it. It was not till the time of my departure arrived, that I began to perceive the nature of my feelings for Jeannette. This parting is asad thing to teach young lovers the true character of their sentiments. When I came to bid farewell to my venerable friend, he took his hat, and calling Jeannette—* Come,” said he, “we will accompany him as far as the graves,” thus they always called the beautiful family repository above alluded to. On our way thither, Mr. Vernon stopped for a few minutes to converse with a gentle- man, and Jeannette and I walked on together. I know not how it was, nor in what language I ac- complished it, but the bitterness of separation wrung from me, in spite of my bashfulness, an avowal of my attachment. I was accepted Even now, at this late period of my life, the thought of that hour thrills through my old veins, as if time and suffering had not yet fully quenched the fire of my youth. The con- sent of her father was asked and obtained. It was of course impossible to think of departing just then. Day after day and week after week found me still lingering at the side of Jeannette, happy, for I was with her. Our daily walk was generally directed to “the graves,’ which were now become doubly consecrated. I assisted her in training and cultivating the flowers there, and sometimes ornamenting them with fresh; and never did she appear more charming in my eyes, than in performing this beautiful rite. But in the midst of this trance of happiness, came the thrilling news that the first blood of the revolu- tion had been shed at Lexington. I was young and ardent; I burned to distinguish myself in the same glorious cause. I resolved then to depart for the place, so soon to become the arena of an even dead- lier strife and carnage. I arrived time enough to receive a severe wound at the battle of Bunker’s Hill But I anticipate. When the long-deferred hour of departure at length arrived, Jeannette again accompanied me on my way as far as “the graves.” “Since we must part fora time,” she said, “let it be upon a spot hallowed by so many and so holy recollections. There will I daily implore the God of battles to watch over every arm that strikes for freedom.” “ Perhaps,” said I, overcome by my own melancholy forebodings, “to weep over my early fall, and my un- honoured grave.” Jeannette’s eye kindled again as she repeated— “ Weep'!—never shall an American girl weep over a patriot’s glory. A grave like that can never be un- honoured. I feel at this moment, as if I could say like the Grecian matron, as she presented her son with his shield—“ Come back with it, or on it.” But the tenderness of love triumphed even while the lofty sen- timents were on her tongue, and the flash of excitement in her eye, was quenched in its unbidden tears. We leaned for some time in silence over the railing—our hearts were too full for utterance. “You have chosen a melancholy spot for our part- ing,” I at length said. “Tt is no joyful occasion,” she replied. “But in truth, this spot is too beautiful to he very sad. When I am happy, joy is holier here; and when unhappy, it is soothing to think, that though I cannot commit my sorrows to a mother’s breast, I may at least weep my tears over a mother's grave. It was meet that we should say farewell on the spot where our hearts were first plighted.” Then observing the cloud on my brow, she playfully added—* But I shall not permit this place ‘to be connected with unpleasant associations. When you return, give me notice of the time, and I will meet you here. We will meet where we have parted.” “ You well know, dear Jeannette, what cause I have to love this spot; and since we must part, it matters little where. But if, in the long hours of separation, ’

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THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. your feelings should beeome estranged, if you ever repent of the engagement you have formed, tell me at once ; and though my heart bleed or break in the ef- fort, that moment will I relinquish it.” But I pass over our adieus. We wept and parted, as lovers weep and part. ‘The sad word was at length spoken; and with lingering and reluctant steps, we turned to depart. Jeannette waved her handker- chief, and again called to me “ Remember we meet at the graves.” The weariness of absence and confinement, was relieved by frequent letters from Jeannette. “I still take our old walks,” she wrote, “ though you are gone. to mourn your absence. however, by telling him how soon we shall meet again ; but if he understands me, he certainly does not believe me, for he still rans barking to your door, as if to tell you that it is time for our walk. I believe | that his joy at our meeting will be only less than mine. d the grotto, and planted around 1 have newly deck The sweet-bricr it the honey-suc les you admired. has grown so much that shall have the scent of the say, you prefer to the garden rose. all my improvements. raises his ears, fixes his eyes on my face, and crave, that I sometimes almost think that he is deli- ‘Tray superintends berating on the practicability of the measure. I can talk to Tray of you; and you know one does not like to talk to others, of those whom they know that one loves. I am now in daily expectation of hearing that you are on your way to joinus. Remem- ber our parting agreement.” I did remember it. My wound was healed, and I lingered not long thereafter. With a lover's haste | flew to mect Jeanneite. ‘That I might ailord her what L trusted would prove an agreeable surprise, I did not write her, when | set out to return; but from the next village, [ sent her a note, requesting her to meet me at an hour named, at the appointed spot, and hiring a carriage, I rode slowly on afier my messenger. I remember it was a fine afternoon in September.— Every thing looked smiling and happy in my eyes, for | | remained as before, except one vacant place. We took | ouraccustomed seats, as ifexpecting Jeannette to preside. my own heart felt so. As I passed the various farm houses of the village, and saw every where the im- press of industry and happiness, | thought in my own heart, I too, shall now be happy, for Jeannette and I shall part no more. As I was hastening on with a light heart, my ear was suddenly struck with the heavy sound of the vil- | lage bell, whose mournful toll announced that Death | had been busy somewhere. Fearfully did my heart misgive me—I felt the cold dew start from my brow, and my knees tremble, as I hurried on. I passed hastily towards ‘the graves.’ As I ascended a little | saw brought some fresh recollection to my mind. In | my agony, l threw myself upon the ground, and closed | my eyes, that I might shut out every object that re- eminence from which they could be seen, I bent my eyes eagerly towards the spot; the gate was open, and I saw 2 crowd thronging around. As I approached, I saw that the earth was thrown up on the spot that Mr. Vernoa had marked tor his own last home; but he himself stuod calmly at the head of the grave. A look of unutterable agony crossed his brow fur a mo- ment, as his eye rested upon me. He advanced and took my hand in silence and with the other he pointed to the coflin, which was now lowered inio the grave. It bore the name and age of his daughter—of my own beloved, affianced one, “ Jeannette Vernon, 42. 18.”— He watched the expression of my countenance, and his lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he said— “ She has left us now, but God’s will be done.” There was no tear on his cheek, nor tremulousness in his manner, except the temporary one, that the first rush | of feeling at seeing me again had excited ; yet that was | but for a moment, and he again stood in calm and dig- | nified composure at my side. I tell him my plans and he | ! looks sO | Besides, | For myself, were years to be measured by sentenges, how many. ages did I live in that hour of intense, un utterable agony. “We meet at the graves,” were her parting words. Fearfully and faithfully had she re- deemed her promise. It wasindeed at the grave that we met again. I exhibited no sign of violent grief, I stood calm as the mountains that I could have prayed might have fallen upon me. My brain was on fire; | every object reeled around me—as the hollow rattling of the gravel struck upon the coilin, I felt as if my own heart were crushed beneath the weight. I shud- dered and turned away—Mr. Vernon observed me, and taking me by the arm, led me towards the house: TI'ray is now my beau, and he, like his mistress, seems | as we entered it, Tray came running towards me with I comfort him and myself, | | were soon over, and in a few moments he came muan- every demonstration of joy, but those demonstrations ing to me, then to Mr. Vernon; he missed Jeannette, | aud with the restlessness of human sorrow, he wan- dered trom place to place, where he had been accus- tomed to find her—unsuccessful in his search, he seated himself at my feet, and looking wistfuily in | my fare, uttered that low inquiring moan, so expres- it nearly covers it, and we | sive of the feelings of that generous animal. I under- wild rose too, Which, you | stood and felt the appeal, but my own heart was burst- | ing :—poor Tray, said I, the grave has a stern answer for us both. The piano was open, and a song that had been a favorite of mine, lay befure it. It was the last that she had played. During her illness, she had observed the cloud on her father’s brow, and had summoned her last remaining strength to dispel it, as she was wont But what music can charm an aching heart? Mr. Vernon endeavoured to converse with me in | his usual manner; but the averted eye, and the white and quivering lip, betrayed at times, the deep agony within. Jeannette, he said, had been busily preparing fur my arrival; in the excitement produeed by this event, she had sufiered a neglected cold, (taken in pre- | paring fur me,) to strengihen into a fever, whose rapid | progress bade defiance to medicine, and her delicate frame bowed beneath its violence. Little did she deem, that my first walk should be to her own grave. in the morning, I rose from my sleepless pillow, and repaired to the breakfast room—there, every thing as usual. Tray, with the boldness of a favourite, had been accustomed to occupy the chair of his mistrees | till her arrival. This morning, not finding the chair in its wonted place, he had lain down on the spot whence he missed it; but when we had taken our places at the table, and still she did not appear, he became uneasy, and at length ran barking to the door. I could bear it no longer, and springing from the table, I rushed out of the house. But there was no spok that did not speak of Jeannette, every object that L minded me of her. But there is no darkness deep enough to hide from ourselves the anguish of our owa hearts. { was aroused by Mr. Vernon. “ Unhappy young man,” he said, “I lament even more for you than for myself. For me, the evening already is come, and my separation will be short, but you, in the morn- ing of life, are called early to drink of the cup of bit terness.” He proposed a walk. I assented and followed in silence. [lis air and manner were calm, but I saw the feverish haste that hurried him onward as if by increased bodily exertion, he could blunt the agong within. He visited Jeannette’s favourite haunts, and seemed to derive a melancholy pleasure in being where she had been. Her spirit, indeed, seemed ta breathe in every object; and so closely wera these associated with herself in my mind, that I almost ex- = © 8 = ee Sem ~— ~ —_ yf.

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Ee 2 ae & i av? 7 B wr Sees oS FP rae Perl OO CUD THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN. 87 —— pected:to see her light form beunding. along, and: to hear the cheerful laugh that was wont to echo there. But all was still now, and. I. silently followed him-to her grave. He stood over it for some time in silence, at length his lips moved—* Thy will, be done,” was all that I could distinguish; I tried to repeat the prayer, but I could not, I had not yet drunk deep enough from the cup of christian hope, to bless the hand that smote me. The moment that I was alone I repaired to the grotto, where I used to read to Jeannette—the little improvements that she had been making in anticipa- tion of my arrival, were the first to meet my view.— On the now vacant seat lay.an open book—it was one that I had given her, and the last that I read to her. She had treasured it formy sake—how dear was it now for her's. J am now an old man, I live but in the past. One bitter remembrance has clouded my life—it has been my thought by day, and my dream by night—I have dwelt on that recollection till it has become my life and my idol. The feelings of my youth remain, though youth has departed, and my heart, like the mountain that carries the volcano in its bosom, has been scorched and laid waste, and left desolate. ‘Time that crun:bles | to dust the seemingly everlasting rocks, leaves me un- changed. Like some bark, stranded by the tide, the winds pass idly by me;,and: L am left alone by the waters that have swept into the: ocean all that qnce floated so gaily at my, side. Sorrow. teaches a deep lesson; and from the sufferings.of the. past, I would fain gather something of consolation.and improvement. And, as I too, have travelled. well nigh home, and the hour is at hand, when I too shall lie down beside those I have loved, the clouds of doubt and of suffer- ing are fast passing away, and Hopg is writien over the tomb, that has so long witnessed the bitterness of my despair. Sdmay it still be.” I had just repéated the last sentence, in all the con- scious dignity of martyrdom, when the earriage stop- ped, the door flew open, and, as | fairly tumbled out, my eyes half blinded by tears, and half by sleep, I found myself standing at “ the graves,” clasped in the warm embrace of the living Jeannette, more beauti- ful and* bewitching than ever. The village bell, which was tolling for a funeral, united with my own associations, I confess, more than half superstitious, from the place’of the appointment, had doubiless given birth to the distressing dream, from which I bad so happy an awakening. TO A LADY. Man’s love is of man’s life—a thing apart, Tis woman's whole existence !"—Syron. Dear lady! why that weeping eye, And why that brow of care ? In sooth, it makes my own heart sigh To mark such sorrow there: To see a tear bedew the cheek Of one so fair, so young and meek. Oh! whenee has fled thy winning smile, The joy thine eye so well expres ? 1 cannot deem that mortal guile Could. harbour in so pure a breast! Nor can I e’er in thought believe, That one so chaste could e’er deceive. Thy beauty should not thus he clouded By an hour so sad as this; Nor shonid thy peerless charms be shrouded, Charms which ought to lead to bliss; I will not ask thee whence can flow That pang of grief—that source ef woe. Man's soul is formed to deeds of strife— Sweet woman’s is of other mould ; His heart must brave the storms of life— Her’s doth a milder flame enfold. She is his angel spirit here, And he should be her worshipper. But—care will oft estrange the best, And mortal ills will sear the heart ; While they who've fondly loved—carest, Have been in sorrow doomed to part! Man’s spirit is by nature stern— Woman’s a gentler sense doth learn, Weep—weep no more! I grieve to see, Thy beauteous eye suffused with tears ; And faithless—heartless—must he be Who feels not when such grief appeazs : Beauty was born for man to love, And not when guiltless to reprove. RURAL JOYS. Poets may. rave about their groves, And pin a verse to every tree, Where “ little birds sing of their loves” — But no one sings of love to me. The winding vale, the mossy seat, In sonnets look extremely well— But oh! to me how much more sweet, A walk with Harry in Pall Mall My annt is raving all the yeer, What prospects deck her vale of Peaee ; She never thinks how staying here Destroys the prospect of her niece, She tells me of the hills and rocks, The valley, and the lake’s calm tide— I'm thinking of the opera box, Aud Harry listening at my side. She boasts about the garden's blooia, With living roses sprinkled o’er— What are they to the dancing-room, With flowers in chalk upon the floor! Where music rises clear and high, To banish sadness and regrets ; Where pleasure beams in every eye— And Harry whispers ’tween the sets! But here, e’en here, Time passes on— Dear Time! don’t spare your lazy wing ; Winter and snow will soon be gone, And Harry join us in the spring. ilow sweet shall be the sheltered glen! The biai’s soft music sounding through! How I shall love to listen thea— If Harry loves to listen too! How lifeless now each scene appears— How gaudily those gardens flaunt— And then—so dull—one never hears Sofi pretty speeehes from one’s aunt! Well—but ’twould be absurd to weep, ‘Though sorrow thus my memory racks—~ I'll offand sink my woes in sleep, And dream of Harry and Almack’s!

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THE TOILET. THE TOILET. A NEEDLE-BOOK WORK-BAG. Make a needle-book precisely as described in the next article. Then take a quarter and half quarter of silk, and cut it in half, as if to make a square reticule. Sew the two sides together, inserting a covered cord between them. Do not sew the sides all the way down, but terminate the seams at some distance from the bottom, so as to leave two open flaps large enongh to conceal the thread-case. Then stitch a seam all across, just above the flaps, so as to form a sort of false bottom to the bag. ‘To this seam sew the back of the thread-case, in such a manner that the flaps of the bag will fall over and conceal it. Sew five pair of riband strings on these flaps, so as to tie them down over the needle-book. Get two yards of narrow riband; cut it in half, and run it into the broad hem or case at the top of the bag. Run each riband all round the case, the ends coming out at opposite sides to make the bag draw both ways. Tie these ends together in bows. These bags are very convenient in travelling, or when you take your work with you on a visit. To cover cord—take some new silk and cut it into long narrow slips, diagonally, or bias as it is commonly called. Sew all these slips together by the ends that slope the same way. Then take some cotton cord, and laying the silk evenly over it, baste or tack it along, so as to inclose the cord. In afterwards sewing this to the straight side of a piece of silk, hold the silk next to you, and let your stitches be very short. A VERY CONVENIENT NEEDLE-BOOK- Have ready four pieces of pasteboard about the size of playing-cards, or broader if you choose. Cover them on both sides, with silk sewed neatly over the edges. Get some riband of the same colour, and about an inch broad. Sew it between two of the covered cards, so as to unite them all round, leaving only an opening at one end to put in the stuffing. Stuff it very tightly with wool or bran, which must be pressed down with your fingers as hard as possible, and then sew up the opening. This makes a pincushion which will look like a closed book, and the pins are to be stuck into its edges. Then get a piece of cloth nearly twice as large as the pincushion, and overcast the edges with silk. Fold it in half, and at the edge where it is folded, run two or three cases or sockets for bodkins, which must be prevented from slipping down too far by a few stitches across that part of the socket to which the point of the bodkin descends. The eyes of the bodkins must be left sticking out at the tops of the cases. ; Take the two remaining cards that are covered with silk, and measure two pieces of silk twice the size of the cards. These are for the pockets. Having made a case in the top of each pocket, and run a narrow riband into it, gather them all round, and sew them on full to the outsides of these two last covered cards, which must then be sewed one to each side of the pincushion, having first inserted the needle-flaps. They must be put on so as to resemble the covers of a book, with the back of the pincushion between them like the back of a book. Sew strings of riband at the two lower corners. At the two upper corners, the ends of the drawing-strings in the top of the pockets must come out and tie. Ornament the back of the book with two bows, one at top, and one at bottom. The pockets are to contain the thimble, emery-bag, cotton-spool, &e. They will also hold a small pair of scissars, in a sheath. When the thread-case is not in use, it must always be carefully tied up. A PEN-WIPER. Cut out a great num- ber of pieces of Canton crape, about the size of half a dollar, and of as many different culours as you can procure. Lay them evenly in separate piles; let one pile be black, another red; some piles blue,and some green. Let there be an equal number of pieces in each pile. Then stick a needle with a thread of silk in it, through the centre of each pile, and fasten the pieces together. When all your various piles are ready, make a small hole through the middle of each with a pair of sharp pointed scissars, and run a silk cord through them all, as if you were stringing beads; arranging the different colours according to your taste. You may make the string of pen-wipers of any length, from a quarter of a yard to a whole yard. These are very useful to hang over a desk where a great ceal of writing is done, and may be acceptable presents from little girls to their fathers. They will look the better for having the edges scol- loped. You may either fasten each cluster of pieces permanently to the string, so as to remain stationary, or you may leave them to slip up and down like beads. —— Be a pattern to others, and then all will go well; for asa whole city is infected by the licentious passions and vices of great men, so it is likewise reformed by their moderation. -— 2s 4 ee es es ee

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“— Gs TEA-DRINKING, &c. 89° TEA=DRINKING. THERE is a certain class of people who take every opportunity of sneering at their neighbours for indulg- ing in the “ folly” of drinking tea, which they tell you js poisonous, and for the use of which the Chinese, as they say, make a point of laughing at us. I have ge- nerally remarked, that those who in this manner con- demn the use of tea, are themselves addicted to the drinking of intoxicating liquids of some kind or other, and that, in most instances, they are not a bit more healthful or more innocent than the unhappy tea- drinkers whom they affect to pity. In the way that tea is usnally made with a large mixture of sugar and cream, both which ingredients are highly nutritious, it is fully more salutary, and a great deal more refreshing, than any other light liquid that could be poured into the stomach. With all due deference to Cobbett, milk, even entirely divested of its creamy particles, is heavy; and though it may be used with advantage as a meal, when work is done in the open air, it can never suit the appetites of the great mass of the people, who are confined by sedentary employments. Milk is the food of men in a rude state, or in childhood; but tea or well-made coffee is their beverage in a state of civili- zation. It would seem that the civilized human being must use a large quantity of liquid food. Perhaps solid meat is most nutritious; but there are cases in which a small degree of nutriment is quite sufficient. A lady or a gentleman of sedentary habits, does not require to feed like a ploughman, or a gentleman train- ing for a pedestrian excursion. They can subsist in a healthful state with a small quantity of solid food, but they do not do well unless with a large quantity of liquids, and these of a light quality. Good beer has been recommended as a substitute for tea; but beer is at the best a cold, ungenial drink, except to robust people who have much exercise. Beer may certainly be made almost as light as water itself, but in that ease it is filled with gaseous matter or confined air, and it cannot be drunk with comfort as a simple re- freshment. It will al.vays be remembered that there are differ- ent kinds of tea, and that some are more salutary than others. Green tea ought always to be avoided by persons of weak nerves. Black tea is the preferable for general use, and, if properly made, will prove antispasmodic, and relieve pains or cramps in the bowels. In some instances tea does not suit the par- ticular state of the stomach, and it should then be abandoned, the taste naturally pointing out when it should be taken. But no species of prepared fluid seems so suitable to tlie palates and the stomachs of the people of this country. No kind of drink is so re- freshing after a journey or fatigue as tea. It restores the drooping spirits, and invigorates the frame for re- newed exertion. No other kind of liquid with which we are acquainted, has the same remarkable influence morally and physically. Fermented or distilled liquors, taken under the same circumstances, either induce intoxication or sleep. It is preposterous to say that tea is poisonous. As there is an astringency in its pro- perties, I believe it would be most injurious were we to live upon nothing else, or drink it as a tincture.— But who does either? As it happens to be prepared and used, it answers merely as a refreshing and pleas- ing drink, either to the solid bread and butter taken along with it, or after a recent dinner of substantial viands. How idle it is to say that this harmless beve- tage is ruining the constitutions of the people of this country! The very reverse can be demonstrated. The inhabitants of Great Britain use nearly twenty-seven millions of pounds weight of tea annually, which is about the rate of one pound nine ounces on an average for every individual. From thirty to forty years ago they used a great deal less than the half of this quan- greatly extended since that period. The English and Scotch now use more tea than all the rest of Europe put together, and yet they are the healthiest nation on the face of the earth. The North Americans are also great tea-drinkers, and human life among them is of nearly an equal value. Who would for a moment compare the thin, wretched wines of France and Ger- many, or the sour krout of Russia, to the “ comfortable” tea of Great Britain, and who would lose time in cal- culating the different effects of these liquids on the constitution ? Tea has other excellent properties. At this present moment it is putting down the pernicious practice of dram-drinking, and evidently limiting the extent of after-dinner potations. It seems to be impossible that a regular drinker of tea can be a lover of ardent spirits; and it is generally observed that as a man (or woman either) slides into the vice of tippling, he simultane- ously withdraws from the tea-table; so true is it that the brutalized feelings of the drunkard are incompati- ble with the refined sentiments produced by “The cup which cheers, but not inebriates.” It is hence to be wished that tea, or some other equally simple prepared fluid, should be still more brought into use. Do not let it be urged as an objec- tion that tea is expensive, for even under its excessive dearth, compared with its original cost, it is the cheap- est beverage in use. With respect to price, it should not be placed against water or milk. It comes in place of some other indulgence—intoxicating liquors, for instance—respecting the price of which we never heard any complaints even from the lower walks of life. ‘Tea is thus not entirely a superfluity. ‘The cla- mours as to its fostering habits of evil and light speak- ing, are so antiquated as hardly to deserve notice. Formerly, when tea was exclusively a luxury among women, the tea-table was perhaps the scene where scandal was chiefly discussed. But while I suspect that the same amount of scandal would have been discussed if there had been no tea-tables whatever, I must observe that tea is now partaken of under greatly different circumstances. From being the fa- vourite indulgence only of women, it is now an ordi- nary domestic meal, and there is no more disposition to draw forth the failings of our neighbours over tea than over roast-beef or punch, at seven o’clock any more than at five. In the upper classes of society, what with late dinners, routs, and frivolities of every description, tea-drinking may be put aside as a vul- garism; but as being, in point of fact, a powerful agent in humanizing the harsh feelings of our nature, and cultivating the domestic affections, I trust it will long hold a place in the dietetics of the respectable middle and lower classes of Great Britain —Chamlers’ Edin- burg Journal. ere tere CHRISTIAN PHILANTHROPY. Ir is stated that the Rev. Dr. Judson an American Missionary to Burmah, who has been supported by the Baptist Board of Missions in this country, has recently presented to the Board the sum of $6,000, to be ex- pended in the support of missions to the heathen. This sum was obtained by Dr. Judson, from paternal gifts and personal presents made to himself and his late wife, together with the interest arising from the same. This amount added to $4,000 which Dr. J. received on a former occasion, from the Burmese government as a compensation for services rendered them, and which he also presented to the Board, makes a total of $10,000! This is is properly denominated by the Observer a truly noble donation; and when we consider that it is his all, and that in addition to property he has consecrated his talents and his life to the same cause, it presents one of the finest cases on record, of the truly devoted mis- tity, yet the average length of human life has been sionary spirit.

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BACHELOR. Original. THE BACHELOR. An old Bachelor! With what a tone of contempt | serect, I pined over the cheerless solitude of my feel- are those words often uttered. As a class of men,| ings. I would not pain you by the knowledge that perhaps old bachelors merit the little esteem in which the sight of your happiness constantly reminded me of they are held. When entering life, too many, instead | all I had loved and lost. But now, disease and dis- of seeking that society and those pleasures which re- | tance have conquered this pride, if pride it was, and fine the mind, and create a taste for the pure enjoy-| [no longer shrink from communicating the circum. | stances of my early life, which have ever maintained their influence over me. Here we shall never meet | again; and I would not go down to the grave without endeavouring to remove from your mind, that which } would remain a blot upon my memory. | | ments of domestic life, engage in a round of dissipa- tion; frequent the company of their own sex only, and enjoy what they call freedom: which, in fact, is little else than slavery of the most degrading kind :— slavery to the pleasures of the table, the gambling house, and other debasing vices, which gradually de- Though brought up in a city, it was ever my delight stroy all relish for purer pleasures, and unfit them, | to escape to the green fields and pure air of the country. both by habit and inclination, for becoming to the end | A favourite cousin of mine had married a clergyman, of their days, any other, than, at best, useless mem- | settled in a very pleasant village. He was a man bers of society. who adorned his profession ; and as I took great plea- But it is not always thus. Could we look into the | sure in his suciety, his place of residence became 1 lives and hearts of many who pass through life in un- | favourite haunt, when 1 could escape from the toils blessed singleness, we should ofien find occasion to | and cares of business. pity, rather than condemn = An unrequited, an unfor- | In one of these excursic tunate, or a misplaced attachment, may sink an aflee- | on Saturday evening, I established myself at my usual tionate female into an early grave. Upon man, | lodgings, deferring to visit my cousin till the following ond to me it ap | ms, chancing to arrive late similar circumstances produce not the same result;|day. The Sunday morning came but sometimes the effects are little less painful and en- | peared to possess more fhun its ordinary beauty ; for during. ‘True, he does not die of a broken heart, but | its holy repose, its fresh and balmy air, and the song of the fountain of his affections is forever sealed up; and | the joyous birds came in sudden and strong contrast although the wor!d sees not what his manly pride care- | with the noise, and bustle, and confined atmosphere of fully conceals from eyery eye, still, in the depth and | a crowded city. When it drew toward the hour of bitterness of his own ‘soul, he laments that through life | morning service, I strolled to the church-yard, and he must remain unloving and unloved. among the silent tombs and grassy graves, loitered I had ounce a friend, with whose early history I was | away the time in sad but pleasing meditation. My unacquainted. He wes a man of refined taste, highly | feelings were in unison with the day. cultivated mind, amiable disposition, and pleasing, both As I obeyed the last summons of the bell, and took in person and manners,—one, whom all pronounced my seat in my friend’s pew, I found myself next to a tion. She was young, apparently about eighteen— Her dress told of the recent loss of a near relative, or dear friend—it might be one who was both—for her whole appearance indicated that her sable garments were not the mere “outward trappings” of unfelt At length circumstances called him to a distant part | woe. She was extremely pale, and an air of the of the world, and we parted to our mutual regret. | deepest melancholy pervaded ker countenance. But When leaving me, he remarked :—* You have often in her pensive loveliness, I thought I had never beheld | | domestic life. Nevertheless, he remained single— I frequently rallied him upon it, and sometimes re- proached him for his insensibility. He always answer- ed pleasantly, but never e xplained the seeming mys- lery. | | | } pre-eminently formed to give and receive happiness i in | lady, whose appearance strongly attracted my atten- upbraided me for remaining single. Perhaps, at some | any thing so beautiful. future tume, I will give you my reasons, for I know I Her light and glossy hair was parted with perfect suffer in your opinion on this account.” I replied | simplicity, over a forehead of the purest white. Long jocularly, your apology must be a very good one if I | dark eye-lashes shaded her blue eyes, which seemed accept it, for 1 think you should long since have made | to owe their want of briliian« y to sorrow, rather than some amiable woman happy. Le merely answered, | to Nature. But their touching expression of sadness ‘you shall judge.” was infinitely more subduing than the beams of the Years passed, and although I heard from him occa- | brightest eye, The cast of her countenance was de- sivnally, the promised explanation remained unmade | cidedly intellectual, and her whole air and manner when I received intelligence of his death, ¢ a small | possessed that nameless charm, which we involunta- packet containing the following history :— rily associate with a refined mind and cultivated un- “You have often asked me why I never married ?— | derstanding. sometimes have reproached me for leading a useless Whether my previons reflections and the state of single life; but more frequently, while you gazed with | my mind had rendered me peculiarly susceptible of sparkling eyes on your own beloved wife and little} tender emotions, or whether it was the appearance of ones, you have wondered how I conld forego al! “ the | deep but uncomplaining sorrow in one so young that dear delights of wedded love.” When I replied to| affected me, I knuw not; but all the tender sympa- vour observations with a jest, or turned with seeming | thies of my nature seemed waked within me. I felt indifference {rom your representations of domestic hap- | that I could at once take her to my inmost heart. I piness, did it never strike you, my friend, that the jest | longed to share her sorrows and soothe her grief. In might be uttered to hide a secret pang? that the indif-| the beautiful and solemn services of the church, her ference might be assumed to conceal the painful con- | unaffected fervour and devotion, evinced from whence sciousness of the tedious loneliness of the life I led? | proceeded that expression of heavenly resignation, While in the habit of daily intercourse, I felt un-}| which is derived but from one source. O, how lovely willing to lay open to you the recesses of my heart.— | is piety in woman! I could not endure that you should know how, in| From this day, 1 became a more frequent guest tham col >

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my feel. ge that d me of ind dis. as, and -ircum- ntained or meet vithout which delight untry. ‘yman, 2 man | plea- ne iny Cc toils e late usual wing t ap 3 for ng of itrast re of ur of THE BACHELOR. 91. eosin ever at Mr. Wilson's. From him, I learned the history of Mary St. Clare. It was a short, but melancholy tale. Her parents, both natives of a northern city, first netat New-Orleans. Mr. St. Clare was allured thither by the prospect of making a rapid fortune ; that ac- complished, he was to return to the north to enjoy it. Her mother had gone out, under the protection of an elder brother, in search of health—labouring under a pulmonary complaint which threatened to terminate in a rapid decline—as the only means of averting the threatened danger, change of climate was prescribed. It had the desired eflect—her health appeared per- fectly restored. Mr. St. Clare met her in society, young, beautiful, and accomplished ; “ wooed and won her.” ‘The con- sent of her parents was easily obtained, for her lover's ciaracter Was unexceptionable, his prospects flattering, and for their daughter's happiness, they were willing to sacrifice her society for a few years; at the expira- tion of which, Mr. St. Clare looked forward to return kume a man of fortune. Of the many enterprising young men of the north who go to the south, with the same hopes and views, how very few ever see them realized. : They were married; and the following summer he brought his young wife to visit her friends. Alas! the seeds ef consumption had been too surely sown! The disease slumbered under the genial influence of a warm climate, but had never been eradicated. Before they returned to the south, alarming symptoms appear- ed. Those who loved her, hoped they would again yield to change of climate; but the destroyer had seized upon his prey, and would not loose his hold— She lingered through the winter, then left her bereav- ed husband the father of a little girl scarce three months old. The succeeding summer proved an unhealthy one. The yellow fever, that scourge of some of our southern cities, commenced its ravages. Among its first victims was Mr. St. Clare. Sorrow and anxiety had predis- pesed him to disease, and rendered him less able to re- sist its attacks. Upon his death, his affairs fell into disorder. ‘The estate was declared insolvent, and at the age of six months, Mary St. Clare was a destitute orphan. But she was not deserted by Him who is the “Father of the fatherless.” A single sister of Mr St. Clare, fundly attached to her brother, had gone to him upon his wife’s death. Upon his decease, she adopted his little orphan, and returned home with her infant charge. For eighteen years she faithfully discharged towards her the duties of a mother,—cultivating her understanding and taste with the most sedulous care, and constantly, both by precept and example, recom- mending the pure principles of Christianity. It was her loss Miss St. Clare now mourned. She had been deprived at once of a counsellor, a guide, a kind, ten- der, and affectionate friend ; of the being in whom all her earthly affections centered. Now, indeed, she felt herself an orphan! But she was sustained in her af fiction by that religion which is the “soother of our keenest surrows.” Hers was that spirit of piety, which, though silent and unobtrusive, has its scat in the in- most recesses of the heart—pervading every thought, word and action—bringing all into subjection to the will of Him who is regarded, not as the stern inexora- ble Judge, but as the kind and loving Father, “ whose judgments are tempered with mercy.” But the blow which was borne patiently, was felt deeply ; and hoping from change of scene and the so- ciety of Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, some alleviation of the grief which oppressed her, she had come to reside with them. Mr. Wilson, who was related to her aunt, and to whom his worth was well known, had been ap- pointed by her the guardian of her adopted daughter, whose youth and inexperience still needed the protec- tion and care which Mr. Wilson would willingly be stow. My intimacy in his family gave me an opportunity of enjoying his ward’s society in all the unrestrained freedom of social. inter —Gentle, t, intel- ligent, her virtues strengthened the impression her beauty and interesting appearance had made. My visits to the little village of L———— became longer and more frequent than before. Winter succeeded to summer, but the country had lost none of its attractions for me. I loved, and saw with hope, the tell-tale blush that appeared at my ap- proach. When Spring returned, and Nature had put on her “ beautiful garments,” she possessed a thousand new charms, for I was an accepted lover. 1 sympa- thised in the joy that seemed to animate every living thing, fur I also was happy. Mary’s spirits, too, had recovered almost their natural buoyancy ; the bloom had returned to her cheek, and the lustre to her soft blue eye; fur the afiections of a tender heart had found once more a resting place. With renewed health and spirits, how lovely, how surpassingly lovely she was! But in her exquisite beauty, there was a de- licacy that sometimes alarmed me. Hr complexion was so dazzlingly, so transparently fair; the beautiful blue veins were so distinct about her alabaster fore- head, and the bloom that gave such a brilliancy to her beauty, it could scarcely be called the ruddy glow of health. I gazed with a lover's pride upon her charms, but I thought of her mother and trembled. I strove to banish my fears as groundless. Still, consumption and an early grave would cross my mind, and fill me with apprehension. A warm evening in July, induced us to enjoy, upon the porch, the fragranc+ of a honey-suckle which clus- tered around it, and the calm beauty of a bright moon light. It was the eve of my departure upon a jour- ney, which would probably detain me away ‘till near the time appointed for our union. In the indulgence of the thousand tender feelings which the scene and the circumstances were calculated to call forth, the lapse of time was unheeded. With my arm encit- cling her waist, and her hand resting in mine, houre passed, and the night dew fell unperceived. I linger- ed ‘till my friend’s warning voice and the chilness of the air, reminded me that I was exposing Mary to dan- ger. With asad and heavy heart, I bade her adieu. Melancholy forebodings filled my imagination, and as I folded her in a last embrace, and pressed my Lips to her cheek, it was wet with her tears. Does the spirit of man ever dive into futurity, and give him warning of evil io come? or was the depression we both expe- rienced but the natural effect of parting for a longer period than usual? or the result of our previous dis- course, in which tears to the memory of the unforgot- ten dead, had mingled with Mary’s anticipations of the happy days which she hoped the future had in re serve ? I heard frequently from Mary during my absence, but fancied her letters were sadder than they were wont to be. They became shorter, too, and she seem- ed to look anxiously for my return. I used every ex- ertion to terminate the business which had called me from her, and was on my way home when I received a letter from Mr. Wilson, urging me to hasten my re- turn, for Mary was seriously indisposed. He would have written long before, but she would not allow him to alarm me. He now acted without her knowledge, considering it would be cruel kindness longer to with- hold the intelligence, however painful; for she had not been well since my departure. She had taken cold; (the remembrance of the last evening I had passed with her, smote upon my heart,) an obstinate cough was the consequence, accompanied. with pain in the side, which had refused to yield to medical treat, ment. Her physician considered her in danger of a

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92 . rapid decline, and as a friend he felt bound to apprise me of the melancholy truth. I travelled day and night, but before I reached the end of my journey, another letter met me. It was from Mary herself. She owned she was very ill, and reproached herself for not having sooner informed me ; but hoping from day to day to be better, had been un- willing to give me cause for anxiety. But she could no longer deceive herself; all hope was destroyed but that of seeing me before she died.—* If this might not be, God's will be done !—and perhaps it would be bet- ter—for oh! ‘tis hard to part, for the last time, from those we love; and to the survivor, how doubly bit- ter! But I know you will seek consolation where alone it can be found. In my little bible, you will find your name written. May its sacred pages afford you support in the hour of affliction, and enable you to look forward with hope to that meeting, which shall be followed by no parting. I do not ask you to che- rish my memory, for I believe I shall never be forgot- ten: but do not mourn for me too long. There are others more worthy than I to fill the place it would have been my happiness to occupy. You will not think so now, I know; but when Time shall have poured his healing balm upon your wounded spirit, will you not seek another to supply my place in your affections? I would not that you should experience through life, that cheerless solitude, the solitude of the heart.” After a journey which, to my impatience and anx- iety, seemed interminable, I arrived at L —. It was the early part of October, within two weeks of the time which I had fondly hoped was to make me happy in the possession of her I loved. The noise of my horse’s fect was heard, as I ap- proached the house, and Mr. Wilson came out to meet me. He eagerly grasped my hand, and hastily utter- ed, “thank God, you are come!” Then I am not too late—but how is she? He shook his head mournfully, and the tears gathered in his eyes; for who could know her and not love her? Is there no hope ?— “None in man.” The bitter anguish of that moment is indescribable, It was beyond endurance. When I had recovered myself, I besought him to inform her of my arrival, and prepare her to see me. He soon returned, “she is prepared and most anx- ious to see you: but let me remind you of the neces- sity of commanding your feelings: tor although still able to sit up during a part of the day, her life hangs by a single hair, which the least emotion might snap asunder.” He added, “she will set you a bright ex- ample. In the duties of my office, I have frequently stood by the bed side of the sick and dying. I have seen many whose last hours were cheered by the consolations of a reasonable, holy and religious hope, but such angelic sweetness. such patient submission, such heavenly resignation, I never before witnessed.” Tears fell from his eyes as he spoke. When I entered her chamber, she was reclining in an arm-chair, supported by pillows—Changed indeed, but oh! how lovely still. As I approached her, she rose, feebly, to meet me. Her countenance flushed with pleasurable emotion, and every speaking feature beamed with affection. With a bursting heart, I fuld- ed her wasted form in my arms, and as I pressed my lips to her pale forehead, she whispered sofily, “ my last earthly wish is gratified.” A smile of heaveniy sweetness passed over her beautiful features—her “coumenance was as that of an angel;” her eyes elosed, her head drooped upon my bosom—she had died in my arms! Years have passed since that blow fell upon me; but I have not outlived its effects. I have ceased to mourn, for “I look forward with hope” to that union which death cannot dissulve. But the well-spring of MR. CURRAN. comply with my sweet Mary’s wishes, but in vain. | have seen many as young, some perhaps as beautiful and as amiable, but the responsive chord has remained unstruck. I could not love again. €@heerless and dreary indeed is that existence, whose pleasures are unshared, and whose sorrows are unsoothed by an af. fectionate friend ; and perhaps he but half performs the duties of life, who knows not the endearing ties of husband and father. But the spreading oak which is formed to afford “shelter and shade,” if it is scathed and blasted by Heaven's lightning, can no more put forth its “leafy honours ;’ but stretches out its bare and withered branches, a useless cumberer of the ground. MR. CURRAN. WuatT moments of social happiness are connected with my recollections of this extraurdinary man. What an unbending of high intellectual power to the level of childish comprehension. Nothing was too little, or too great, for the occupation of that vast mind. Tho affairs of the nation, the prattle of women, or the dress- ing of a puppet-show, seemed equally to engage his attention, and to call for sallies of wit and good hu- mour, that made him the idol of every society. Some twenty-five years ago, Dublin possessed a circle, unequalled, excepting by that over which Ma- demoiselle L’Espinasse presided in Paris—In Dublin, Mrs. Le Fann, the sister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was the presiding priestess of the literary circle; she possessed in an uncommon degree the talent of con- versation, and of drawing forth the powers of others. Her house was the rendezvous of everything delightful; her Sunday evening parties produced an assemblage of the most brilliant talent. Curran, Grattan, Moore, and a long etcetera of clever people, just gave one 4 sufficient idea of what society ought to be, to spoil all one’s future comfort. Miss Owenson, now Lady Morgan, used to tax the patience of Mr. Curran with long arguments on mute- rialism ; to which he appeared to pay the most devoted attention; and when afterwards questioned as to the impression made on him by her wild reasoning, would declare that he had not heard a word that passed. Curran’s private misfortunes weighed heavily at his heart, and though for some years he struggled against the woes he could not avert, he ultimately fell a vic- tim to his long suppressed feelings. Curran’s most devoted attachment was lavished on his eldest daughter, whose death, closed for ever his career of happiness. Of his second daughter, the chosen love of Emmett, he seemed to think but little. After the fatal tragedy of Emmett’s execution, he never saw her; and her early death ended the possibility of that reconciliation so ardently hoped for by their mutual friends. Curran’s appearance was a personification of ugli- ness; and of this he made a jest. In conversation he was almost too powertul. His wit was so vivid, so unceasing, that he almost fatigued the imagination by the succession of images he continually presented to the mind of his hearer. Of Bonaparte he spoke in the highest terms ; and in allusion to his method of riding he used a term so full of meaning, that it appears as though no brain but Ais, could have conceived the idea thus conveyed. He was questioned by a friend, as to Bonaparte’s appear- ance on horseback, and his reply was thus singularly worded—* He has emphasis in his heels.” —»——. I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the trees, it is fine; when it cools the wave, it is refresh- ing; when it steals over flowers, it is enchanting; but my affections is dried up. I have endeavoured to when it whistles through the key-hole it is unpleasant,

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vain. | eautiful pmained ess and ures are y an af- erforms Zz ties of vhich ig scathed ore put its bare of the nected _ What e level ittle, or Tho » dress. ge his od hu- ssed a h Ma- Jublin, -ridan, >; she f con- thers. shtful; iblage loore, one a oil all x the mute- voted 9 the vould . at his rainst L Vic- od on r hie iosen After saw that itual GOD, &e. GoD! BY THE RUSSIAN POET DERSCHAWIN. 0 Tuov, Eternal One! whose presence bright, All space doth occupy—all motion guide ; Unchang'd thro’ Time’s all devastating flight, Thou only God !—there is no God beside. Being above all beings! Mighty One! Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; Who fill’st existence with Thyself alone; Embracing all—supporting—ruling o’er— Being whom we call God—and know no more! In its sublime research, Philosophy May measure out the ocean deep—may count The sands, or the sun’s rays—but, God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure ; none can mount Up to Thy mysteries. Reason’s brightest spark, Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark : And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high, Even like past moments in eternity! Thou from primeval nothingness didst call First, chaos, then existence—Lord on Thee Eternity had its foundation : all Sprung forth from Thee :—of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin—all life, all beauty, Thine. Thy word created all, and doth create: Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine. Thou art and wert, and shall be, glorious! great! Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate! Thy chains the unmeasur'd universe surround ; Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspir’d with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound, And beautifully mingled life and death! As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry Of Heaven’s bright army glitters in thy praise. A million torches lighted by Thy hand Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; They own thy power, accomplish thy command, All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss, What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light? A glorious company of golden streams? Lamps of celestial ether burning bright? Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost :-— What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven’s unnumber'd host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In ali the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness—is a cypher brought Against Infinity! What am I, then?—Naught Naught!—but the effluence of thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reach’d my bosom too; Yes! in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine, As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. Naught! but I live, and on hope’s pinions fly Eager towards Thy presence: for in Thee I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high Even to the throne of thy divinity. Zam, O Gop! and surely Tou must BE! Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art! Control my spirit, guide my wand’ring heart ; ‘Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand! I hold a middle rank ’twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit land! The chain of being is complete in me; In me is matter’s last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit—Deity! I can command the lightning, and am dust! A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a God! Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously Constructed and conceiv’d? unknown? This clod Lives surely through some higher energy, For from himself alone it could not be. Creator! yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! ‘Thou source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude Fill’d me with an immortal soul, to spring Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, Even to its source—to Thee—its Author there. O thought ineffable! O visions blest! Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, And waft its homage to Thy Deity. God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can sear; Thus seek Thy presence—Being wise and good! Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore; And when the tongue is eloquent no more, The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. ——————— THE PILGRIMS FAREWELL. For we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. Heb. xiii. 14 FAREWELL, poor world, I must be gone: Thou art no home, no rest for me; I'll take my staff and travel on, *Till I a better world may see. Why art thou loth, my heart? Oh why Do’st thus recoil within my breast? Grieve not, but say farewell, and fly Unto the ark, my dove! there’s rest. I come, my Lord, a pilgrim’s pace; Weary, and weak, I slowly move; Longing, but yet can’t reach the place, The gladsome place of rest above. I come, my Lord, the floods here rise; These troubled seas foam naught but mire; My dove back to my bosom flies— Farewell, poor world, Heav'n ’s my desire. “Stay, stay,” said Earth; “ whither, fond one? Hiere’s a fair world, what would’st thou havef* “Fair world? Oh! no, thy beauty’s gone, An heav’nly Canaan, Lord, I crave. .“ Thus ancient travellers, thus they Weary of earth, sigh’d after thee; They're gone before, I may not stay, *Till I both Thee and them may see. « Put on, my soul, pnt on with speed; Though the way be long, the end is sweet. Once more, poor world, farewell indeed; Direct my understanding then to Thee; In leaving thee, my Lord I meet.”

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THE BROKEN VOW. THE BRO BY MRS. Harry Dunstan was the younger son of a younger son; a colonel in the army, who thought a man pro- vided handsomely for his offspring when he bought a But Captain Dunstan was commission in the guards. in habits, not of the same opinion; thouchtles#'and extravagant in his ideas, the gaming table, the turf, and the dice-box supplied him with temporary resources; his futher, after having paid his debts half a dozen times, refused to do any thing more for him, and svon after died, leaving him, according to the technical expre ssion, “ without a farthing in the world,” i. e. with about three hundred a year. Dun- stan was advis ed to marry an heiress, which he was perfectly willing to do; after one or two disappoint- ments in England, he received an invitation from a General Campbell, who had been a friend of his fa- ther’s, to spend the shooting season at Cumlin Dhu, a beautiful remantic place in the Highlands. hither Harry Dunstan proceeded, and was warmly welcomed on account of his great merit, in having possessed so amiable a father. Amongst the inmates of the gene- ral’s hospitable house, was a nephew of his, Archie Campbell, a gay, warm-hearted young Scotchman, blunt in his manaer, but with acute feelings, kind to a fault, the idol of his circle, and the admiration even of the calculating and heartless Dunstan himself. A sort of friendship, or more properly companionship, was established between the two young men; and in spite of the contrast between them, they became in- separable. Archie Campbell, who had scarcely ever been from the wilds in which he lived, was struck with the natural and acquired elegance of the English officer, for Harry Dunstan had no dandyism about him; gentle without effeminacy, graceful without affectation, he won easily on the unsuspecting ; and a sort of tact, which was taught him, partly by his de- pendent situation, partly by an innate thirst of vanity, which led him to wish for universal praise, gave him that enviable power of adapting himself to different dispositions, 2nd chameleon-like variety in the choice of the modes of making an impression, which would have baffled a keener sighted man than his simple happy friend. From the old general, who found an apparently eager companion in his favourite sports, to the piper, whose account of St. Fillan’s meeting and its prize pipes, was so kindly listened to, all loved expensive his Dunstan. And one more loved him; one, who should rather have allowed her young heart to wither in her bosom, for Archie Campbell had wooed her, and Archie's bride she was to be. It was a settled thing; and many of her privileged friends already laughingly addressed her by the title of Mrs. Campbell of Cumlin-Dhu— and Mrs. Campbell she might have been but for Harry Dunstan. Archie himself introdueed his friend to his betrothed; it was he who expressed a wish that they | should like one another; it was he who requested 1? u Harry to take care of Minny and her Highland pony, } while he himself went to see a sick old man, or give directions about the gencral’s farm; it was he who in- formed Dunstan that the only delay to the match was the return of Minny’s une le who was to give her 2 fortune hardly earned in India, and had wished to see his beloved child by adoption united to the man of her choice; the father was only a poor clergyman, and his brother's return was daily expected. Dunstan heard, and pondered, and while he sat on the sunny bank with the blue sky reflected in the uplifted eyes of his innocent companion, dark and treacherous! KEN VOW; NORTON. thoughts coursed one another through his mind; while he wove harebells for Margaret Dure’s fair locks, and she smiled on him in confiding friendship, he was meditating how to cover the innocent victim with chains whose links should be concealed among flowers till they were bound round her heart! It were vain and useless to recount Harry Dunstan's acts; he was thirty, she seventeen ; he was a man of the world, she had never been beyond her native village. She ad. mired him, she liked to have him with her, she looked forward to happy days at Cumlin-Dhu, with her hus. band Archie, and her new friend; then she wished that Archie was like Dunstan, in some things, till~ till Harry Dunstan seemed to her the most perfect of human beings. And think not that this was mere fickleness or admiration of outward show. Dunstan had laid his plot deeply; he contrived by a thousand stra- tagems to weaken the bonds of affection between the two lovers; and while he appeared to be earnestly wishing to reconcile their quarrels, and to laugh a their childish differences as he called them, he in- wardly exulted as the barbed dart sunk deeper and deeper into the bosoms of those who unwittingly che- rished a serpent. Archie Campbell was in the daily habit of riding to the manse, and taking what he laughingly termed his “ orders for the day,” from the gentle lips of his betrothed. Ife rode out one morning while the gray mists still clung to the tops of the hills, as if loth to leave them to the glory of the uprisen sun. The freshness and brightness of nature gave warmth to his heart and vigour to his limbs, and a kindly and re- morseful spirit stole over him as he reflected on sume hasty and jealous words he had spoken to Minny the day previous. “ What a weak thing is a man’s soul?” thought he; “I struggle with doubts and fears which at one time wring my heart, while at another they seem as easily dispersed as the shadows and mists from the brow of yonder mountain. At this hour of quiet glory—in the dewy silence of this delicious morning—how feverish, how foolish, seem the feel- ings of yesterday. My poor Minny, what could make me doubt you now ?” What, indeed!—As he approached the manse it appeared te him that there was an unusual stir—an unusual number of people assembled on the little lawn from which Minny used to watch his coming: his heart beat, his breath came quick, the old man must be ill, or the housekeeper had died suddenly, or the Indian uncle had arrived, or—any thing but Minny! Mr. Dure was standing on the lawn; his white head uncovered, and his eyes wandering irresolutely from one to another of the grieved and perplexed counte- nances of his little honsehold. When he perceived | Archie he staggered forward, and with a nervous } langh, which contrasted thrillingly with the wild anx- | iety of his eye as he pressed young Campbcil’s hand, nddie, and isn’t this a wild trick | you've playe od us, so sober and discreet as you seemed ; | we el, weel—and where?” The old man’s tone sud- denly altered; the haggard smile vanished from his face, and as he leaned heavily on Archie’s arm, he | whispered in a hoarse voice—* Don't say it, don’t say } it, don’t tell me you don’t know where she is, or may be ye'll see me die at your feet.” Archie collected from the weeping domestics enough and more than enough to satisfy him. The snowy coverlet of Minny’s bed remained undisturbed by the pressure of a human form. She had not slept at the manse that night; she + exclaimed—* Weel, Is

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1; while cks, and he was m with ‘flowers re vain he was rid, she She ad. looked er hns- wished , till rfect of ; mete an had id. stra- en the rnestly ugh at he in- or and y che- riding permed of his gray oth ta The to his id re- sume y the pul?” yhich they mists ur of “ious feel- nake e it —iD awn his nust the ny? ead rom nte- ved ous nx- nd, ick ed; ud- his he ay ay ed an y's aD he THE BROKEN VOW. 95 _- yould never more rest her head in peace and inno- eence beneath its roof again! He came back to Cumlin-Dhu, and asked for Dun- stan—he had departed suddenly on plea of urgent business in England. Archie Campbell gazed in his informant’s face with a vacant stare, and then bowed bis head on his hands; he did not weep or groan, or even sigh—a slight shudder only passed over his fame. I anxiously watched him the few succeeding days we were together, he was just the same as usual; he talked and laughed, and though the laugh was less cheerful, it was wonderful how well he conquered his sorrow—only when he sometimes stole a look at Dunstan's unfilled place, a wild and fearful expression lighted his countenance, his lips moved and his breath came thick and short. For a little while 1 thought he would either get over it, or that he retained some hope that Minny herself would repent before it was too late, and return; he rode out at the accustomed hour to the manse, Where the lonely old father was mourning in silent and submissive sorrow. I accidentally encountered him one evening; he was sitting on the favourite bank—the deep crimson sun lit the heath and hare-bell, the wide blue lake lay stretched beneath, and the perfumed air echoed the confused murmur of distant sounds and the hum of insects; he looked at the empty seat by him, “ Minny, sweet Minny!” said he, in a low gentle voice, then suddenly rising, with startling energy he stretched his arms and bent forward with a straining effort to the distant mountains: “ Margaret! Margaret Dure!” and the hills returned in the same tone of unspeakable anguish “ Margaret Dure!” I feared he would fall and be dashed to pieces on the shingles below, yet I dared not speak, hardly breathe ; he slowly drew him- elf back and sank down—that night he heard of Minny’s marriage with Dunstan; that night he swore tome to leave Britain and travel for a while till his health should improve. He went abroad, and afier a few months Mr. Dure received a letter from him, the band-writing was feeble and the style incoherent; it expressed a wish that, as he was dying in a foreign land without any probability of being able to return, Mr. Dure should have a small marble slab erected tnder the old cypress tree, with his name and age, and the year he died in. ‘This was accordingly done. In little more than a year after her marriage, Margaret Dunstan was attacked by a complaint whick had often threatened her—that canker-worm of the young and lovely, consumption. Dunstan, disappointed in his hopes of money by his grieved and angry uncle, had latterly treated her coldly if not harshly; yet it was impossible to see anything so young and so beautiful dying without some feclings of pity; after a vain course of remedies had been gone through, he acceded ‘o her sorrowful prayer, that he would take her back die at Cumlin-Dhu, where her old father still lived. They arrived late in the evening, and, worn and ex- hausted, Margaret felt that she could not go to the manse that night; she had not heard of Archie's death in the stranger land and of his last request; and she ttle into the churchyard where she was so soon to rest, and sat down in the still twilight, leaning her weary head against a tombstone. She had not sat tere many minutes before she heard the little gate open, and presently afterwards her own name was uttered in a low voice. “Here I am, Dunstan,” said she rising; the speaker darted forward and then stood tansfixed to the spot—*“ Margaret Dure !’’—she utter- eda piercing shriek. “ Minny,” said the young man wildly, “do not fear me, it is only Archie Campbell ; are you living, and is it only the moonlight that makes you so pale?”’—*« Oh, Archie do not speak in that tone; We are both altered, and I am dying now, but I de- served it, and I am contented to leave this world, and *hea I am buried in this lone place you will think of me sometimes, and forgive me.”—“ Minny, I hope you will live many long years, and I will see you sometimes at night, for'I must be dead to all but you. Tell me, is he, is Dunstan kind to you?”—* Can the treacherous in friendship be faithful in love ?—no, Archie, the red gold tempted him, not Minny’s face ; he has chid me for smiling, and reproached me for leaving you, and said it was for a more splendid life I went with him; and—and that if I changed once I might change again ; and he has chid me for weeping when I thought of my father and of you, Archie, and of the sweet banks of Cumlin-Dhu.”—* And did you think of me, my sweet Minny? Did you think of me still amid all the temptations and pleasures of Eng- land ?’”—* Archie, afier the dream that he loved me melted away, love went out of my heart; but night and day, through the melancholy spring and the long weary summer, I wept for you—for your kind words and faithful promises; for the long happy days we spent together; and I felt that it was just that I who forsook should be forsaken.” Archie Campbell rushed forward, and taking the unfortugate girl in his arms he strained her convulsively te his bosom. “ What have I done?” said Margareé, as she disengaged her- self; “oh, Archie, pity me and let me go home ;” and the word brought a frest torrent of bitter tears tg her already dim and swoln eyes. “Fear nothing,” said he, as his arm sunk by his side; “I am no traitor— God Almighty and Alimerciful bless and protect you ; go, and, Minny, tell no one you have seen me:” he loosed her hand and walked quickly away, and his bewildered companion returned to her husband. After a most distressing scene between Minny and her poor father, it was agreed that they should live at the manse till something else should bé settled, or till Minny should get better; though Mr. Dure felt he never could like Dunstan, yet his first fears had not been realised, his daughter was married ; and though it was a grievous thing to think on poor Archie, his old fa- vourite, yet he was a man prone to forgive, and he left vengeance to Him who hath said “ Vengeance is mine.” The minister gently told his daughter the fate of her betrothed and deserted lover; she listened in- tently, and remembering the scene of the night before, she said earnestly, * Are you sure? oh, [ cannot belli he is dead.” She shuddered as she said thisj Mer father calmly drawing her arm within his, walked through his little garden and entered the churchyard at the end of it. “There,” said he mournfully, « is the stone I raised to him.” Minny looked, though her head swam. This stone is erected to the memory of ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL, who departed this life, aged 24, May 6th, 1825. It was the stone on which she had been leaning the night befure ; she gave a wild scream and fainted ; her body, weakened as it was, was terribly shaken by this adventure, and though she still hoped some wild chance might have preserved Archic, and that it was indeed he that stood by her and spoke to her that evening, yet the awful words, “I will see you al NIGHT, for I must be dead to all but you,” rung in her ear, and his hand, she remembered, was very cold. A sick thrill passed over her as she remembered this, and she at length became persuaded she had seen the spirit of her lover. Meanwhile she grew weaker and weaker every day. One evening she expressed a wish to visit once more the moss bank which overhung the lake. Dunstan had gone out shooting, and it was on his way home. The old servant at the Manse supported her, for she was now too feeble to walk without assist- ance ; she sat down in the accustomed spot, dark over-

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96 hanging mountains behind her, and the quiet blue lake before her; towards sun-set she saw Dunstan coming over the hill, he waved his handkerchief to her and she answered the signal; he leaped down the tufted side of the hill till he came to the most dangerous part, where, it rose almost perpendicularly from the Jake. “Come slowly, Dunstan, pray,” said the alarmed wife; Harry Dunstan laughed at her fears: he made one step more and was arrested in his progress. A wild, gaunt form sprung upon him like an angry wolf, and endeavoured to hurl him down the precipice ; Dunstan struggled as those struggle, and those only, who have death present to their eyes, but in vain; nearer and nearer he was dragged to the edge, till there was nothing between him and the lake below but a space of about four feet, by a sudden effort he flung himself on his back, and fired his loaded gun, his opponent bounded a few steps backward, the leaves over which he rolled rustled in the descent— a sick faint scream from Margaret, and all was silent. Minny Dunstan walked feebly forward, her husband descended the hill, every fibre quivering with the struggle he had made; they met beside the body of the wounded man. Margtret bent over him, he open- ed his eyes, gave a dim dreary glance round him, took Dunstan’s hand, and raising his eyes to heaven mur- mured some indistinct words; te then turned them once more to Minny, a film came over those orbs, and he lay a corse before them—the corse of Archie Camp- bell!, Worn and emaciated by suffering, and looking like a man who had past many more years of sorrows, the noble-hearted youth lay cold and stiff before his treacherous friend.—And it seemed to Dunstan after- wards, that his marriage, the death of Archie, the more lingering illness of Minny, and the sorrow and misery he had brought on all, were but as a warning dream. em ee eee SUMMARY JUSTICE. A VENETIAN STORY. A German Prince who had been making the grand ur, as it is called, rested a few days at Venice, in rao make himself acquainted not only with the theory, but also with the practice, of the Venetian re- public. Happening to walk through the streets of the city, if they may be so called, he saw a splendidly embroidered piece of silk ig one of the shop windows. He stopped at the shop door, and ordered one of his retinue to purchase and carry it to his hotel. When he arrived there he found that it had been stolen from his servant. Upon hearing this he expressed his sur- prise that, under so active and vigilant a government as that of Venice, such a theft should have been com- mitted in open day. He had not returned to his apart- ments above an hour, when he was waited on by an officer of the state, citing him to appear before a tri- bunal which was then sitting. Hesitating a little, the officer assumed a more determined air, and informed him that if he refused to attend it would be at his peril. He therefore obeyed the summons, was taken to a public office, and introduced into a room hung with black: in the centre was a dark, elevated table, at which sat three judges in sable attire. He was questioned by the first in an awful voice, as to who he was, his name, his condition, and his motive for visiting Venice. These inquiries were issued with a terrifying solemnity. Though a prince, and possessing supreme authority in his own dominions, he answered with timidity and fear. When no more questions were proposed to him on that head, he was sternly asked by another member of the same tribunal, whe- ther he had uttered any reflections upon the Venetian government since his arrival in the city. He answer- ed in the negative; and then the third, in a most ter- SUMMARY JUSTICE, &c. ts rific tone, bade him recollect himself, and repeated the same question. In his consternation, excited by the appalling solemnity of the tribunal before which be stood, he again answered in the negative. The fing judge then asked him if he had not purchased sons. thing in the morning, and if it had not been stole from his servant as he returned to his lodgings. |, his agitation and confusion he had almost forgotten the splendid brocade which he had purchased and lost ip his walk; when it was recalled to his recollection, however, he admitted the fact. He was then asked he had not, in consequence of his loss, ventured j pass some censure on the government. In the mids of his terrors he declared he had only expressed hig surprise that such a crime could have been committed in open day, under so active and vigilant a goven. ment as that of Venice. Folding doors were the ordered to be thrown open, discovering a large chan. ber, as glaring with light as the other had been» lemnly dim, in which was a gibbet and a man han: ing upon it, with the identical piece of silk under bs arm. One of the judges then addressed the prince, and told him, without the least allusion to his rank, that as a stranger he was excused; observing to him, however, at the same time, that by the summary ju tice with which the offence had been visited, he ought to be more cautious before he ventured to throw rm flections on a government. whose vigilance was ever in operation, and whose judgments were quick, deci. sive, and exemplary. The judge then, in a milde tone, assured him that he was welcome to remain ia the city as long as his convenience might require. The prince, however, as soon as he was dismissed from this temple of justice, assembled his retinue, and immediately quitted Venice.* ay RT BOUNDLESSNESS OF THE CREATION‘. Axout the time of the invention of the telescope, another instrument was formed, which laid open scene no less wonderful, and rewarded the inquisitive spirit of man. This was the microscope. The one led me to see a system in every star; the other leads me to see a world in every atom. The one taught me that this mighty globe, with the whole burden of it people aad its countries, is but a grain of sand on the high field of immensity; the other teaches me that every grain of sand may harbour within it the tribes and the families of a busy population. The one wld me of the insignificance of the world I tread upon; the other redeems it from all its insignificance; for it tells me, that in the leaves of every forest, and in the flow- ers of every garden, and in the waters of every rivulet there are worlds teetaing with life, and numberless are the glories of the firmament. The one has sug- gested to me, that beyond and above all that is visible to man, there may be fields of creation which sweep immeasurably along, and carry the impress of the Al- mighty’s hand to the remotest scenes of the universe; the other suggests to me, that within and beneath all that minuteness which the aided eye of man has beet able to explore, there may be a region of invisibles; and that could we draw aside the mysterious curtai2 which shrouds it from our senses, we might see # theatre of as many wonders as astronomy has unfolded, a universe within the eompass of a point so small as elude all the powers of the microscope, but where the wonder-working God finds room for the exercise of all his attributes, where he can raise another mechanis@ of worlds, and fill and animate them all with the ev dence of his glory. * This narrative was related to the writer by Mr Roma, a Venetian artist.

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———., eated the dy the which be The firg ed some. N stolen ings. Jy otten the di lost ig lection, asked if tured tw he mids IM Mitted | gover. ere then re chan- been Li an hang. inder his prince, is rank, r to him, nary jus he ought ITOW re yas ever ck, deci. 1 milder main ia require. ismissed nue, and ~* THE FORGED WILL. THE FORGED WILL. My pear Witton—yYou have considered it worth your while to remind me of a promise which I made you some time ago, to furnish you with a narrative of my life. I shall allude but slightly to the events which preceded my departure for India, as well as to those which occurred during my residence in the East, and hasten forward to that subsequent period which I have ever since been accustomed to regard as the most interesting of my existence. In order to the right understanding of the narrative, it will be first necessary to state, in a few words, the circumstances and condition of my family. The loss of both my pa- rents, in infancy, occasioned my removal to the seat of George Bromley, Esq., my paternal uncle, one of the jovial bachelors who relish both their bottle and their friend, but who would much rather choose to sacrifice the latter, than to forswear allegiance to the “ merry god.” My hours at Bromley-hall, were employed to no very advantageous purpose, and I fancied that my situation furnished me with an adequate plea to claim all exemption from study and useful pursuits. Though my uncle possessed several nephews besides myself, I was regarded, universally, as heir presumptive of Bromley-hall ; and my constitutional idleness being in- creased by this consideration no less than by my uncle’s inattention, I took little pains to supply the fearful vacuum which existed in my mind. I was naturally of a headstrong and ungovernable disposition. When a scheme had once found footing in my obstinate brain, however repugnant it might have been to sound reason, neither the advice of neighbours nor the remonstrances of my uncle availed to deter me from moving heaven and earth to carry it into execution. In 1790, (I was then in my eighteenth year,) it struck me forcibly, that my uncle had nefer certainly informed me whether or not he designed for me the mansion and estate of Bromley; and that, in case of his death, and leaving the property to another, my situation, all circumstances considered, would be none of the most comfortable. Destitute of education, unsupplied with the means of procuring even a livelihood capable of keeping body and soul together, and possessed of few or no genuine friends, I contemplated such a contingency with gloomy forebo- dings. Actuated by them, I conceived a resolution, (and my resolutions, when once taken, were, unfor- tunately for myself, never departed from,) to embark, in some capacity or other, for the Eastern world. The ideas of India and wealth are intimately associated in the imaginations of youth, and experience is alone able to convince us that they are not necessarily conjoined. My worthy uncle used all the means in his power to dissuade me from taking this chimerical step, and even offered to draw up his will in favour of his disobedient nephew. The latter, however, my dear Wilton, had said his say, and accordingly, my uncle was obliged to purchase me a cadetship in the Honourable East India Company’s service. You are already aware of the untoward circumstances which obstructed my progress in the East; it is un- Necessary to recapitulate them. Suffice it to say, that afier a residence of five years in Hindostan, I employed almost the whole funds of which I was master to en- able me to sell out ; and, on the 23d of March, 1796, I found myself on board the Trident, homeward bound, with a light purse and a heavy heart. I had been £onstantly accustomed to hear from my uncle as op- portunities offered, but for six months prior to my quit- ting Bombay these communications had entirely ceased. Unable otherwise to comprehend the cause of his silence, I allowed myself to anticipate the worst, and my apprehensions were confirmed by the announce- rE ment of his death, which appeared in the Brighton Gazette, and which I found at St. Helena, where we touched in our passage home. It was true that my uncle had not precisely declared his intention to leave me his heir, after my refusal to remain in England, yet, somehow or other, I had not scrupled to indulge the hope of being one day the proprietor of Bromley. Subsequently to our leaving St. Helena, visions of hap- piness floated on my young fancy, and Christianity had not yet taught me that a tear was due to the me- mory of the dead, previous to suffering considerations of personal interest to intrude themselves on more solemn thoughts. Many were the plans which I con- certed, many the innovations which I proposed to effect in the general appearance of the Hall. I would open a window on the south side, where a view could be obtained of the Thames; I would cut away the trees in front, and alter the avenue from a direct to a ser- pentine form ; I would pull down the old houses which deformed the entrance into the deer-park, and plant a shrubbery on the east, to screen me from the gaze of the dirty rabble; and, though last, not least, I would take unto myself a wife, and spend the remainder of my days in the joys of matrimony! Never, in short, my dear Wilton, did my hopes beat higher; never did they appear more likely to be realised, and never did adversity seem more distant from my path, than at the very moment when I was, in good earnest, pennyless, friendless. On the 4th of June we were spoken with by the Eagle, outward bound. A cargo of newspa- pers was transferred on board the Trident, and I acci- dentally took up “The Morning Chronicle,” which fell first from the budget. “I would not advise you, Bromley,” said a young mate, with whom I had be- come acquainted in thecourse of our voyage ; “I would not advise you to try ‘ The Morning Chronicle.’ I have heard it said, seriously, that all bad news is first con- veyed through a whig medium.” “ Fudge, fudge, my dear fellow,” answered I; “I'll lay you a thousand sovereigns to a button, that the first paragraph on the last page will contain good news for some one.” As I spoke I mechanically turned round the sheet, and you may well imagine my dismay and astonishment, on reading the following words:— “GENERAL ELEcTION.—We understand that Charles Mitford Bromley, Esq. of Bromley-hall, is the ministe- rial nominee for the representation of the borough of Blechingly.” Had a thunderbolt burst at my feet that moment, it could not more completely have astounded and staggered me. “My cousin Mitford, the eldest son of my uncle’s sister, was then in possession of the Hall ; my uncle had forgotten me; the cup of antici- pated pleasures had been dashed from my lips, and I stood, as it were, alone in the world, a wretched, solitary, and iselated thing.” The vehemence of my passions completely overcame me, and allowing myself to reflect upon nothing, save on the certainty of my misery, I verily believe that, had we been spoken to on that day by an ontward bound vessel, I should, without doubt, have returned to Bombay. Luckily, however, as it has since turned out, we did not meet with a single sail for the course of a week, and by that time reason and sober reflection had come to my aid, and determined me to persevere in steering for Britain. From the 4th of June to the period of our landing at Portsmouth, (September 2nd,) my whole faculties were absorbed in a sort of stupid apathy. I have said already that a liberal education I had none. Nature might, indeed, have fitted me for standing sentinel in an Indian jungle, and I dare say I possessed physical strength sufficient to cleave an enemy to his brisket, and perhaps steadiness of eye

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98 THE FORGED WILL. sufficient to pass a bullet through an object at some distance ; but I could never hope to rise far in my profession, destitute of those mental attainments which are alike necessary to eminence in civil and military employments. At one time, in the course of my rumi- nations, I conceived some idea of qualifying for the church, at another for the bar; but these schemes and imaginings were presently dismissed, and replaced by others equally Utdpian. We landed at Portsmouth, as I have already stated, on the 2nd September, 1796. My packages, heaven knows, were not large. All my funds had been con- sumed in procuring my discharge, and I was, conse- quently, unable to provide myself with any of those luxuries and rarities of the Eastern world which I might have disposed of to advantage in my native country. Forty or fifty sovereigns were all I had left in the world. The lightness of my pockets had pre- vious to the news of my misfortune, made little im- pression on a heart naturally volatile ; for, setting my- self down as already in possession of my uncle’s estate, I conceived that no expense could be contracted which the rental of Bromley was not more than suflicient to cover. I left Portsmouth on the day following that on which we landed, and proceeded to London, with nota single plan digested for the ways and means of my future subsistence. Seated on the top of a stage-coach, (the top, my dear friend, for economy began to intrude its ill- natured warnings into all my projects,) 1 half formed a resolution to cast myself on my cousin’s generosity, and to solicit from a relative that pittance, which, it seemed more than probable, I should otherwise be compelled to beg at the hands of strangers. But the thought was crushed almost in the very moment of its formation. I had a soul of pride, Wilton, a soul that constitutionally spurned at the idea of dependence; and, though the feeling be a good one when properly con- trolled, it has often operated to my material prejudice. I believe, however, that I become to prolix. Well, to cut this part of my story short, it will be sufficient to observe, that, on my arrival in London, I perused, by the merest accident, a newspaper notice, advertising for a young man who could officiate as one of the un- der clerks at the Stamp Office. That very evening I answered it, and in less than a week, poor M‘Laren Bromley commenced his unwonted labours, surrounded by mountains of receipts, folios, ledgers, &c. &c.!— My mind became insensibly more calm; the vehe- mence of despair had given place, in same measure, to the stillness of resignation, and after various strug- gles with my pride, I at length found myself on the road to act as herald of my own return to Charles Mitford Bromley, Esq. of Bromley-hall. I had already been in London, in my new situation, about a month, and had made sundry inquiries into the character of my relative. 1 found that he had fallen into dissipa- ted habits, and was regarded by the country gentle- men, (or rather by those of them who acted up tothe addage, “a short life and a merry one,”) as the leading etter at a horse-race, and the deepest drinker at a tavern dinner. Though such a description could not be said to promise fair, I was still urged by an unac- countable curiosity, to visit Bromley. My ruminations, you may suppose, were not of the most pleasing kind, when, after a walk of five miles and a half, I entered the long and straight avenue which conducts through a forest of beeches to the principal gateway of the hall. As I advanced silently along, a thousand associations crowded on my mind. They resembled a dream of vanished years. The traveller, who, afier a long absence, revisits, for the first time, the dwelling of his youth, and finds the places of father and mother, brothers and sisters, occu- pied by unknown forms, may conceive some idea of ——, the trees, and I verily imagined that the old beeches shook their heads at me as I passed. Beneath their once loved shade, I had often gambolled in the levity of childhood. How often had I here bestrode my uncle’s silver-headed stick, while Othello could scarcely have more exulted in “ the pomp, pride, and circum. stance of glorious war,” than I did in the dexterity with which I charged on my inanimate steed! How often had I launched the mimic barge on the little stream which purled through the adjoining field ; and no merchantman beholds, with greater pride, his gal- lant vessel steering from the harbour, than I did my Lilliputian sloop, nine inches by two, manceuvring in a manner that clearly indicated, in my conception, the superior skill of the carpenter. I remembered to have cut the initials of my name, a few days previous to my departure, in the bark of a favourite beech which overshaded the avenue. On arriving at the spot, where I recollected that this tree had anciently flour. ished, I was able to discover nothing, save only a withered stump. My cousin had, of course, some end in view which prompted him to this act, and chance had, in every probability, determined him to make choice of my favourite beech. I was not then, however, in the most charitable of moods, and I could not refrain from involuntarily exclaiming, “ What! could your ma- lignity extend thus far? Was it balm to your soul to erase every trace of your less fortunate cousin?” I hastily checked myself. It was no fault of Mitford's. I re- flected that Bromley had been left him by our uncle; and except I was prepared to rank among the vices, the indulgence of one of the most potent principles of human nature, my relative must stand acquitted. I knocked at the hall door with conflicting feelings, and felt my choler again mounting at the time which was suffered to elapse before it pleased the footman to appear. “Is your master at home?” I inquired, with the greatest difficulty repressing my emotions. “ Mr. Bromley is at dinner,” returned the fellow, “and cannot be disturbed. You must call again to- morrew, and it’s ten to one but you don’t see him even then.” “T must, and will see him, now,’ exclaimed I, ve- hemently ; “tell him that a near relation of his requests the favour of his company only for twe minutes.” The servant departed with the message, and pre- sently returned with the announcement that Mr. Mit- ford Bromley was particularly engaged with a select party of friends, and that the person who did him the honour to claim a relationship must call again on the subsequent day. The footman was preparing to fol- low up the delivery of his message by slamming the door in my face, when I seized it with my hand, and begged him to wait one moment till I had written a few words to his master. Leaning against the ban- nister, I scrawled the following lines with my pencil, on the envelope of a letter which I accidentally had in my pocket :— “ Sir.—lIt is neither my desire nor intention to dis- turb you in the possession of Bromley. The feelings of consanguinity alone have induced me to visit your residence, and, if my presence be in any degree offen- sive, you have only to intimate the fact, that I may take care not to diminish your enjoyments. If you now consent to see me, let it be alone, as I am far from being in a temper to meet company. “Tam, &e. &c. “M‘Laren Bromvey.” I waited a considerable time before there seemed any signs of replying to my note. At length I heard the sound of a heavy foot descending the stairs, and presently my cousin stood before me. I could scarcely myemotions, The wind was sighing mournfully among have known him, Wilton. When I left England he SES SESRBSRQEBRZ@™Es des

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FF CF a2 FS OR ae? os & om THE FORGED WILL. 99 was a slender, handsome young man of five and twenty, and I now found him in a more frightful condition than [ever could have supposed. A seemingly ceaseless pound of dissipation had made fearful ravages in his person ; his eyes were sunk and ghastly, his hair was already tinged with gray, and his bloated countenance gave sufficient indication of the pursuits which he followed, and the gods thathe worshipped. He seized me by the hand, and, pulling me within the threshold, gave utterance, in 2 broken voice, to some such salu- tations as the following :— “ My dear M:Laren, I am heartily glad to see you. When did you arrive from India? Why did you quit the Company’s service? Damn it, man, why didn’t you tell me at the first who it was? But come my dear fellow, come upstairs. It is but just that I should make ample amends for my apparent want of hospitality.” To confess the truth, Wilton, my cousin’s overpower- ing kindness of manner struck me with astonishment, and the more so because it was totally unexpected.— I begged to be at present excused from joining the visiters, a8 My spirits were incompetent to the task — “Qh! deuce take the visiters,” exclaimed Mitford ; “I left them busy over a bottle of claret. Come along to the drawing-room, and I will dismiss the gentry in a couple of seconds.” We accordingly ascended to the drawing-room, which I found furnished with ex- quisite splendour. Mitfurd left me alone here for about ten minutes, while he was engaged in explaining to his guests the reasons which obliged him to interrupt their entertainment. For myself, I remained standing in the centre of the drawing-room, gazing on a full- length portrait of my late uncle, which hung suspended against the wall. My feelings were of a two-fold de- scription, I cursed over and over again my own despicable rashness in abandoning my native land, and throwing behind me wealth and property, which, but for that step, I confidently believed must have been mine. At the same time, I could not suppose ikat that delinquency was of a nature so heinous as altogether to justify my uncle in stripping me of what were my legal rights, had he died intestate : nor could I, by any process of reasoning, reconcile the fact of his kind and regular correspondence with his resolu- tin to deprive me, as far as it lay in his power, of the means of subsistence, a deed, certainly the more cruel she had given me no reason to anticipate it. The consequence of this double dealing, I reflected, was, that my necessities had reduced me to the counter of astamp office; a bitter change, to be sure, from the prospect of inheriting a landed estate, and succeeding to the representation of an honourable family. Mit- fard rejoined me in a short time. “Re seated, my dear M‘Laren,” said he kindly, «I have dismissed the riotous crew beneath, and shall now be happy to converse with you on family matters. Changes are frequent in this world, (and, perhaps, it is just that they are so, since they serve to remind us of the uncertain tenure by which we hold its good things.) and one of these changes has affected us nearly. Our. worthy uncle has passed to his reckoning, and sure I am, if we tread the path which he trode before us, posterity will have no reason to anathematise our me- nories. I shall show you the will by which Bromley- was conveyed to my side of the house, and while lam, as I ought to be, grateful for the honour, it has sttuck me as a circumstance somewhat uncommon, that the name of M’Laren Bromley should never occur in it from the ‘ know all men,’ to the ‘witness my hand.’ Surely my uncle might, and, with every respect to his whes, I will add, he should have given some signs ihat he had not forgotten his absent nephew. Believe me, my friend, I sincerely sympathise with you on your bereavement.” While Mitford was speaking, I agreed with most of his ‘iments. With regard tothe allusion which he made to our late uncle’s character, though I was perfeetly aware of the old gentleman’s intemperate habits, I felt inclined to acquiesce in the approbation bestowed on him by his successor; for his hand was ever open to the poor man, and his benevolence of heart had never been questioned. Had Providence spared my cousin until now, I could have told him, dear Edmund, that there was something wanting to complete the picture which he had drawn, and without which, all amiable qualities are but as “ sounding brass and tinkling cym- bal.” Thank heaven, my dear young friend, that [ have not to insist upon this, in an epistle to you. As Mitford appeared to pause for a reply, I an- swered nearly, I think, as follows;— “TI need not conceal from you, Charles, that I once did look forward to the property of this Mansion, and the whole Bromley estate. Since it was my uncle’s will, however, that the representation of his family should be vested in another, I ought, if possible, to acquiesce in his decision. At first, no doubt, the disappointment was hard to bear; but I have since better learned, by the aid of Providence, to submit myself to it. I have luckily got into a way of earning an honest livelihood, and though unquestionably the bright and fairy dreams, in which I was wont to indulge in early life, have been at length superseded by darker realities; I think I may hold up my head with as high confidence as many whose worldly hopes have been better answered. To you, my dear cousin, I wish every happiness. If your good fortune has hitherto exceeded mine, you probably have deserved it more.” As I concluded, it seemed that horrid recollections were agitating my cousin's bosom—for his eye suddenly assumed an expression of singular wildness, and his cheeks and lips, in despite of the effects of inebriety, became paler than marble. He started suddenly from his seat and walked to the window. I regarded him with surprise, but the train of conjecture into which my thoughts had consequently fallen, was shortly in- terrupted by Mitford, who, after a visibly forced effort to recover his equanimity, threw himself on a couch and inguired :— “What way of earning a livelihood do you allude to? Is it possible that you can yet have chalked ont any scheme?” “You are ignorant,” observed [, “that I have already been a month in London. My situation there * is that of one of the sub-clerks in the Stamp Office.” “A month in London!” ejaculated my cousin, “and I not informed of it! I protest, M‘Laren, you have not yet laid aside your old habits. Eccentric as ever, I see. Certainly you should have known that you were welcome at Bromley Hall, while Charles Mit- ford was its proprietor. But in the name of Heaven, what tempted you to bind yourself to the counter of a Stamp Office? We must see what more honourable employment can be procured for you—and, if I sue- ceed in carrying my election for Blechingly, I think I shall have sufficient influence with government to ob- tain avy situation for which you think yourself suited. If you have the least desire to return to India, I am well-nigh certain that a cadetship could be secured for the asking, or if you dislike the smell of gunpowder, there can be no great difficulty to obtain a writership. And seriously my advice is, that you betake yourself again to the East. Men seldom return from India without having amassed a mint of money.” “ Yes,” interrupted I, “and without having impaired their constitutions. No, no! Charles, I thank you for your consideration, but, having already had some knowledge of the quantity of gold which one may gather in Hindostan,I shall remain in the Stamp Of- fice. I am not ashamed of my situation ; it is an honest one, and though men of the world may not deem it honourable or fitting for a gentleman, it is one which cannot be dispensed with.”

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100 THE FORGED WILL. “I donot deny your situation being honest and necessary,” rejoined my cousin; “ but I cannot think it altogether of that description which a Bromley should fill. In these revolutionary times, we must prevent, te the utmost extent of our power, any individual con- nected with the English aristocracy from stooping to an employment which naturally degrades him to a fevel with the vulgarest quill-driver in the land— Now, in the case of India, z * * * 7 * * * * * “Cease to mention India, Charles,” said I, again interrupting him, “I have been satiated with it. Our lives are not of such immense duration, but that we may be satisfied with whatever is sufficient to carry us through them. I mean not to depreciate the ad- vantages of a just and praiseworthy ambition ; I might, probably, have possessed some share of it in other cir- cumstances—but, as it is, I hardly think it worth my while to look far into futurity.” I have entered, my dear Wilton, somewhat more into detail than I originally designed. 1 thonght, however, that you might be interested to learn the particulars of my first interview with my cousin. I remained the whole of that night and the following day at Bromley Hall—loaded with the greatest kindness,—and pressed again and again to accept of a situation in India. I do confess I was somewhat puzzled at this excess of affection, and was frequently inclined to ask with Sir Oliver, “Is not this too much politeness by half?” It appeared likewise surprising, that among his many offers of assistance (and I am sure he did not spare them), my cousin never once suggested an employment in my native isles. India commenced and India con- cluded his song, and I thought I had discovered, be- fore leaving him, a remarkable anxiety on his part to get me as speedily as possible out of the country. A few minutes previous to my departure for London, he showed me my uncle's will—which conveyed “all and whole his estates real and personal, all his goods and chattels, &c. &c., to Mr. Charles Mitford, eldest son of John Mitford, Merchant in London, and the late Catharine Bromley his wife, upon condition that he, the said Charles Mitford, do add to his other styles and designations the name of Bromley.” As all hands were busily employed at the Stamp Office for the next six weeks, I was prevented from sojourning any length of time at the Hall. In the meantime, facts were every day multiplying to con- vince me that my cousin would soon run through his estate. He proceeded from one extravagance to an- other—lost immense sums of money at play—main- tained a stud of race horses at a ruinous expense—and though he uniformly expressed the highest regard and kindness for me, I could not help regarding the pro- testations of this misguided man, as hollow and worth- less at the bottom. I had already discovered him to be a consummate hypocrite—affecting to regulate his conduct by the rules of a morality which he virtually trampled beneath his feet. In this character I could not repose confidence, and well you know, my dear Wilton, how fully my suspicions have been justified. It was not,I assure you, without extreme regret, that I contemplated the probability of the fine estate of Bromley being brought to the hammer, and I quite expected that the election expenses of Blechingly would be the means of accelerating that crisis. About four months afier my first interview with my cousin, and only a week prior to the day appointed for the election, as [ was proceeding, in the morning, at a leisurely pace from my lodgings towards the Stamp Office, I was overtaken by a servant of Bromley Hall: “Oh, Mr. M‘Laren,” said he, almost breathless ;— “Come up to the Hall as fast as you can. Here has been the young Squire Gilbert shooting my master with a pistol.” “Good God!” exclaimed I, “ what has happened t Mr. Bromley ?” “Neither more nor less than this,” replied the clown, “Squire Gilbert and my master had high words at the theatre the night afore last, and off they both set this morning at four o’clock—pitch dark as it was —to Chalk Farm, where the Squire shot my master through the body, and then decamped himself—a chicken as he is. But, make haste, for master be woundily keen to see thee.” The truth flashed upon my mind in an instant. A duel had taken place between Mitford and one of his dissipated associates, and had terminated fatally for my poor cousin. I accordingly made the best of my way to the Hall, accompanied by the servant, who employed himself, during our walk, in venting curses on the head of Squire Gilbert, vociferating loudly that it would be the worse for him, if he ever came within reach of “ his own shillelah.” I was too much struck with the awful suddenness of the catastrophe, to at- tend to my Irish friend's gibberish—and I reached Bromley in a state of feverish impatience and anxiety. I was immediately shown to my cousin’s chamber. I found him stretched upon his bed, apparently in a state of extreme despair, and attended by a surgeon from the metropolis. His groans were both loud and deep, and a visible change had already affected his whole countenance. As soon as he was apprised of my presence, he motioned to the surgeon to withdraw, and presently we were left alone together. Turning himself round in the direction where I stood, a move- ment which appeared to occasion him exquisite tor- ture, and pressing his left hand against the wound, he fixed his eyes steadily upon mine with a gaze of ap- palling despair. “ M‘Laren,” he at length uttered in a hollow tone, “Tam going now—but I have much to tell you, and I only wish to be spared till my task of reparation is completed. Take this key, and open the highest of those drawers. Bring me the mahogany casket which you will find there.” Mechanically I obeyed my cousin’s directions, with- out saying a word, for I felt as if my tongue were chained up in silence, and delivered the casket into his hands. Hastily he undid the lock, and drew forth the identical will of my uncle, which he had shown to me on our first interview. Surprised and doubtful, I resumed my seat by the bedside, while my cousin having unfolded the document to its full extent, raised himself on his elbow, seemingly insensible of pain, and grasping the paper in his hand, gazed wildly in my face. In a few seconds he spoke:— “ M‘Laren Bromley, I am a villain! Speak not, I ptay you; I must have all the time to myself which may yet intervene before I am called to my dread ac- count. Ihave much to do—much—much reparation to make. Oh, that horrible—that damning disclosure! And yet it must be made, though the effort should cost me all hell's tortures before I die.” He paused for a moment to wipe off the death damps which were starting on his forehead, and resumed, “That will, M'Laren, was—was a fabrication.” The wretched man sunk back on his pillow. I was too dreadfully agitated to tender him assistance—over- come—struck speechless by the announcement I had just heard. It was some time before my cousin could summon up sufficient strength again to address me. “ Yes, M‘Laren,” he said, with frightful vehemence, “TI availed myself of your absence, and wrought your ruin. At least I tried it—but what were your deepest sorrows, when compared with the tortures of the soul? I forged that will at my uncle’s death; I grasped the filthy gold which has been my bane. But did it bring me the happiness I sought? Did it bring me honour; Did it produce peace here?” And he smote upon his bosom as he spoke—“No, no, no! The crime carried

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ied to WINTER GARDENS IN PRUSSIA. 101 along with it its direct punishment. I tell you I have nothing to expect—nothing to hope for. I tell you that blacker guilt than mine stains not the long cata- jogue of human transgression. Why do you not curse me, boy?” Exhaustion again overpowered him, and grasping the fatal document in his hand, he dashed it from him with violence. “Charles,” said I, with as much composure as I could command; “ curses were never farther from my thoughts than at this moment. my soul I do sincerely forgive you.” «Tis false!’ exclaimed Mitford, starting up with a groan of agony, which the movement occasioned— “You cannot—will not—dare not forgive me. Fer- giveness! Pardon! can such things exist for a wretch like me? Neither here nor hereafter.” «By all that is sacred,” said I, alarmed at the fury of his motions, “I forgive you, Charles—and may the great God of heaven forgive you too!” “Shall I say Amen to that prayer?” exclaimed the expiring wretch, “ Empty—empty hope! Oh! it is a terrible thing to die—but doubly terrible to die thus hopelessly condemned! Oh, can there be a God, MLaren? Yes, yes! I, who have practically denied his existence, feel that awful truth rushing like a flood into my soul. The worms will soon have a banquet of these limbs ; and what—what is beyond the grave?” He answered his own question with a long and deep groan, and fell back exhausted. In a short time, Mitford became more composed, and the pain of the first disclosure having subsided, he proceeded to state with greater calmness what I was already aware of:— “My mind, M‘Laren, was naturally depraved. The love of wealth was the ruling motive of my actions from first to last. Our uncle was cut off suddenly— in consequence, it was conjectured of having indulged over-freely in an evening's revel, and I conceived the opportunity a good one to gratify my favourite passion. I drew up that accursed document, and counterfeited, after my uncle’s name, the signature of a notary who had been dead for some time. This forgery I con- veyed, by means of a false key, into my uncle’s escri- toire, but not without making myself sure that no other will was in existence, and immediately after the fune- ral,on opening his drawers, that deed was found.— Not the smallest doubt was ever expressed, nor, I be- lieve, ever entertained of its validity, and I entered in consequence into complete possession of the estate of Bromley. You see that my schemes were well laid— almost beyond the possibility of a failure—and no wonder, fur I was an adept in deceit. ‘That was far from being the first-—though it certainly was the greatest of my crimes, and a long career—coeval nearly with my life—of practice-hardened villany, had dead- ened every feeling of compunction. Your unexpected return from India, you may be sure, struck me with dismay, yet I contrived to dissemble the thorn of hatred which rankled in my breast—and often and often, as you remember, did I urge you, under the plea of soli- citude for your interests, to remove yourself from the country fur ever. The steady opposition which you offered to my plan perplesed me at the time—but I have now reason to thank the arbitrations of destiny, that you persisted in your resolution to remain, since I have now an opportunity to make you the fullest repa- ration in my power. I am resolved to sign a declara- tion of my crime, in presence of adequate witnesses, and no remonstrances,” added he, seeing me about to interrupt him ; “no remonstrances shall prevent me from performing that act of justice. I have deserved it every inch—I have deserved the bullet which has laid me here. Oh, God forgiveme! I used to hear of a Saviour in my young days—though I have not been over a church threshold for many a long year: From the bottom of oh! if there be such a Being, hear his intercessions, thou dread God, whose name I have never reverently spoken till this hour of darkness!” My poor cousin clasped his hands together with convulsive earnestness. Alas! I was no fitting comforter. My knowledge of Heaven’s mercy was then as limited as his own. It was in vain, my dear Wilton, that I endeavoured to dissuade my relative from publicly recording his infamy. In presence of the surgeon, the steward, one of the footmen and myself, he signed a statement which I drew upaccording to his direction, of what he had previously communicated to me. He lingered in the extreme of torture till the ensuing morning, when he expired at half-past seven o’clock on the 3d of January, 1797, and in the thirty-first year of his age. As it was now upon record that my uncle died intestate, I of course came into possession of the whole of his pro- perty as heir-at-law. I feel it impossible, even at this distance of time, to look back without strong emotion on the untimely ead of my misguided cousin. He led, unquestionably, a life of the blackest kind; but we know that there may be pardon even for “the chief of sinners.” I fol- lowed him to the grave in an indescribable state of mind, and with feelings the most excited. Beyond that, human ken is not suffered to penetrate. Almost thirty-two years have now elapsed since the above events took place, and I think I can say to my friend, with all humility, that I have become a better and a mended man. I possess the advantage of a strange experience—one that falls seldom to mortal lot—and I were indeed culpable in the extreme did it fail to produce suitable effects on my conduct. My purest joys depend on those of my wife and children, and, allow me to add, on those of my valued friend, Edmund Wilton. As the great principle of my life, I have endeavoured to supersede that sense of honour which most men of the world unfortunately culti- vate to the exclusion of higher motives, by the spirit of the Christian religion. I have been enabled to up- root from my heart many unhallowed prejudices, and to plant in their stead a holier and diviner seed. In fine, though that sentiment of Thomas Moore— “This world is all a fleeting show, For man’s illusion given,” be, in the main, correct, and is perceived more and more, the whiter the head becomes, yet, inasmuch as genuine happiness may be tasted on earth, it has un- questionably been long enjoyed by, my dear Wilton, your most attached and devoted friend, M‘LarEN BROMLEY. Bromley Hall, August 31, 1830. —— WINTER GARDENS IN PRUSSIA. At Berlin there are four extensive winter gardens, in which the appearance of perpetual summer is kept up. They are simply large greenhouses, or orangeries, with paved floors, a lofty ceiling, and upright windows in front—the air heated by stoves, supplied with fuel from without. On the floor are placed here and there large orange-trees, myrtles, and various New Holland plants in boxes. Round the stem of the trees tables are formed, which are used for refreshments for the guests, and for pamphlets and newspapers. There are also clumps of trees and of flowering plants, and some- times pine-apples and fruit-trees. The gardens abound with movable tables and seats, and th«re is generally music, a writer of poetry,a reader and a lecturer. In the evening the whole is illuminated, and on cer- tain days of the week the music and illumination is on a grander scale. In the morning part of the day, the gardens are chiefly resorted to by old gentlemen, who read the papers, talk politics and drink coffee. In the evening they are crowded by ladies and gentlemen.

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A FEW YEARS, &c. From Biackwood's Magazine. A FEW YEARS. On! a few years! how the words come, Like frost across the heart! We need not weep, we need not smile, For a few years—a litile while, And it will all depart. And we shall be with those who lie Where there is neither smile nor sigh. Yet—“ a few years”—is this the whole Of chilliness in the name? . That glad or wretched, @ few ycars, With their tumultuous hopes and fears, And ‘twill be all the same— Our names, our generation, gone, Our day of life, and life’s dream done? Ah! this were nothing —fewer still Will do to bury all That made life pleasant once, and threw Over its stream the sunny hue That it shall scarce recall. There is a gloomier grave than death, For hearts where love is as life’s breath. Ay, pain sleeps now; but, a few years, And how all, all may change? How some, whose hearts were like our own, So woven with ours, so like in tone, By then may have grown strange : Or keep but that tame, cutting show Of love, that freezes fervour's flow! Such things have been; oh! @ few years, They teach us more of earth; And of what all its sweetest things, Its kindly ties, its hopes’ young springs, Its dearest smiles are worth, Than aught its sage ones ever told Before our own fund breasts grew cold. But—worst and saddest—a few years, And happy is the heart That can belicve itself the same— lis now calm pulse, so dead, so tame— To be the one whose lightest start Was bliss, even though it wrung hot tears, ‘To the cold rest of later years. The storms and buds together gone, The sunshine and the rain— Our hopes, our cares, our tears grown few, We love not as we used to do, We never can again! And thus much for a jew short years— Can the words breathe of much that cheers? Yet something we must love, while life Is warm within the breast: Oh! would that earth had not, even yet, Enough, too much, whereon to set Its tenderness supprest! Would this world had indeed no more On which aflection’s depth to pour! For then how easy it would be, In contriteness of soul, Weary and sick, to bring to One, To the Unchangeable alone, Devotedly the whole! Then, a few years, at rest, forgiven, Himself would dry all tears in Heaven! ——. THE ZEPHYR’S SOLILOQUY. Trovn whence I came, or whither I go, My end or my nature I ne’er may know, I will number o’er to myself a few Of the countless things 1 am born to do. I flit, in the days of the joyous Spring, Through field and forest, and freight my wing With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear Where I know that man will inhale the air. And while I hover o'er beauty’s lip, I part her locks with my pinion’s tip; Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress, And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress. I love to sport with the silken curl On the lily neck of the laughing girl; To dry the tear of the weeping boy, Who 's breaking his heart for a broken toy; To fan the heat of his brow away, And over his mother’s harp-strings play, Till, his griefs forgotten, he looks around For the secret hand that has waked the sound. I love, when the warrior mails his breast, To toss the head of his snow-white crest; To take the adieu that he turns to leave, And the sigh that his Indy retires to heave! When the sultry sun of a summer's day Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away, And the flowers are left to thirst to death, I love to come and afford them breath; And, under each languid, drooping thing To place my balmy and cooling wing. When the bright, fresh showers have just gone by, And the rainbow stands in the evening sky, Oh! then is the merriest time for me; And I and my race have a jubilee! We fly to the gardens and shake the drops From the bending boughs, and the flowered tops; And revel unseen in the calm starlight, Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night. These, ah! these are my hours of gladness! But, I have my days and my nights of sadness! When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose, And ‘t is turning as white as the mouniain snows; While the eve of beauty must soon be hid For ever, beneath its sinking lid— | Oh! J ‘d give my whole self but to spare that gasp, | And save her a moment from death’s cold grasp! | And when she is borne to repose alone "Neath the fresh-cut sod and the church-yard stone, I keep close by her, arid do my best, To liit the dark pall from the sleeper’s breast; And linger behind with the beautiful clay, When friends and kindred have gone their way! | When the babe whose dimples I used to fan, I see completing its earthly span, I long, with a spirit so pure, to go, From the scene of sorrow and tears, below, Till I rise so high I can catch the song Of welcome, that bursts from the angel throng, As it enters its rest—but, alas! alas! I am only from death to death to pass. I hasten away over mountain and flood, And ‘find I ’m alone on a field of blood. The soldier is there—but he breathes no more— And there is the plume, but ’t is stained with gore. [ flutter and strive in vain, to place The end of his scarf o’er his marble face; And find not even a sigh, to take To her, whose heart is so soon to break! I fly to the flowers that I loved so much— They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch. The earth is in ruins! I wen to the sky— It frowns! and what can I do, but die?

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WINE. WINE, “Ob! thou invisible spirit of wine !—if thon hast no name to be known by, let us call thee “ devil !”—Shakspearc. Some eighteen months, or two years ago, I was doing my duty to my country and myself on board His Majesty’s frigate the Astrea, by undergoing seventeen games of chess per diem, with our first lieutenant, and filling up every pause with murmurs at the continu- ance of these piping times of peace. We had been cruising some months in the Mediterranean, chiefly for the amusement of two dandy cousins of an honourable Captain, whom we picked up at Malta, basking like two yellow, over-ripe gourds in the sunshine. We had touched at most of the ports of the Ionians, where cyprus may be had for paying for; and where faldettas are held by hands as fair as their coquettish folds are black and lustrous. We had done due service to the siate, by catching agues snipe-shooting in the Albanian marshes ; listening to five-year-old operas, screeched by fifty-year-old prima donnas; by learning. to swear by St. Spiridion, and af his Klephtic votaries. We had spouted in the school of Homer, and shouted at Le- panto; poured libations on the grave of Anacreon; and voted the Leucadian leap a trifle, compared with a Leicestershire fence! At length, one beautiful evening, one of those twi- lights of chrysolite and gold, such as poets dream of, and the Levant alone can realize, (having been for three preceding days, not “ spell-bound,” but “ calm- bound among the clustering Cyclades,”) it was the gleasure of our honourable Captain, and his cousins, to drop anchor in the Bay of , (I have reasons of my own for not being more explicit;) where, after swearing the usual number of oaths at the quarantine officers, and the crews of the Venetian and Turkish traders, who make it a part of their religion to give offence to the blue-jackets, where offence can be given with impunity, I had the satisfaction to find myself, at about seven o'clock, Pp. M., seated at the mess of His Majesty’s gallant —th, doing as much justice to the roast beef of Old England as if we had not been within aday’s sail of the Island of the Minotaur. It was, indeed, refreshing to listen to the king’s English, in its own accents; to eat of the king's sirloin, in its own gravy; and to join in the jargon of horse-flesh, in its own slang ;—to hear the names of Newmarket, White’s, Tattersall’s, Ellen Tree, and Fanny Kemble, familiar in their mouths as household words; to throw off, in short, for an hour or two, the tedium of prefessional existence. A bumper of port appeared as palatable in aclimate where the thermometer stood at 88° in the shade, as amid the clammy fogs of the cold North; and, at length, after a liberal indulgence in Hudson's best, (only the more relished because the richest Tur- key tobacco, and a pipe of cherry wood was in the hands of every soldier in the garrison,) proposals were made for a bowl of “Gin-Punch!” Lord Thomas Howard, a lieutenant in th —th, was announced to be a master-hand in the scientific brew; and the very name of gin-punch affords, in the fatherland of Achilles, a sort of anti-climax, which there was no resisting. The materials were brought. The regimental bowl, in which Picton himself is recorded to have plunged the ladle ; lemons from the islands redolent of romance and poetry; and a bottle of Hodge’s best, redolent of Holborn Hill, appeared in as orderly array as though Wwe had been supping at Limmer’s. “Are you a punchdrinker?” inquired my neigh- tour, Captain Wargrave, with whom, as a school-fel- low of my elder brother's, I had quickly made ac- quaintance. “If I may venture to own it, no!” said [; “I have swallowed toe much punch on compulsion in the course of my life.” “fT judged as much from your looks,” replied War- grave, who had promised to see me on board the fri- gate. “If you want to get away from these noisy fellows, we can easily slip off while Lord Thomas and his operations engage their attention.” And, in compliance with the hint, I soon found my- self sauntering with him, arm in arm, on the bastions of . We had an hour before us; for the Captain’s gig was not ordered till eleven; and, in order to keep an eye at once on the frigate and the shore, we sat down on an abutment of the parapet, to gossip away the time; interrupted only by the measured tramp of the sentinels, and enjoying the freshness of the night air, perfumed by jessamine and orange blossoms, pro- ceeding from the trelliced gardens of the Government House. As I am not embitious of writing bad Byron, my readers must allow me to spare them the descrip- tion of a night in Greece: a lieutenant of H. M. 8. the Astrea, and a captain of H. M.’s gallant —th, may be supposed to entertain Hotspur’s prejudices against ballad-mongers! “ There seem to be hard-going fellows in your mess,” said I, to Wargrave, as he sat beside me with his arms folded over his breast. “Thornton, I understand, carries off his two bottles a-day like a Trojan ; and the fat major, who sat opposite to me, made such play with the champagne, as caused me to blush for my squeam- ishness. For my own part, I should be well content never to exceed a couple of glasses of good ciaret. Wine affects me in a different way from most men. The more I drink, the more my spirits are depressed. While others get roaring drunk, I sit moping and de- spairing; and the next day my head aches like an artilleryman’s.” “ You are fortunate,” said Wargrave drily. “Fortunate?” cried I. “I wish I could appreciate my own luck!—I am voted the sulkiest dog unhanged, whenever it is my cue to be jolly; and after proving a wet blanket to a merry party over night, am ready to shoot myself with the headache and blue devils next morning. If there be a fellow I really envy, it is such a one as Thornton; who is ready to chime in with the chorus of the 36th stanza of Nancy Dawson between his two last bottles; and keeps his head and legs an hour after all the rest of the party have lost theirs under the table.” “I fancy Thornton is pretty well seasoned ; saturat- ed like an old claret hogshead!” “ Enviable dog! From time immemorial, odes have been endited to petition the gods for an insensible heart. When I turn lyrist, it will be to pray for an insensible stomach! "fis a monstrous hard thing, when one hears the trolling of a joyous chanson a boire, or trinklied, under the lime-trees of France or Ger- many, to feel no sympathy in the strain save that of nausea. There is something fresh and picturesge ir the mere sound of ‘the vine—the grape—the cup— the bowl! It always appears to me that Bacchus is the universal divimity, and that I alone am exempted from the worship. Think of Lord Thomas's gin-punch, and pr me!” Wa_zave replied by a vague unmeaning laugh; which led me to conclude that my eloquence was lost upon him. Yet I continued. “ Do you know that, in spite of the prevalence of the

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A FEW YEARS, &c. From Blackwood's Magazine. A FEW YEARS. On! a few years! how the words come, Like frost across the heart! We need not weep, we need not smile, For a few years—a litile while, And it will all depart. And we shall be with those who lie Where there is neither smile nor sigh. VYet—*“ a few years”—is this the whole Of chilliness in the name? : That glad or wretched, a few ycars, With their tumultuous hopes and fears, And ‘twill be all the same— Our names, our generation, gone, Our day of life, and life’s dream done? Ah! this were nothing —fewer siill Will do to bury all That made life pleasant once, and threw Over its stream the sunny hue That it shall scarce recall. There is a gloomier grave than death, For hearts where love is as life’s breath. Ay, pain sleeps now; but, a few years, And how all, all may change ? How some, whose hearts were like our own, So woven with ours, so like in tone, By then may have grown strange : Or keep but that tame, cutting show Of love, that freezes fervour's flow! Such things have been; oh! @ few years, They teach us more of earth; And of what all its sweetest things, Its kindly ties, its hopes’ young springs, Its dearest smiles are worth, Than aught its sage ones ever told Before our own fund breasts grew cold. But—worst and saddest—a few years, And happy is the heart That can belicve itself the same— lis now calm pulse, so dead, so tame— To be the one whose lightest start Was bliss, even though it wrung hot tears, To the cold rest of later years. The storms and buds together gone, The sunshine and the rain— Our hopes, our cares, our tears grown few, We love not as we used to do, We never can again! And thus much for a few short years— Can the words breathe of much that cheers? Yet something we must love, while life Is warm within the breast: Oh! would that earth had not, even yet, Enough, too much, whereon to set Its tenderness supprest! Would this world had indeed no more On which aflection’s depth to pour! For then how easy it would be, In contriteness of soul, Weary and sick, to bring to One, To the Unchangeable alone, Devotedly the whole! Then, a few years, at rest, forgiven, Himself would dry all tears in Heaven! ———_ THE ZEPHYR’S SOLILOQUY. Trovn whence I came, or whither I go, My end or my nature I ne’er may know, I will number o’er to myself a few Of the countless things 1 am born to do. I flit, in the days of the joyous Spring, Through field and forest, and freight my wing Where I know that man will inhale the air. And while I hover o'er beauty’s lip, I part her locks with my pinion’s tip; Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress, And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress. I love to sport with the silken curl On the lily neck of the laughing gir!; To dry the tear of the weeping boy, Who 's breaking his heart for a broken toy; To fan the heat of his brow away, And over his mother’s harp-strings play, Till, his griefs forgotten, he looks around For the secret hand that has waked the sound. I love, when the warrior mails his breast, To toss the head of his snow-white crest; To take the adieu that he turns to leave, And the sigh that his lady retires to heave! When the sultry sun of a summer's day Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away, And the flowers are left to thirst to death, I love to come and afford them breath; And, under each languid, drooping thing To place my balmy and cooling wing. And the rainbow stands in the evening sky, Oh! then is the merriest time for me; And I and my race have a jubilee! We fly to the gardens and shake the drops From the bending boughs, and the flowered tops; And revel unseen in the calm starlight, Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night. These, ah! these are my hours of gladness! But, I have my days and my nights of sadness! While the eve of beanty must soon be hid | For ever, beneath its sinking lid— | Oh! J ‘d give my whole self but to spare that gasp, | And save her a moment from death’s cold grasp! | And when she is borne to repose alone "Neath the fresh-cut sod and the church-yard stone, I keep close by her, arid do my best, To litt the dark pall from the sleeper’s breast; And linger behind with the beautiful clay, When friends and kindred have gone their way! | When the babe whose dimples I used to fan, | I see completing its earthly span, | I long, with a spirit so pure, to go, | From the scene of sorrow and tears, below, | Till I rise so high I can catch the song + Of welcome, that bursts from the angel throng, As it enters its rest—but, alas! alas! I am only trom death to death to pass. I hasten away over mountain and flood, And ‘find | ’m alone on a field of blood. The soldier is there—but he breathes no more— I flutter and strive in vain, to place The end of his scarf o’er his marble face ; And find not even a sigh, to take To her, whose heart is so soon to break! I fly to the flowers that I loved so much— They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch. The earth is in ruins! I wen to the sky— It frowns! and what can I do, but die? With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear . When the bright, fresh showers have just gone by, When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose, And ’t is turning as white as the mountain snows; And there is the plume, but ’t is stained with gore. rSro q

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y> WINE. Some eighteen months, or two years ago, I was doing my duty to my country and myself on board His Majesty’s frigate the Astrea, by undergoing seventeen games of chess per diem, with our first lieutenant, and filling up every pause with murmurs at the continu- ance of these piping times of peace. We had been cruising some months in the Mediterranean, chiefly for the amusement of two dandy cousins of an honourable Captain, whom we picked up at Malta, basking like wwe yellow, over-ripe gourds in the sunshine. We had touched at most of the ports of the lonians, where cyprus may be had for paying for; and where faldettas are held by hands as fair as their coquettish folds are black and lustrous. We had done due service to the sate, by catching agues snipe-shooting in the Albanian marshes ; listening to five-year-old operas, screeched by fifty-year-old prima donnas; by learning. to swear by St. Spiridion, and at his Klephtic votaries. We had spouted in the school of Homer, and shouted at Le- panto; poured libations on the grave of Anacreon; and voted the Leucadian leap a trifle, compared with a Leicestershire fence! At length, one beautiful evening, one of those twi- lights of chrysolite and gold, such as poets dream of, and the Levant alone can realize, (having been for three preceding days, not “ spell-bound,” but “ calm- bound among the clustering Cyclades,”) it was the gleasure of our honourable Captain, and his cousins, to drop anchor in the Bay of . (I have reasons of my own for not being more explicit;) where, after swearing the usual number of oaths at the quarantine officers, and the crews of the Venetian and Turkish traders, who make it a part of their religion to give offence to the blue-jackets, where offence can be given with impunity, I had the satisfaction to find myself, at about seven o'clock, p. M., seated at the mess of His Majesty’s gallant —th, doing as much justice to the roast beef of Old England as if we had not been within aday’s sail of the Island of the Minotaur. It was, indeed, refreshing to listen to the king’s English, in its own accents; to eat of the king's sirloin, in its own gravy; and to join in the jargon of horse-flesh, in its own slang ;—to hear the names of Newmarket, White's, Tattersall’s, Ellen Tree, and Fanny Kemble, familiar in their mouths as household words; to throw off, in short, for an hour or two, the tedium of prefessional existence. A bumper of port appeared as palatable in aclimate where the thermometer stood at 88° in the shade, as amid the clammy fogs of the cold North; and, at length, after a liberal indulgence in Hudson's best, (only the more relished because the richest Tur- key tobacco, and a pipe of cherry wood was in the hands of every soldier in the garrison,) proposals were made for a bowl of “Gin-Punch!” Lord Thomas Howard, a lieutenant in th —th, was announced to be 4 master-hand in the scientific brew; and the very name of gin-punch affords, in the fatherland of Achilles, a sort of anti-climax, which there was no resisting. The materials were brought. The regimental bowl, in which Picton himself is recorded to have plunged the ladle ; lemons from the islands redolent of romance and poetry; and a bottle of Hodge's best, redolent of Holborn Hill, appeared in as orderly array as though Wwe had been supping at Limmer’s. “Are you a punchdrinker?” gnquired my neigh- bour, Captain Wargrave, with whom, as a school-fel- low of my elder brother's, I had quickly mede ac- (Uaintance. WINE, “Ob! thou iavisible spirit of wine '!—if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee “ devil !”—Shakspearc. “If I may venture to own it, no!” said [; “I have swallowed toe much punch on compulsion in the course of my life.” “ t judged as much from your looks,” replied War- grave, who had promised to see me on board the fri- gate. “If you want to get away from these noisy fellows, we can easily slip off while Lord Thomas and his operations engage their attention.” And, in compliance with the hint, I soon found my- self sauntering with him, arm in arm, on the bastions of . We had an hour before us; for the Captain’s gig was not ordered till eleven; and, in order to keep an eye at once on the frigate and the shore, we sat down on an abutment of the parapet, to gossip away the time; interrupted only by the measured tramp of the sentinels, and enjoying the freshness of the night air, perfumed by jessamine and orange blossoms, pro- ceeding from the trelliced gardens of the Government House. As I am not embitious of writing bad Byron, my readers must allow me to spare them the descrip- tion of a night in Greece: a lieutenant of H. M.S. the Astrea, and a captain of H. M.’s gallant —th, may be snpposed to entertain Hotspur’s prejudices against ballad-mongers! “ There seem to be hard-going fellows in your mess,” said I, to Wargrave, as he sat beside me with his arms folded over his breast. “Thornton, I understand, carries off his two bottles a-day like a Trojan ; and the fat major, who sat opposite to me, made such play with the champagne, as caused me to blush for my squeam- ishness. For my own part, I should be well content never to exceed a couple of glasses of good claret. Wine affects me in a different way from most men. The more I drink, the more my spirits are depressed. While others get roaring drunk, I sit moping and de- spairing; and the next day my head aches like an artilleryman’s.” “ You are fortunate,” said Wargrave drily. “Fortunate?” cried I. “I wish I could appreciate my own luck!—I am voted the sulkiest dog unhanged, whenever it is my cue to be jolly; and after proving a wet blanket to a merry party over night, am ready to shoot myself with the headache and blue devils next morning. If there be a fellow I really envy, it is such a one as Thornton; who is ready to chime in with the chorus of the 36th stanza of Nancy Dawson between his two last bottles; and keeps his head and legs an hour after all the rest of the party have lost theirs under the table.” “I fancy Thornton is pretty well seasoned ; saturat- ed like an old claret hogshead!” “ Enviable dog! From time immemorial, odes have been endited to petition the gods for an insensible heart. When I turn lyrist, it will be to pray for an insensible stomach! "Tis a monstrous hard thing, when one hears the trolling of a joyous chanson a boire, or trinklied, under the lime-trees of France or Ger- many, to feel no sympathy in the strain save that of nausea. There is something fresh and picturesge in the mere sound of ‘the vine—the grape—the cup— the bowl!” It always appears to me that Bacchus is the universal divimity, and that I alone am exempted from the worship. Think of Lord Thomas's gin-punch, and pity me!” Wargrave replied by a vague unmeaning laugh ; which led me to conclude that my eloquence was lost upon him. Yet I continued. “Do you know that, in spite of the prevalence of the

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104 WINE. Bacchanalian idolatry, I think we hardly give honour due to the influence of wine. It has ever beep the mania of mankind to ascribe the actions of their fellow- creatures to all motives but the true; but if they saw clearly, and spoke honestly, they would admit that more heroes have been made by the bottle than the sword.” “ Have you any personal meaning in this tirade?” suddenly interrupted my companion, in a voice whose concentration was deadly. “Personal meaning!” I reiterated. “Of what na- ture?” And for a moment I could not but fancy that poor Wargrave had taken a deeper share in the Cha- teau Margoux of the fat major than I had been aware of. A man rather touched by wine, is sure to take fire on the most distant imputation of drunkenness. “TI can scarcely imagine, sir,’ he continued, in a voice, however, that savoured of anything rather than inebriety, “that any man acquainted with the misfor- tunes of my life should address me on such a subject!” “ Be satisfied, then, that your indignation is ground- less, and most unreasonable,” said I, still doubtful how far I ought to resent the ungraciousness of his demea- nour; “ for, on the word of a gentleman, till this day, I never heard your name. Your avowal of intimacy with my brother, and something in the frankness of your manner that reminded me of his, added to the hilarity of an unexpected reunion with so many of my countrymen, has perhaps induced too sudden a fami- liarity in my demeanour; but, in wishing you good night, Captain Wargrave, and a fairer interpretation of the next sailor who opens his heart to you at sight, allow me to assure you, that not a shadow of offence was intended in the rhapsody you are pleased to resent.” “ Forgive me!” exclaimed Wargrave, extending his hands, nay, almost his arms, towards me. “It would have afforded only a crowning incident to my misera- ble history, had my jealous soreness on one fatal sub- ject produced a serious misunderstanding with the brother of one of my dearest and earliest friends.” While I frankly accepted his apologies and offered hand, I could detect, by the light of the moon, an ex- pression of such profound dejection on the altered face of Wargrave—so deadly a paleness—a haggardness— that involuntarily I reseated myself on the wall beside him, as if to mark the resumption of a friendly feeling. He did not speak when he took his place; but, after a few minutes’ silence, I had the mortification to hear him sobbing like a child. “ My dear fellow, you attach too much importance to an unguarded word, handsomely and satisfactorily explained,” said I, trying to reconcile him with him- self. “ Dismiss it from your thoughts.” “Do not fancy,” replied Wargrave, in a broken voice, “ that these humiliating tears originate in any- thing that has passed between us this night. No! The associations recalled to my mind by the rash hu- mour you are generous enough to see in its true light, are of far more ancient date, and far more ineffaceable nature. I owe you something, in return for your for- bearance. You have still an hour to be on shore,” he continued, looking at his watch. “ Devote those mi- nutes to me, and I will impart a lesson worth ten years’ experience ; a lesson of which my own life must be the text—myself the hero!” There was no disputing with him—no begging him to be calm. On his whole frame was imprinted the character of an affliction not to be trifled with. I had only to listen, and impart, in the patience of my at- tention, such solace as the truly miserable can best appreciate. “You were right,” said Wargrave, with a bitter smile, “ in saying that we do not allow ourselves to assign to wine the full measure of authority it holds among the motives of our conduct. But you were wrong in limiting that authority to the instigation of great and heroic actions. Wine is said in Scripture to ‘ make glad the heart of man.’ Wine is said by the poets to be the balm of grief, the dew of beauty, the philter of love. What that is gracious and graceful is it not said to be? Clustering grapes entwine the brow of its divinity; and wine is held to be a libation wor- thy of the gods. Fools! fools! fools!—they need to have poured forth their blood and tears like me, to know that it is a fountain of eternal damnation! Do not fancy that I allude to DRUNKENNESS; do not class me, in your imagination, with the sensual brute who degrades himself to the filthiness of intoxication — Against a vice so flagrant, how easy to arm one’s vir- tue! No! the true danger lies many degrees within that fearful limit; and the Spartans, who warned their sons against wine by the exhibition of their drunken Helots, fulfilled their duty blindly. Drunkenness im- plies, in fact, an extinction of the very faculties of evil. The enfeebled arm can deal no mortal blow; the stag- gering step retards the perpetration of sin. The voice can neither modulate its tones to seduction, nor hurl the defiance of deadly hatred. The drunkard is an idiot: a thing which children mock at, and women chastise. It is the man whose temperament is excited, not overpowered, by wine, to whom the snare is fatal.” “Only when unconscious of his infirmity,” said I bluntly. “Shakspeare makes Cassio conscious, but not till his fault is achieved.” “ Cassio is the victim of a designing tempter; but an ordinary man aware of his frailty, must surely find it easy to avoid the mischief?” « Easy, as we look upon a thing from hence, with the summer sky over our heads, the unshackled ocean at our feet, and the mockery of the scorner unheard; but, in the animation of a convivial meeting, with cooler heads to mislead us by example, under the influ- ence of conversation, music, mirth, who can at all times remember by how short a process it turns to poison in his veins?’ Do not suppose me the Apostle of a Temperance Society, when I assert, on my life, my soul, my honour, that, after three glasses of wine, I am no longer master of my actions. .Without being at the-moment conscious of the change, I begin to see, and feel, and hear, and reason differently. ‘The minor transitions between good and evil are forgotten; the lava boils in my bosom. Three more, and I become a madman.” “ But this constitutes a positive physical infirmity,” said I. “ You must of course regard yourself as an exception?” “No! I am convinced the case is common. Among my own acquaintance, I know fifty men who are pleasant companions in the morning, but intolerable after dinner; men who neither like wine nor indulge in it; but who, while simply fulfilling the forms and ceremonies of society, frequently become odious others, and a burden to themselves.” “T really believe you are right.” “I know that I am right; listen: When I became your brother's friend at Westminster, 1 was on the foundation—an only son, intended for the Church; and the importance which my father and mother at- tached to my election for college, added such a stimu- lus to my exertions, that, at the early age of fourteen, their wish was accomplished. I was the first boy of my years. A studentship at Christchurch crowned my highest ambition; and all that remained for me at Westminster was to preside over the farewell supper, indispensable on occasion of these triumphs. I was unaccustomed to wine, for my parents had probably taken silent note of the infirmity of my nature ; and a very small proportion of the fiery tavern port, which forms the nectar of similar festivities, sufficed to ele- vate my spirits to madness. Heated by noise and in-

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WINE. 105 5 temperance, we all sallied forth together, prepared to| “ Your wife was probably more discerning ?” ipture riot, bully, insult. A fight ensued; a life was lost.} “No! On such subjects, women are not enlightened by the Expulsion suspended my election. I never reached | by experience. Even the vice of drunkenness is a y, the Oxford; my professional prospects were blighted; and, | mystery to them, unless when chance exhibits to their eful is within a few months, my father died of disappoint- | observation some miserable brute lying senseless in brow ment! And now, what was to be done with me? | the public streets. Mary probably ascribed my frac- | Wor- My guardians decided, that in the army the influence | tiousness to infirmity of temper. She found me less ed to of my past fault would prove least injurious; and, | good-humoured than she had expected, and more easily ne, to eager to escape the tacit reproach of my poor mother’s | moved by trifles. ‘The morning is the portion of the ' Do pale face and gloomy weeds, I gladly acceded to their | day in which married people live least in each other's Class advice. At fifteen, I was gazetted in the —th Regi-| society; and my evenings seldom passed without a > who ment of Light Dragoons.” political squabble with some visitor, or a storm with a “ At least, you have no cause to regret the change | the servants. The tea was cold; the newspaper did 8 Vir- of profession ?” said I, with a sailor's prejudice against | not arrive in time; or all the world was not exactly vithin parsonic cloth. of my own opinion respecting the conduct of Ministers. their “I did regret it. A family living was waiting for | Fortunately, poor Mary’s time was engrossed by pre- inken me; and I had accustomed myself to the thoughts of | parations for the arrival of her first child, a pledge of S 1m- early independence and a settled home. Inquire of | domestic happiness calculated to reconcile a woman evil. my friend Richard, on your return to England, and he | even to greater vexations than those arising from her stag- will tell you that there could not be a calmer, graver, | husband’s irritability. Mary palliated all my bursts of voice more studious, more sober fellow than myself. The | temper, by declaring her opinion that ‘any man might hurl nature of my misdemeanour, meanwhile, was not such.| possess the insipid quality of good humour; but that is an as to alienate from me the regard of my young com- | Wargrave, if somewhat hasty, had the best heart and omen panions; and I will answer for it, that on entering the | principles in the world.’ As soon as our little boy ‘ited, army, no fellow could boast a more extensive circle of | made his appearance, she excited the contempt of all re 1s friends. At Westminster, they used to call me ‘War-|her female acquaintances by trusting ‘that Harry . grave the peacemaker.’ I never had a quarrel; I | would, in all respects, resemble his father.’ Heaven uid I never had an enemy. Yet, twelve months after join- | bless her for her blindness!” ing the —th, I had acquired the opprobrium of being | Wargrave paused for a moment; during which I t till a quarrelsome fellow; I had fought one of my brother | took care to direct my eyes towards the frigate. officers, and was on the most uncomfortable terms| “ Among those female friends, was a certain Sophy it an with four others.” Cavendish, a cousin of Mary’s ; young, handsome, rich id it “And this sudden change——” —richer and almost as handsome as herself; but gifted : “ Was then attributed to the sourness arising from | with‘that intemperate vivacity which health and pros- vith my disappointments in life. I have since ascribed it | perity inspire. Sophy was a fearless creature; the ean to a truer origin—the irritation of the doses of brandy, | only person who did not shrink from my fits of ill- ard ; tinged with sloe juice, which formed the luxury of a| temper. When I scolded, she bantered; when I ap- with mess-cellar. Smarting under the consciousness of un- | peared sullen she piqued me into cheerfulness. We uflu- popularity, I fancied I hated my profession, when in | usually met in morning visits, when I was in a mood all fact I only hated myself. I managed to get on half-| to take her railleries in good part. To this playful 3 to pay, and returned to my mother’s tranquil roof; tran- | girl it unluckily occurred to suggest to her cousin— stle quil to monotony—tranquil to dullness—where, in- | ‘Why don’t you manage Wargrave as I do? why don’t life, stead of regretting the brilliant life I had forsaken, | you laugh him out of his perversity? And Mary, to ine, my peace of mind and early contentment came back | whose disposition and manners all these agaceries were ing to me at once. There was no one to bear me com- | foreign, soon began to assume a most provoking sport- see, pany over the bottle; I was my mother’s constant | iveness in our domestic disputes; would seize me by nor companion; I seldom tasted wine; I became healthy, | the hair, the sleeve, point her finger at me when I the happy. beloved.” was sullen, and laughed heartily when I indulged in me “ Beloved in a lover's sense !” a reproof. I vow to Heaven, there were moments ; “ Beloved as a neighbour and fellow-citizen. But | when this innocent folly made me hate her! ‘It does yy,” higher distinctions of affection followed. A young and | not become you to ape the monkey tricks of your an very beautiful girl, of rank and fortune superior to my | cousin,’ cried I, one night when she had amused her- own, deigned to encourage the humble veneration | self by fillipping water at me across the dessert-table, ng with which I regarded her. I became emboldened to | while { was engaged in an intemperate professional are solicit her heart and hand. My mother assured her I | dispute with an old brother officer—‘In trying to ble was the best of sons. I readily promised to be the | make me look like a fool, you only make a fool of ige best of husbands. She believed us both; accepted me | yourself!’—‘ Don’t be intimidated by a few big words,” nd —married me; and, on welcoming home my lovely | cried Miss Cavendish, when this ebullition was re- to gentle Mary, all remembrence of past sorrow seemed | ported to her. ‘Men and nettles must be bullied into to be obliterated. Our position in the world, if not | tameness; they have a sting only for those who are brilliant, was honourable. My mother’s table renew- | afraid of them Persevere!’ She did persevere ; ne ed those hospitalities over which my father had loved | and, on an occasion equally ill-timed, again the angry he to preside. Mary’s three brothers were our constant | husband retorted severely upon the wife he loved — h; guests; and Wargrave—the calm, sober, indolent War- |‘ You must not banter him in company,’ said Sophia. at- grave—once more became fractious and ill at ease. | ‘He is one of those men who hate being shown up us My poor mother, who could conceive no fault in my | before others. But when you are alone, take your ‘nN, disposition—concluding that, as in other instances, the | revenge. ‘Treat his anger as a jest. Prove to him of husband had discovered in the daily companionship | you are not afraid of him; and since he chooses to ny of married life, faults which had been invisible to a| behave like a child, argue with him as children are at lover—ascribed to poor Mary all the discredit of the | argued with.’ Ty change. She took a dislike to her daughter-in-law,| “ It was on my return from a club-dinner, that Mary as nay, even to Mrs. Wargrave’s family, friends, and ac- | attempted to put these mischievous precepts into prac- ly quaintances. She saw that after they had been dining | tice. I was late—too late ; for, against my will, I had a with me, I grew morose and irritable; and attributed | been detained by the jovial party. But, instead of ch the fault to my guests, instead of to the cursed wine | encouraging the apologies I was inclined to offer for 4 their —— compelled me to swallow.” having kept her watching, Mary, who had been be- x

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106 WINE. —_—— guiling the time of my absence in her dresing-room with an entertaming book, by which her spirits were exhilirated, began to laugh at my excuses; to banter, to mock me. I begged her to desist. She persisted. I grew angry. She replied to my invectives by a thousand absurd accusations, invented to justify her mirth. I bade hex be silent. She only laughed more loudly. I stamped, swore—raved;—she approached me in mimicry of my violence. I struck her !” When Wargrave’s melancholy voice subsided into silence, the expressions of my countryman Tobin, (the prototype of Knowles) involuntarily occurred to my mind— “The man who lays his hand, Save in the way of kindness, on a woman, Is a wretch, whom ’twere base flattery to call a cow- ard.” “1 know not what followed this act of brutality,” cried Wargrave, rousing himself. “I have a faint remembrance of kneeling and imploring, and offering the sacrifice of my life in atonement for such ingrati- tude. But I have a very strong one of the patient immobility which, from that moment, poor Mary as- sumed in my presence. She jested no more ; she never laughed again. What worlds would I have given had she remonstrated—detended hersel{—resented the injury! But no! from that fatal night, like the en- chanted princess in the story, she became converted into marble, whenever her husband approached her. I fancicd—so conscious are the guilty—that she be- trayed an apprehension of leaving our child in the room alone with me. Perhaps she thought me mad! Sue was nght. The brief insaniiy inspired by wine had alone caused me to raise my hand against her.” “But you had no reason to suppose that, on this occasion, Mrs. Wargrave again conferred with her family touching your conduct?” “No reason; yet | did suppose it. I knew the secret had been kept from her brothers ; for, if not, fine manly fellows as they were, neihing would induce them again to sit at my board. But there was a person whose interference between me and my wife I dreaded more than theirs ; a brother of Sophy Cavendish, who had loved Mary from her childhood, and wooed her, and had been dismissed shortly after her acquaintance with myself That fellow I could never endure! Horace Cavendish was the reverse of his sister; grave, even to dejection ; cold and dignified in his demeanour; sententious, taciturn, repulsive. Mary had a great opinion of him, although she had preferred the vivacity of my manner, and the impetuosity of my character. But now that these qualities had been turned against herself, might not a revulsion of feeling cause her to regret her cousin? She must have felt that Horace Cavendish would have invited an executioner to hack his arm off, rather than raise it against a woman! No provocation would have caused Aim w address her in those terms of insult, in which, on more than one oc- casion, I had indulged. I began to hate him, for I felt little in his presence. I saw that he was my su- perior in temper and breeding: that he would have made a happier woman of my wile. Yet I had no pretext for dismissing him my house. He came, and came, and sat there day afier day, arguing upon men and things, in his calm, measured, dispassionate voice. hie could not but have seen that he was odious to me; yet he had not the delicacy to withdraw from our society. Perhaps he thought his presence necessary to protect his cousin? Perhaps he thought I was noi to be trusted with the deposite of her happiness ?’’ “ But surely,” said 1, beginning to dread the conti- nuation of his recital, “ surely, after what had already occurred, you were careful to refrain from the stimulants which had betrayed you into an unworthy action ?” “Right. I was careful. My temperance was that ofan anchorite. On the pretext of health, I refrained for many months from tasting wme. I became myself again. My brothers-in-law called me milksop! { cared not what they called me. The current of my blood ran cool and free. I wanted to conquer back the confidence of my wife.” “ But perhaps this total abstinence rendered the ordeal still more critical, when you were compelled occasionally to resume your former habits?” “Right again. I was storing a magazine against myself! There occurred a family festival from which I could not absent myself; the wedding of Sophy Ca- vendish. Even my wife relaxed in her habitual cold- ness towards me, and requested me to join the party. We met; a party of some thirty—giggling, noisy, brainless, to jest and to be merry. It was settled that I must ‘ drink the bride’s health;’ and Mrs. Wargrave extended her glass towards mine, as if to make it a pledge of reconciliation. How eagerly I quaffed. it! The champagne warmed my heart. Of my free will, I took a second glass. The bridegroom was te be toasted ; then the family into which Sophy was marry- ing; then the family she was quitting. At length the health of Mrs. Wargrave was proposed. Could I do otherwise than honour it ina bumper? I looked to- wards her fur further encouragement—further kind- ness; but, instead of the expected smile, I saw her pale, trembling, anxious. My kindling glances, and heated countenance pezhaps reminded her of the fatal night which had been the origin of our misurderstand- ing. Yes, she trembled; and, in the midst of her agitation, I saw, or fancied I saw, a look of sympathy and good understanding pass between her and Horace Cavendish. I turned fiercely towards him. He re- garded me with contempt ; that look at least I did not misinterpret: but I revenged it!” Involuntarily I rose from the parapet, and walked a few paces towards the frigate, in order that Wargrave might recover breath and composure. He followed me—he clung yf my arm; the rest of his narrative was spoken almost in a whisper. “In the mood which had now taken possession of me, it was easy to give offence; and Cavendish ap- peared no less ready than myself. We quarrelled. Mary's brother attempted to pacify us, but the purpose of both was settled. I saw that he looked upon me a8 a venomous reptile to be crushed; and I looked upon him as the lover of Mary. One of us must die to extinguish such deadly hatred. We met at sunrise. Both were sober then. I shot him through the heart!” “I had once the misfortune to act as second in a mortal duel, my dear Wargrave,” said 1; “I know how to pity you.” “Not you!” faltered my companion, shuddering with emotion. “You may know what it is to con- template the ebbing blood, the livid face, the leaden eye of a victim; to see him carried log-like from the field; to feel that many lips are cursing you—many hearts upbraiding you; but you cannot estimate the agony of a position such as mine with regard to Mary. I surrendered myself to justice; took no heed of my defence. Yet surely many must have loved me; for, on the day of trial, hundreds of witnesses came for- ward to attest my humanity, my generosity, my mild- ness of nature.” “ Mildness !” “ Ay!—Save when under the fatal influence, (the influence which stimulates my lips this very moment,) my disposition is gentle and forbearing. But they adduced something which almost made me long to refute their evidence in my favour. Many of our mutual friends attested upon oath that the deceased had been observed to seek occasions of giving me offence. That he had often spoken of me disparag- ingly, threateningly; that he had been heard to say, I deserved to die! 1 was now sure that Mary hed taken CopeBeewet BORER i

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Se PSRs sPhy se we - 7 softies © @NS @O BD WINE. ¥ 107 bi into her confidence ; and yet it was by my wife’s unceasing exertions that this mass of evidence had been collected in my favour. I was acquitted. The court rang with acclamations ; for I was ‘ the only son of my mother, and she wes a widow ;’ and the name of Wargrave commanded respect and love from many, both in Aer person and that of my wife. The Caven- dish family had not availed itself mercilessly against my life. I left the court; ‘without a blemish upon my character,’ and with gratitude for the good oflices of hundreds. I was not yet quite a wretch. “But I had not yet seen Mary! On the plea of severe indisposition, she had refrained from visiting me in prison; and now, that all danger was over, I rejoiced she had been spared the humiliation of such an interview. On the eve of my trial, I wrote to her; expressing my wishes and intentions towards herself and our child, should the event prove fatal; and invit- ing her to accompany me instantly to the continent, should the laws of my country spare my life. We could not remain in the centre of a family so cruelly disunited, in a home so utterly desecrated. I implored her, too, to allow my aged mother to become our com- panion, that she might sanction my attempts in a new career of happiness and virtue. But, although re- lieved by this explanation of my future views, | trem- bled when I found myself once more on the threshold ofhome. To meet again—to fall once more upon the neck of my poor mother, whose blindness and infirmi- ties had forbidden her to visit me in durance! What a trial! The shouts of the multitude were dying away in the distance ; my sole companion was a vene- rable servant of my father’s, who sat sobbing by my side. He had attended as a witness at the trial. He was dressed in a suit of deep mourning, probably in token of the dishonour of his master’s house. “ The windows are closed,” said I, looking anxiously upwards, as the carriage stopped. Has Mrs. Wargrave —has my mother quitied town?” “ There was no use in distressing you, Master Wil- lia, so long as you was in trouble,” said the old man, grasping my arm. “ My poor old mistress has been buried these six weeks; she died of a stroke of apo- plesy, the day after you surrendered yourself. We buried her, sir, by your father.” “ And my wife?” said I, 4s soon as I could recover my utterance. “T don’t rightly understand—I can’t quite make out—I believe, sir, you will find a letter,” said my gray-headed companion, following me closely into the house. “From Mary?” “ Here it is,” he replied, opening a shutter of the cold, grim, cheerless room, and pointing to the table. “From Mary?” I again reiterated, as I snatched it up. No! not from Mary; not even from any member of her family; not even from any friend—from any acquaintance. Jt was a lawyer's letter ; informing me, with technical precision, that ‘his client Mrs. Mary Wargrave, conceiving she had just cause and provo- ation to withdraw herself from my roof, had already taken up her abode with her family; that she was prepared to defend herself, by the strong aid of the law, against any opposition I might offer to her design; but trusted the aflair would be amicably adjusted. His client, Mrs. Mary Wargrave, moreover, demanded no other maintenance than the trifle allowed by her marriage settlement, for her separate use. Instead of accompanying me to the continent, she proposed to reside with her brothers.’ “ And it was by the hand of a lawyer's clerk that I was to learn all this! The woman—the wife—whom Thad struck !—was prepared to plead ‘ cruelty’ against me in a court of justice, rather than live with the marderer of her minion! She knew to what a home were shatieted;—and at such a moment abandoned me! “«Drink this, Master William,’ said the poor old man, returning to my side with a salver and a betile ne ee ee ee keeping. ‘You went support, my dear boy; drink this.” “«Give it me,’ cried I, snatching the glass from his hands. ‘ Another—another!—I do want support; for I have still a task to perform. Stop the carriage; I am going out. Another glass!—I must see Mrs. War- grave'—Where is she?’ “«Three miles off, sir, at Sir William’s. My mis- tress is with her elder brother, sir. You can’t see her to-night. Wait till morning; wait till you are more composed. You will lose your senses with all these cruel shocks!’ “I have lost my senses!” I exclaimed, throwing my- self again into the carriage. “ And therefore I must see her—must see her before I die!” “And these frantic words were constantly on my lips till the carriage stopped at the gate of Sir William Brabazon. I would not suffer it to enter, I traversed the court-yard on foot; I wished to give no announce- ment of my arrival. It was dusk. The servant did not recognize me, when, having entered the offices by a side-door, I demanded of a strange servant ad- mittance to Mrs. Wargrave. The answer was such as I had anticipated. ‘Mrs. Wargrave could see no one. She was ill; had only just risen from her bed.’ Nevertheless, I urged the necessity of an immediate interview. ‘{ must see her on business.’ Still less. ‘It was impossible for Mrs. Wargrave to see any person on business, as Sir William and Mr. Brabazon had just gone inte town; and she was quite alone, and much indisposed.’— Take in this note,’ said I, tearing a blank leaf frem my pocket-book, and folding it to represent a letter. And following with caution the servant I despatched on my errand, I found my way to the door of Mary’s apartment. It was the begin- ning of spring. The invalid was sitting in a large arm-chair before the fire, with her little bey asleep in her arms. I had ed the servant into the room ; and, by the imperfect fire-light, she mistook me for the medical attendant she was expecting. “«Good evening, Dector,’ said she, in & voiee so faint and tremulous, that I could scarcely recognize it for her. ‘ You will find me better to-night. But why are you so late?’ “«You will, perhaps, find me too early,’ said I, placing myself resolutely beside her ebair, ‘ unless you are disposed to annul the instrument with which you have been pleased to complete the measure of your husband’s miseries. Do not tremble, Madam; do not shudder; do not faint. You have no personal injury to apprehend. I am come here, a broken-hearted man, to learn my award of life or death.’ And in spite of my false courage, I staggered to the wall, and leaned against it for support. “* My brothers are absent,’ faltered Mary: ‘I have no counsellor at hand, to act as mediator between us.’ “«For which reason I hazard this appeal. I am here to speak with my own lips to your own ears, to your own heart. Let its unbiassed impulses condemn me or absolye me. Do not decide upon the suggestions of others.’ “«] have decided,’ murmured Mrs. Wargrave, ‘ irre- vocably.’ «+ No, you have not!” said I, again approaching her ; ‘for you have decided without listening to the defence of your husband, to the appeal of nature. Mary, Mary! have you so soon forgotten the vows of eternal union breathed in the presence of God? On what covenant did you accept my hand, my name, my tenderness? On that of a merciful compromise with the frailties of I was returning; she knew that my household gods human nature; “ for better, fer worse, for richer, for

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108 WINE. poorer, in sickness and in health.” It has been for worse, for I have been perverse, and wayward, and mad ; it has been for poorer, for my good name is taken from me; it has been for sickness, for a heavy sickness is on my soul. But is the covenant less binding? Are you not still my wife?—my wife whom I adore—my wife whom I have injured—my wife, whose patience I would requite by a whole life of homage and adora- tion—my wife, whe once vowed a vow before the Lord, that, forsaking all other, she would cleave to me alone? Mary, no human law can contravene this primal statute. Mary, you have no right to cast from you the father of your child.’ “« It is for my child’s sake that I seek to withdraw from his authority,’ said Mrs. Wargrave, with more firmness than might have been expected; a firmness probably derived from the contact of the innocent and helpless being she pressed to her bosom. ‘ No!—I cannot live with you again; my confidence is gone, my respect diminished. ‘This boy, as his faculties be- come developed, would see me tremble in your pre- sence; would learn that I fear you; that-——” “«That you despise me! speak out, Madam ; speak out!’ “«That I pity you,’ continued Mary, resolutely ; ‘ that I pity you, as one who has the reproach of blood upon his hand, and the accusation of ruffianly injury against a woman on his conscience.’ “* And such are the lessons you will teach him; lessons to lead him to perdition, to damnation; for, by the laws of the Almighty, Madam, however your kindred or your lawyers may inspire you, the father, no less than the mother, must be honoured by his child.’ «Tt is a lesson I would scrupulously withhold from him: and, to secure his ignorance, it is needful that he should live an alien from his father’s roof. Wargrave, our child must not grow up in observation of our es- trangement.’ “*Then, by Heaven, my resolution is taken! Still Jess shall his little life be passed in watching the tears shed by his mother for the victim of an adulterous passion! You have appealed to the laws; by the laws Jet us abide. The child is mine, by right, by enforce- ment. Live where you will—defy me from what shelter you please; but this little creature whom you have constituted my enemy, remains with me! Sur- render him to me, or dread the consequences!’ “ You did not?” I incoherently gasped, seizing War- grave by the arm, and dreading, I knew not what. “ Have I not told you,” he replied, in a voice which froze the blood in my veins, “that, before quitting home, I had swallowed half a bottle of Madeira? My frame was heated, my brain maddened! I saw in the woman before me only the minion, the mourner of Horace Cavendish. I had no longer a wife.” “ And you dared to injure her?” “ Right boy; that is the word—dared! It was cow- ardly, was it not? brutal, monstrous! Say something that may spare my own bitter self accusations!” Involuntarily I released myself from his arm. “Yes! Mary, like yourself, prepared herself for violence at my hands,” continued Wargrave, scarcely noticing the movement; “ for instinctively she attempt- ed to rise and approach the bell; but, encumbered by the child, or by her own weakness, she fell back in her ciwsir. ‘Don’t wake him!’ said she, in a faint, piteous voice, as if, after all, Ais helplessness constituted her best defence. “*Give him up, then, at once. not love him? Do you think I do Do you think I shall be less careful of him than yourself? Give him up to his father.’ “ For a moment, as if overcome, she seemed attempt- ing to unclasp the little hand which, even in sleep, clung tenderly to her night-dress. For a moment she seemed to recognize the irresistibility of my claim. ey “¢The carriage waits,’ said I sternly. ‘Where is his nurse?” “*T am his nurse,’ cried Mary, bursting into an agony of tears. ‘I will go with him. To retain my child, I will consent to live with you again.’ “«With me? Am I a worm, that you think to trample on me thus? Live with me, whom you have dishonoured with your pity, your contempt; your pre- ference of another? Rather again would I stand ar- raigned before a criminal tribunal, than accept such a woman as my wife!’ “« As a servant, then; let me attend as a servant on this little creature, so dear to me, so precious to me, so feeble, so——’ “Ts it Cavendish’s brat, that you plead for him so warmly?’ cried I, infuriated that even my child should be preferred to me. And I now attempted to remove him by force from her arms. “* Help! help! help!" faltered the feeble, half-faint- ing mother. But no one came, and I persisted. Did you ever attempt to hold a struggling child—a child that others were struggling to retain—a young child —a soft, frail, feeble child? And why did she resist? Should not she, woman that she was, have known that mischief would rise from such contact? She who had tended those delicate limbs, that fragile frame? -The boy wakened from his sleep—was screaming violently. He struggled, and struggled, and moaned, and gasped. But, on a sudden, his shrieks ceased. He was still, silent, breathless” “* Dead” cried I. “So she imagined at the moment, when, at the summons of her fearful shrieks, the servants rushed into the room. But no,I had not again become a murderer; a new curse was in store for me. When medical aid was procured, it was found that a limb was dislocated; the spine injured; the boy a cripple for life!” “ What must have been his father’s remorse!” “His father was spared the intelligence. It was not for fourteen months that I was removed from the private madhouse, to which, that fatal night, I was conveyed, a raving maniac. The influence of wine, passion, horror, had induced epilepsy; from which I was only ronsed to a state of frenzy. Careful treat- ment and solitude gradually restored me. Legal steps had been taken by the Brabazon family during my confinement; and my mutilated boy is placed, by the Court of Chancery, under the guardianship of his mo- ther. For some time after my recovery I became a wanderer on the continent, with the intention of wasting the remnants of my blighted existence in rest- less obscurity. But I soon felt that the best propitia- tion, the best sacrifice to offer to my injured wife and child, was an attempt to conquer, for their sake, an honourable position in society. I got placed on full- pay in a regiment appointed to a foreign station. I made over to my boy the whole of my property. I pique myself on living on my pay—on drinking no wine—on absenting myself from all the seductions of society. I lead a life of penance, of pain. But, some day or other, my little victim will learn the death of his father, and feel that he devoted his wretched days to the duties of an honourable profession, in order to spare him further dishonour as the son of a suicide.” “ Thank God!” was my murmured ejaculation, when at this moment I perceived the boat of the Astrea; whose approach enabled me to cover my emotion with the bustle of parting. There was not a word of con- solation—of palliation, to be offered to such a man. He had indeed afforded me a fearful commentary on my text. Never before had I duly appreciated the perils and dangers of Wine! “ And it is to such a stimulus,” murmured I, as F slowly rejoined my companions, “that judge and juror recur for strength to inspire their decrees; to such aD ewseuwren

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have THE SUN AND MOON, &c. 109 _ influence, that captain and helmsman turn for courage | ourselves with defence; to this master-fiend, we open in the storm; to such a counsellor, the warrior refers his manceuvres on the day of battle; nay, that the minister, the chancellor, the sovereign himself, dedi- cate the frailty of their nature! That human life, that human happiness, should be subjected to so devilish an instrument! Against all other enemies, we fortify the doors of the citadel.” My meditations were soon cut short by the joyous chorus of a drinking song, with which Lord Thomas's decoction inspired the shattered reason of the Com- mandants, superior and inferior, of His Majesty's Ship the Astrea. THE SUN AND MOON. FROM THE GERMAN OF EBERT. Moon.—O Sun, ere thou closest thy glorious career, (And brilliant thy wide course has been,) Delay and recount to my listening ear, The things which on earth. thou hast seen. Sun.—I saw, as my daily course I ran, The various labours of busy man; Each project vain, each emprise high, Lay open to my searching eye. I entered the peasant’s lowly door, I shone on the student’s narrow floor; I gleamed on the sculptor’s statue pale, And on the proud warrior’s coat of mail I shed my rays in the house of prayer, On the kneeling crowds assembled there; In gilded hall and tapestried room, And cheered the dark cold dungeon’s gloom. With joy in happy eyes I shone, And peace bestowed where joy was gone. In tears upon the face of care, In pearls that decked the maiden’s hair— I shone on all things sad and fair. But few the eyes that turned to Heaven, In gratitude for blessings given; As on the horizon’s verge I hung, No hymn or parting lay was sung. Moon.—Thou risest in glory, my journey is o’er; Alternate our gifts we bestow; Yet seldom behold we the hearts that adore The Source whence all benefits flow. Sux—Thou comest, O Moon, with thy soft-beaming light, To shine where my presence has been; Then tell me, I pray thee, thou fair queen of night, What thou in thy travels hast seen. Moon.—I shone on many a pillowed head, On greensward rude and downy bed; I watched the infant's tranquil sleep, Composed to rest so calm and deep: The murderer in his fearful dream, Woke starting at my transient gleam. I saw, across the midnight skies, Red flames from burning cities rise ; And where, ‘mid foaming billows roar, The vessel sank to rise no more: I heard the drowning sailor's cry For succour, when no help was nigh. On mountain path, and forest glade, The lurking robber’s ambuscade, I shone—and on the peaceful grave, Where sleep the noble and the brave, To each and all my light I gave; And as my feebler silver ray Vanished before the dawn of day, In vain I lent my willing ear, One word ef gratitude to hear. Scn.—We will travel onward our task to fulfil, Till time shall be reckoned no more; When ail shall acknowledge the Sovereign Will That made them to love and adore. THE BUTTERFLYS DREAM. A TULIP, just opened, had offered to hold A butterfly, gaudy, and gay; And, rocked in a cradle of crimson and gold, The careless young slumberer lay. For the butterfly slept, as such thoughtless ones will, At ease, and reclining on flowers, If ever they study, 't is how they may kill The best of their mid-sammer hours. And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case With tabbed buen of change, Who, keeping the body at ease in its place, Give fancy permission to range. He dreamed that he saw, what he could but despise, The swarm from a neighbouring hive; Which, having come out for their winter supplies, Had made the whole garden alive. He looked with disgust, as the proud often do On the diligent movements of those Who, keeping both present and future in view, Improve every hour as it goes. As the brisk little alchymists passed to and fro, With anger the butterfly swelled ; And called them mechanics—a rabble too low To come near the station he held. “ Away from my presence!” said he, in his sleep, “ Ye humble plebeians! nor dare Come here with your colourless winglets to sweep The king of this brilliant parterre!” He thought, at these words, that together they flew, And, facing about, made a stand; And then, to a terrible army they grew, And fenced him on every hand. Like hosts of huge giants, his numberless foes Seemed spreading to measureless size ; Their wings with a mighty expansion arose, And stretched like a veil o’er the skies. Their eyes seemed like little volcanoes, for fire— Their hum, to a cannon-peal grown— Farina to bullets was rolled in their ire, And, he thought, hurled at him and his throne. He tried to cry quarter! his voice would not sound, His head ached—his throne reeled and fell; His enemy cheered, as he came to the ground, And cried, “ King Papilio, farewell!” His fall chased the vision—the sleeper awoke The wonderful dream to expound ; The lightning’s bright flash from the thunder-cloud broke, And hail-stones were rattling around. He ’d slumbered so long, that now over his head, The tempest’s artillery rolled; The tulip was shattered—the whirl-blast had fled, And borne off its crimson and gold. ’T is said, for the fall and the pelting, combined With suppressed ebullitions of pride, This vain son of summer no balsam could find, But he crept under covert and died.

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THE THREE SWANS. Original. THE THREE SWANS. Nica to Wimpfen, a town situated upon the Neckar, | looked like sisters, moved the boy, and inspired his there is a lofty mountain, on the top of which appears so frequently found in such situations in Germany.— Popular superstition has connected the following plea- sing legend with the Lake of Wimpfen. A beautiful boy was once seated upon the shores of the lake, wreathing a coronal for himself out of the lovely flowers which grew upon its banks. quite alone, and ever and anon he raised his blue eyes, guileless breast with confidence: “ Yes,” he exclaimed, one of those small but unfathomable lakes which are | leaping up joyfully from his couch, “ yes, I will remain with you!” The lovely sisters now led the wonder. ing boy through their magnificent fairy palace. The splendour of the apartments dazzled his asto- nished senses. Nursed in poverty, and accustomed | only to the simple furniture of his father’s cot, he was He was | now overwhelmed by the magnificence which sur- rounded him; the walls and floors of every room were and gazed with childish longing across the glittering | curiously inlaid with gold and silver; there were pearls waters for a little boat in which to sail about over the | as large as walnuts, and diamonds the size of eggs, tranquil expanse; but the boy beheld nothing like a boat save a single plank of wood which moved to and fro on the tiny waves as they rippled towards the shore, and which, though it might have afforded a slight support in swimming, could not carry him to the other side of the lake. The boy raised his longing eyes once more, and was astonished to perceive three snow-white swans sailing proudly up and down in the middle of the lake. At last the stately birds approach- ed where the boy lay, who, delighted with his new companions, drew some crumbs of bread from his pocket and fed them; they seemed to him so tame— they looked so gentle—and came so near to the shore, that the delighted boy thought to catch one of them; but when he stooped down with this design they moved gently away. and remained beyond his reach, although in his anxiety he nearly suspended his whole body above the deep lake, on the lowermost branch of a young poplar which grew upon the bank. The tamer the three beautiful birds appeared to the boy, and the oftener that they baffled his attempts to catch them, the more eager he became to secure them for himself. He drew the plank ftom the water, launched it again, balanced himself with caution upon it, and, finding it supported him, pushed off with a shout of delight from the shore, and making use of his hands as oars rowed fearlessly after the swans. The beautiful birds kept sailing immediately before him, but ever beyond his reach, until he had gained the middle of the lake. He now felt his strength ex- hansted, and for the first time became seized with excessive terror, when he beheld nothing near or around him but the glittering waters. Meanwhile the three swans kept sailing around him in contracting circles, as if they wished to calm his rising alarms, but the gallant boy, when he beheld them so near to him, forgot his danger, and hastily stretched out his hand to grasp the nearest, when alas, his unsteady raft yielded to the impulse, and down he sank into the deep blue waters! When the boy recovered from a long trance, he found himself lying upon a couch, in a magnificent castle, and before him stood three maidens of marvel- lous beauty. “How came you hither?” inquired one of them, taking him by the hand with a sweet smile. “I know not what has happened to me,” replied the boy. “I only remember that I once wished to catch three beautiful swans which were sailing upon the lake, and that [ sank in the deep, deep waters.” “Will you stay with us?” asked one of the maidens. “}lere you are most welcome; but this know, that if you remain three days with us, you can never again return to your father’s house; for, after that period, you would no longer be able to breathe the air of the world above, and you would therefore die.” The kindness of the three beautiful maidens, who and red gold in bars, and such 4 profusion of wealth and of objects of inconceivable beauty as the peasant’s son had never dreamt of, even when he lay on the banks of the lake, and gazed upwards on the high, blue heavens, towards the dwellings of the angels. In the gardens which surrounded this enchanted palace grew fruits and flowers lovelier far than he had ever beheld; the apples were as large as a child’s head, and the plumbs the size of ostrich eggs, and the cherries like billiard balls, and the flowers of marvel- lously varied forms and beauty; sweet birds filled the air with their merry warblings—the little streamlets seemed to murmur music as they meandered through the emerald meads, and the zephyrs which played amid his hyacinth locks, were more odorous than these of Araby, or the spicy islands of the East. The boy had often read of Paradise, and now he thought:— “This is surely Patadise; and I am happy here.” Weeks and months passed thus away, and still the youthful stranger remained unconscious of their flights for a perpetual succession of new objects occupied his attention; and while roaming beneath the orange-trees with their golden fruit, he never thought of the broad oak which stretched its shelteting arms above his father’s hut. But at last, when neatly 2 whole yeat was gone, the mortal inhabitant of this enchanted region was suddenly seized with an irrepressible longing to return to his na- tive village. Nothing pleased him now—nothing any longer gratified his boyish fancy—the flowers had lost their beauty to his pensive eye—the melody of the streams and the songs of the birds fell tuneless on his listless ear—the sky above him appeared far less beau- tiful than that on whose reflected hues he had so often gazed as he lay on the banks of the deep lake—but when he thought of the words of the beautiful mai- dens, who had assured him that to return to the light of another world was impossible afier the third day’s sojourning in this enchanted region, he hid his secret sorrow in his inmost soul, and only gave vent to his grief when he thought the thick shades of the garden concealed him from observation; much he strove (when the three kind sisters approached him,) to appear happy and cheerful as formerly, but he could not con- ceal the grief which was preying within; and when they kindly inquired what ailed him, he tried to ac- count for his altered appearance and demeanour, by various excuses and pretences of bad health. One day as he lay in the light of the setting sun, upon the green banks of a limpid stream, though all nature around him appeared charming, rich and luxurious, and the air was filled with fragrance, and the birds sang their evening song, and on the meadow before him were some cheerful labourers, singing cheerfully while at work, he felt that all this beauty and melody want- ed something without which they could administer no happiness to his longing soul. His father’s hut sud-

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his ned, ain der- ned THE THREE SWANS. lll ——— denly rose in lively colours before his fancy; he saw his beloved mother weeping bitterly at the door, and he knew that it was for him she wept; and he beheld all his long forgotten companions with their familiar faces standing around his mother, and heard them calling his name aloud as if in sorrow; and then the poor boy sobbed aloud and wept bitterly with his face hid in the tall grass. As he lay in this posture he heard a clear voice singing in the distance, and as he listened the sounds waxed more audible and seemed to float nearer to him through the still air. Again they died away in the distance, and again they approached towards him, until he distinctly heard the following words sung apparently by different and separate voices:— FIRST VOICE. “The home of my childhood, how brightly it shines ‘Mid the dreary darkling past! There the sunlight of memory never declines, Still green is its valley—still green are its vines— What charms hath memory cast Around thy father’s cot?” SECOND VOICE. «Oh! the home of my childhood was wild and rude In the depth of an alpine solitude; But dearer to me, and fairer far, lis rocks, and dells, and streamlets are, Than the thousand vales of the noble Rhine! Hast thou so dear a home 2” THIRD VOICE. “Far, far away, in the twilight gray, My spirit loves to roam, To one sweet spot—oh! ne'er forgot! My childhood’s home.” FOURTH VOMKE. “The eagle lent me his wing of pride, And away with him I flew, O’er many a land and ocean wide, To a vale my childhood knew.” When the fourth voice had died softly away in the distance, the boy—whose young heart now heaved till it was like to burst with wild and uncontrollable longings to return to his father’s home—heard the rush of heavy wings passing near him, and looking up beheld a beautiful snow-white eagle, with a golden crown upon its head, and a collar of rubies, alight near to him on the meadow. ‘The noble bird looked with a friendly eye upon him, and he heard another voice singing faintly, and far off, these words:— “The eagle is a bird of truth, And his wing is swift and strong.” The boy moved by a powerful and momentary impulse, sprung to his feet and ran towards the noble bird, which bent its crowned head and stretched out its long wings as if to salute him on his approach; but he now discovered that the eagle's strong talons were fixed in a swan, which lay beneath him, and which he knew to be one of those which he had seen swim- ming on the lake near Wimpfen. Then the manly boy seized a branch of a tree and with it drove away the cruel eagle from the swan. No sooner had he performed this grateful action, than he suddenly be- held the three lovely sisters from whom he had just been longing to make his escape, standing before him, and smiling so sweetly and mildly upon him, that he felt ashamed of his wish to leave them secretly, and hung down his head blushing deeply. Then one of them spoke :— “We know thy thoughts, dear youth, and what it is that moves thee so deeply—and though we are sorry ‘0 part with thee, yet as thou hast proved thyself so faithful towards us, thy secret desire shall be granted, and to-morrow thou shalt behold thy father, and mo- ther, and brethren, and sisters.” The poor boy stood mute before his kind benefac- tresses; he wept because he was about to part with them, and he also wept when he thought how long he had tarried away from his home; all night he tossed about on a restless couch unable to resolve on départ- ing, and equally unable to reject the offer which had been made to him by his kind and lovely friends. At last sleep sank down on his weary eyelids, and when he awoke the following morning, he found himself lying on the shore of the well-known lake. He looked upon the waters, and beheld the three swans sailing at a little distance from him; but when he stretched his hands towards them, they beckoned in a friendly manner to him, and then diving beneath the surface re-appeared not again. All was pleasure and astonishment when the long lost.boy again presented himself in his native village. His friends, and companions assembled around him, and heard his wonderful story, but none believed it. But, after the first greetings were over, and his first transports of joy on finding himself again restored to his parents and youthful companions had subsided, the boy was seized with a secret longing to return to the unknown land; and this desire grew more vehement every day. He would now wander about the shores of the lake from sunrise till the stars appeared in the mighty hea- vens; but the three swans never returned, and the poor boy wept and sighed in vain for those Elysian Fields, in which it had once been permitted him to wander. His cheeks now grew pale as the withered rose, his eye became dim and languid, his bounding limbs grew more feeble every day, and all joy left his bosom. One evening he had dragged himself with much difficulty to the shore of the lake—the eveni sun threw its last radiance on the waters—and heard a sweet silver like voice which seemed to rise from the blue depth beneath him, singing these verses :-— F “Thou who hast roam’d through The bright world below, What joy can thy bosom On earth ever know? “ Dost thou dread the blue wave! Thou hast tried it before— One plunge in its bosom Thy sorrows are o'er!” The voice had died away in the distance, but the boy now stood close on the margin of the lake, gazing intently upon it, as if his eye sought to measure its profound depth. He turned round and cast one look upon his father’s cot, and he thought that he heard his mother’s voice calling him through thé still evening ; but again the soft silver-like voice rose up from the bosom of the placid waters, and he knew it to be the voice of one of the three fairy sisters. “ Adieu, adien, dear mother,” he cried, and with a shout of mingled joy and fear, flung himself headlong into the fathomless waters, wnich Closed around him for ever. —- Dr. WatTTs was so eminent for his powers of verse, that when a child, it was so natural for him to speak in rhyme, that even at the very time he wished to avoid it, he could not. His father was displeased, and threatened to whip him, if he did not leave off making verses. One day, when he was about to put his threats in execution, the child fell a crying, and, on his knees said, 43 « Pray, Father, do some pity take, And I will no more verses make !”

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AWAT! AWAY Wi BOUND O'R THE DEE; Af SONG. THE WORDS AND AIR BY MR. DRAKE—THE SYMPHONIES AND ACCOMPANIMENTS BY T. V. WIESENTHAL. pelt z”. “ae as eae on eh ALLEGRO NON TROPPO. way! away we bound o’er the deep, a= SS rear arora rae eee ase: L ad — Light -ly bright - ly our merry hearts leap, Homeward we sail tothe land of our love, By the (=e reser = 2 —-$ -e—) a a —~e re —E—— eee a ligt bea - con shi - ning above; Softly sweetly the mur- murs of song, pelleted a = : eS Sanna SSE

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HAL. J Ul Hi hit Hh re AH tH HHH riya it ' hasten’'d a2 . long, Gent- ly breath’d from the mariner’s lips, As the Le oar in the wave - less | mirror he dips. IIe Swiftly we glide and oh! as we near The haven, the home of those we hold dear, We think not of woe, we dream not of ill, As our pilot of light glows over us still $ Hark, the breeze sighs and woos us to shore, Pilgrims of ocean, our task it is oer, We hail, we hail the best land of our lovey’ By the star=light beacon shining abovee NIGHTsBLOWING FLOWERS. BY MRS. HEMANS. CatLpRrEN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied, O dedicated flowers! Ye, from the crowd your vestal beauty turning, Deep in dim urns the precious odour shrined, Till steps are hush’d and faithful stars are burning, And the moon’s eye looks down, serenely kind; So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart; And but to shades disclose The inmost thought which glows, With its pure life entwined. Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill; But yield their fragrance to the faint sweet voices Rising from hidden founts when all is still, So doth the lone prayer arise, Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill. When dark-blue heaveis look softest and most holy, THE LILY. Addressed to a Young Lady on her entrance into life. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. Fiower of light! forget thy birth, Daughter of the sordid earth Lift the beauty of thine eye To the blue ethereal sky. While thy graceful buds unfold Silver petals starred with gold, Let the bee among thy bells Rifle their ambrosial cells, And the nimble pinioned air Waft thy breath to heaven, like prayer; Cloud and sun alternate shed Gloom or glory round thy head; Morn impearl thy leaves with dews, Evening lend them rosy hues, Morn with snow-white splendour bless, Night with glow-worm jewels dress; Thus fulfil thy summer-day, Spring and flourish and decay ; Live a life of fragrance—then Disappear—to rise again, When the sisters of the vale Welcome back the nightingale. So may she whose name I write, Be herself a flower of light, Live a life of innocence, Die—to be transported hence To that Garden in the skies, Where the Lily never dies.

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114 HABITS OF THE ROMAN LADIES. HABITS OF THE It has been remarked that “a fondness for adorning the person for the sake of obtaining admiration from men, is natural to all women.” Now allewing this to be true, surely no one can condemn so laudable a de- sire of pleasing on the part of the fair sex, whatever may be its ulterior object. The female mind, for the most part, has so few important considerations where- with to occupy itself, and so few opportunities of publicly displaying its judgment and taste, except in matters of dress, that we cannot wonder at seeing so much attention paid to it by women of every class; ROMAN LADIES. The use of perfumes, cosmetics, and depilatories, prevailed to a great eXtent amongst the Romans; the first were obtained at a considerable expense from In- dia, Greece, and Persia; there are still in existence a few recipes for making the cosmetics used two thou- sand years ago, and which will be found to have many ingredients in common with similar preparations of our own time. Ovid gives the following, and adds, that those who use it will possess a complexion smoother than the surface of their polished mirrors :—* ‘Take two pounds of Lybian barley, free from straw and chaff, besides when it is remembered that the amount ex- | and an equal quantity of the pea of the wild vetch, pended by ladies in articles of dress and bijouterie by for the same purpose, a female fondness for fashion must | | mix these with ten eggs, Jet it harden and pound it, narcissus bruised in a mortar, two ounces of gum, and far exceeds that spent by the “lords of the « el add two ounces of hartshorn, and a dozen roots of the } always be considered as a national blessing, and one of two ounces of meal, reduce the whole to powder, sift the many advantages derived from a splendid court. | jt, and add nine times the quantity of honey.” Some , ! “s?* We would, however, by no means be understood as | used poppy juice and water, and others a pap or poul- advocating that excessive love of dress which is in- dulged in by some, reckless of all consequences, and which would almost induce them, Tarpeia-like, to sacrifice their country for a bracelet. The opening remark was made on the Roman ladies some two | thousand years ago, and it is of their different dresses that we now propose to treat; these, in splendour, | richness, and gracefulness, were not surpassed even by those of the present day, if we may judge from the litttle insight aflorded us by old Latin writers into the mysteries of a Roman lady’s toilette. The ladies of ancient Rome rose early, and imme- diately enjoyed the luxury of the bath, which was sometimes of perfumed water; they then underwent a process of polishing with pumice-stone for the purpose of smoothing the skin, and after being anointed with rich perfumes they threw around them a loose robe and retired to their dressing-rooms, where they re- ceived morning visits from their friends and discus- sed the merits of the last eloquent speech delivered | in the senate, or the probable conqueror in the next gladiatorial combat. After the departure of their Visiters, commenced the business of the toilette, which occupied a considerable portion of time; the maids were summoned, to each of whom a different duty} out by the roots. Was assigned : some furmed a kind of council and only looked on to direct and assist the others by their ad- vice and experience; one held the mirror before her tice of bread and milk, with which they completely covered the face, and kept on in their own houses; this when removed lefi the skin smooth and fair— Depilatories were used to form and adorn the eye- brows, which it was considered elegant to have joined across the nose. On one part of a Roman lady’s dressing table might be seen her small silver tooth brush, which, with the assistance of a little pure water, and occasionally a powder of mastic wood, formed her only dentrifice; near it stood a paper containing a black powder, which when ignited sent up a volume of thick smoke, and had the valuable property of restoring the eyes to their former brilliancy if weakened by the gaiety of the preceding evening, or by a sleepless night occa- sioned by the constant serenades of her lover beneath her window. Here was a bottle of the perfume of Peestum, and there a box of rouge, and another of hair- dye ; on another part lay a large coil or braid of false hair, made up by a male hair-dresser, and near it were the bodkins, the chains, the rings, and the richly stud- ded bands of white and purple which adorned the head ; this braid was worn on the crown of the head, the hair from the nape of the neck being all pulled Continual changes were taking place in the fashion of wearing the hair; at first it was cut off as a votive offering to the gods, but the Roman ladies soon discovered that “ luxuriant head of 1 — ) ees ao 2°75 © hair was a powerful auxiliary of female beauty,” and allowed it to grow; at one time it was worn high in bows with a range of curls in front; at another a la Grecque ; then allowed to float in the air in a dishevel- led state, and again a fa militaire in the form of a hel- With the exception of the looking-glass the articles | met. Light hair was sometimes worn over that of a of the toilette were much the same as those in use at | naturally dark shade, auburn being the colour most present. The glass, or, more properly speaking, mir-| esteemed and admired by both sexes; those who had ror, was composed of a highly polished plate of metal,* white or dark hair used saffron as a dye to give it an generally silver, richly chased around the edges, and | auburn tinge. Some ladies used gold dustas a hair pow- adorned with precious stones; this was not fixed in a | der, “ which shed such a ray of glory around them as frame like the modern glass, but held by aslave. The | dazzled all beholders, and gave their heads an appear- combs were formed of ivory and rose-wood. Curling | ance of being on fire.” When the ladies did not tongs, bodkins, and hair pins were also known; the | « wear their hair,” they wore a kind of veil and a tur- former was a simple bar of iron heated in the fire, | ban or bonnet called mitra; this was like a bishop's mitre around which the hair was turned in order to preduce in shape but not so high, and with a lappet hanging over a curl; the two latter were made of gold and silver, | each cheek, something, in short, like a modern mob and ornamented with pearls; it was probably with | cap, which elegant head-dress owes its origin, no doubt, one of these bodkins that Cleopatra gave herself a|to the classical mitra; thus has the Roman female death-wound, and mot, as is commonly supposed, with | head-dress descended to our times, not only as one of an adder. the insignia of the members of the Right Reverend a Bench, bu: also in the shape of a covering for our do- *Looking-glasses were known to the Romans and | mestic matrons. obtained from the Phcenicians, but they were not in Afier having performed their abbutions, and gone general use. through all the little delicate offices ef making the mistress, While others there were to whom it was a “constant eare The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare.”

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PERSONAL BEAUTY. 115 complexion, perfuming the person, and endeavouring by art to excel nature, the Roman ladies were pre- pared to put on their costly garments, which were duly produced by the slave who held the honourable post of “ Mistress of the Robes.” In the earlier ages the under garment—whieh in other respects differed litle from the modern—was worn as high as the chin and down to the feet, so as to leave no part of the n visible except the face; in time, however, it was cut lower and shortened ; over this was worn the tunica, a dress composed of many folds, open at the sides and with sleeves; these sieeves were left open from the shoulder to the wrist, and fastened with clasps of gold and silver; one end of the tunica was fixed to the left shoulder, while the other was carried across the breast and fell negligently over the right shoulder till it touched the ground; this train was generally carried over the arm when walking, so as to show the right ancle; but it was considered neglige and*graceful to allow it to drag on the grouud instead of holding it up, and consequently was a custom much in vogue armongst the distinguees of ancient Rome. This was the dress worn during the republic, but it is difficult to obtain a correct description of it from the very Vague accounts handed down to us; probably, as in most republics, little attention was paid to dress, at all events it was plain and simple. Jt was not until the time of the emperors that the Goddess of Fashion reared her head in tlie capital of the world, when though considerable alterations took place in dress, yet a few traits of the former style were retained — The number of garments worn varied according to the temperature of the wearer ; they were generally three : the first was the simple vest; the second a kind of petticoat richly worked in front and surrounded at the waist by a belt, which answered the purpose of a corset, and was formed in front like a stomacher, richly studded with jewels; then came the third and princi- pal garment, the stola, which entirely superseded the use of the ancient tunica; this was a robe with a small train trimmed at the bottom with a deep border of purple and gold; it was confined at the waist by a belt, and the upper part thrown back so as to discover the embroidered front of the second garment or petti- coat; on this front was worn the Jaticlave, ax order or decoration of the empire granted to distinguished men, and sometimes assumed by females in right of their husbands.* Over all these was worn the palla or cloak, with a train of some yards in length, which fell from the shoulders, where it was fastened by two tichly ornamented fibule or clasps; this train was trimmed with gold and silver, and sometimes with Precious stones, and was usually carried over the lefi shoulder in the manner of the ample roguelaure worn by gentlemen. + It will be seen from the above de- scription that there is a considerable resemblance be- tween the ancient Roman dress and the modern court dress, the former perhaps exceeding the latter in grace- fulness and elegance of appearance, from its numerous folds and flowing outline. The materials of which these dresses were composed were silk, cashmere, and linen. Embroidery was procured from the Phoenicians and Assyrians; the furmer was most esteemed as it Was raised, while the latter was smooth with the sur- face of the cloth. The only colour used for robes Was white trimmed with purple, coloured clothes not being considered “comme i faut,” amongst the higher orders at Rome. The Roman stocking was of silk, generally pink or flesh-coloured, over which was worn a shoe or rather * Orders were sometimes conferred on ladies. The Senate granted a riband of a peculiar pattern to the wife and mother of Coriolanus, to be worn by them tae ef valuable services performed to the State. boot reaching above the ankle, turned up at the poin like a Chinese shoe, and laced up from the instep tight to the leg. This boot was made of white leather or the papyrus bark, ornamented with gold, silver, and jewels. Sandals were also in use; they consisted of a simple sole with riband attached to it, and was laced up like a modern sandal, at the same time supplying the place of a garter by keeping the stocking up. We are informed that coquettes used cork soles and false insteps of cork, but never disfigured their persons by the barbarian ornaments of necklace, ring, or ear-ring- Afier the Roman lady had completed her toilette she sallied out, followed by a slave, for a promenade beneath the porticoes of the Forum, where she could not only cheapen goods, but also hear what was going on in the law courts; after continuing her walk up the gentle ascent of the gay and crowded Suburra street, she returned to her own house, the threshold of which (if she happened to be unmarried) was adorned with garlands of flowers, placed there by her young patrician admirers; some of these flowers her attend- ants collected to fill the splendid vase which stood in her chamber, and preceded her, to draw aside the curtain which supplied the place of a door into the tapestried and perfumed apartment; here she enters, and sinking softly down into an ivory and gold adorned chair, she is welcomed by the chirping notes of her favourite bird, which hangs near in a gilded cage— By her side stands a beautiful page, who gently wafis a plume of peacock’s feathers around her head, while a slave presents a small stick wrapped around with, apparently, a roll of straw-coloured riband, but in re- ality it is a letter from the young Emilius, who adopts this mode of writing in preference to the usual waxen tablet, not only because it is a fashion introduced from Greece, but because it preserves most inviolably those secretswhich are only meant to meet the eye of his lovely mistress ; far be it from us to pry into these secrets, 80 let us now bid adieu to the fair Lucretia, who already begins anxiously to unrol the folds of her papyrian epistle. See eT PERSONAL BEAUTY. A RECENT writer concludes his observations on the means to be adopted to procure beauty in the persen in these words:—* Let then the ladies observe the following rules:—In the morning use pure water as @ preparatory ablution: after which they must abstain from all sudden gusts of passion, particularly envy, 2s that gives the skin a sallow paleness. It may seem trifling to talk of temperance, yet must this be attend- ed to, both in eating and drinking, if they would avoid those pimples for which the advertised washes are a cure. Instead of rouge, let them use moderate exercise, which will raise a natural bloom in their cheek, ini- miiable by art. Ingenuous candour, and unaffected good humour, will give an openness to their counte- nance that will make them universally agreeable. A desire of pleasing will add fire to their eyes, and breath- ing the morning air at sunrise will give their lips a vermilion hue. That amiable vivacity which they now possess may be happily heightened and preserved, if they avoid late hours and card-playing, as well as novel-reading by candle-light, but not otherwise; for the first gives the face a drowsy, disagreeable aspect, the second is the mother of wrinkles, and the third is a fruitful source of weak eyes and sallow complexion. A white hand is a very desirable ornament; and a hand can never be white unless it be kept clean; nor is this all, for if a young lady would excel her compa- nions in this respect, she must keep her hands in con- stant motion, which will occasion the blood to circu- late freely, and have a wenderfal effect. The motion recum is working at her needle, brushing up the house, and twirling the distaéf.”

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THE ICE-QUEEN. THE ICE-QUEEN. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HERMIT IN LONDON.” Ere I attempt to describe this majestic beauty, and ; This lovely appearance is as rapidly withdrawn, and, relate her conquests, her admirers, and fate, it will be jas it were, waking from a dream, the snow encom- necessary to say a few words of the scene in which she appeared—imperial Russia, stupendous St. Peters- burg! It is impossible to embody my first impression on contemplating this so unique, and (to me) novel mistress of cities. The first idea which strikes the mind, is its magnitude ; and, although the fact is other- wise, St. Petersburg appeared to me by far the largest city I had ever beheld: every thing here is colossal; palaces raising their princely heads on high, and cov- ering an extent of ground beyond any comparison with the edifices of other countries which I have seen; here the Neva, in different branches, flowing gracefully through the city; there public buildings of a most im- posing appearance, spacious streets which seem almost interminable, and which are crowded with splendid equipages of all descriptions. None of the higher orders are ever seen on fot, the least opulent being, at all events, in their droskis; then again the eye is dazzled with the splendid uniforms of the nobility, covered with lace and embroidery, and the martial appearance which the countless other uniforms give to the scene, (for every body worth namaing is clad there- in,) whilst a sort of a daylight masquerade is produced by the semi-Asiatic costume of the other classes of the population. When shall I stop to admire? The bridge of boats! the hut of the immortal Peter, which the Russians pride themselves in and preserve religiously, as a relique; his boat, his chapel and audience-cham- ber, simple, but striking and characteristic of the po- tentate who once occupied them; its rude simplicity affording a wonderful contrast to the costly edifices which divert the attention and the admiration of the stranger, at one and the same time. Amongst these, the famous palace of the Prince Potemkin stands very high on the list; there the late empress resided in do- mestic happiness, and reigned in the hearts of all who knew her. The admiralty, with its gilded dome, may next be noticed; it stands central to three beautiful streets, of which Regent-street may furnish some idea ; a gentle descent shows off this building with very great effect ; its view commands the streets thus branch- ing, as it were, from it. How shall I paint the winter palace and hermitage? the thing is beyond my reach, but here I cannot help observing that despotism and a military government, slavery and absolute power, mark every feature of the palaces and of the people: in the winter palace there is a lengthy gallery entirely filled with the portraits of the most celebrated military characters, and guards, armed police, and traversing troops, cross your path everywhere, and mingle in every place. It isa great novelty to an Englishman to behold, at the height of three stories, on this hermi- tage, a garden of great beauty, evincing what art can do—which indeed is put powerfully in requisition in the imperial dominions, where the hot-houses of the nobles exceed all that I could possibly imagine, and are expensive to the highest degree. There are now (at the time described) in the short summer-season, when all is viridity, huge timber and rich foliage, rare flowers, and many things that the garden can present to our view; for nature loses no time in her short sum- mer, but seems as lavish of her gifts as the proud and pleasurable great people are of their fortunes: and here I ought to mention the costly attire in this city of both sexes of the highest class. The arrival of summer 18 quite scenic ; winter's sable curtain is removed, and the landscape is changed as one might shift a scene. | | | passes all around; furs, and thick cloaks, and coverings are assumed, the sledge succeeds the stately carriages and humbler droskis, and another masqueradish repre- sentation takes place. Now belles and beaux fly about with wonderful velocity over the slippery surface, and the season of balls and other pleasurable assemblies commences. Here let me for a moment take my stand, and rivet my eyes on the Ice-Queen. First of the beauteous was she ; gracefully reclining in her sledge, followed, admired, and courted by legions of aspirers, for a look, a smile, or an inclination of her head. Her stature was tall, but so finely proportioned, that, like a perfect specimen of architecture, grace, lightness, and strength were all combined in her; she was a paragon, and needed not the foreign aid of artifice, arch smiles, coquetry, or fashionable levity, to set her off. She seemed to reign like a wise sovereign, quietly, but well aware of her empire over hearts; kindly, yet cautiously; tranquilly, yet not neglectful of profiting at her golden hour. Amongst her many admirers, a French officer of high birth, who was on his travels at the time, appeared to have gained a temporary ascen- dency over the rest; but the strict watch kept near her by her father (a general officer,) and her own submis- sive affection for him, chilled the warm advances of her lover. He called her the Ice-Queen, and that nom de guerre was generally given to her afterwards. It would be superfluous to detail the rivalry of ad- mirers, the uncertainty and doubts, the faint hopes and endeavours of the youth of fashion, so generally was she prime object of interest. A modest dignity, not bashful nor obtrusive, enabled her to enjoy the homage which she received, whilst it was nearly impossible to discover the penchant of her affections. A circum- stance at length occurred, namely, the recall of the young French officer, which gave conjecture certainty, and deprived the ball and the banquet* of its greatest ornament; a degree of languor marked her features at the last meeting, and a forget-me-not accepted, indi- cated at once her regret and her choice For a time she withdrew, from indisposition, from the gay circle; and when she returned to it, the rose had faded on her cheek, and her smile was still mild, but melan- choly. There was also in her acknowledgment of attentions and assiduities paid to her, a certain look. which seemed to imply that they were irksome to her; nevertheless, she was still the Ice-Queen, still the point of attraction; and now, all at once, added orna- ments, and an increased train of followers and flatter- ers began to denote some change about to take place, and daily by ner side a Russian nobleman of great riches was marked as her intended. The cavalier was of high and proud bearing; tall, robust, and com- pletely the soldier; a linguist,t a courtier, and proud to excess. But on his brow sat a severity at variance with tenderness, and he could frown on his slaves and Jomestics, or on the surrounding people, in a form which was enough to electrify a delicate female, and * The banquet at St. Petersburgh is gorgeous, its taste decidedly French, with two nationalities; first, the presence of fruits during the whole of the repast; and secondly, the manner of serving tea, which suc- ceeds it, and which is as often drank with lemon- juice, or jam, as with cream. + It is very common for a well educated Russian to speak five or six living languages.

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A MOTHER’S GRIEF, &c. 117 to strike a panic so as to drive away the loves and graces from his presence for ever; there was even a constraint in his courtliness to her whose beauty at- syracted his vanity. The Ice-Queen only bore that name from being the reigning beauty among the glittering, wintry throng. Nature had formed her heart to melt with pity, and to glow with chaste love; but if she was an Ice-Queen by name, here was an iron partner by nature, so that no sympathies could be established between them. Vanity led on the intended bridegroom to ask her hand; ambition guided her father in bestowing it on him; fear actuated her to accept it, as she knew that her father’s fortune depended on the match, and would yelieve him fom incumbrances which expensive living and the play-table had involved him in. From being casually a leading beauty, she was now made a kind of exhibition, a splendid article for the highest title and heaviest fortune to compete for. Many offers she had received; but the old general, like an able tacti- cian, held out for the most advantageous. In fine, she was married ; and ere the icy season closed, she might be seen under the domination of a cold, heartless, ar- bitrary lord, splendid in outward trappings, but the victim of a parent’s will, and of a husband's natural ferocity. Whilst this was the status quo of the lovely Katherine, her disappointed suitor, robbed of all that he held dear sought death and danger in the battle- field, having volunteered his services to assist the in- trepid Poles, struggling to break their bondage. The news of the young cavalier’s having jcined the army hostile to the iron sceptre of the Czar, reached the ears ef the husband, whose hatred for him had ever been perceptible ; and now, with taunts and invectives, he reproached his lady with her favourite’s being armed against her countrymen, adding that he should like to see him taken prisoner, loaded with chains, and sent degraded into perpetual exile; or that he might perish disgracefully retreating from the field of fight. “That he will never do,” exclaimed his indignant wife. This remark was met by brutal language, and from that hour domestic peace fled for ever from the proud dome which covered gilded wretchedness. The fate of the Poles is too well known to require repeating. Even in the commencement of the sanguinary contest, when vic- tory for a while seemed to incline towards freedom’s standard, the galiant youth fell, not in retreat, but in bold advance, the account of which the tyrant husband read very deliberately and exultingly to his inconsol- able consort. s“ He perished bravely,” replied she, and sank upon the floor. The veil now fell off; all attempt at concealing a passion, combated, but not overcome by adverse circumstances, stifled but not ex- tinguished, was now in vain. Distance and dislike, jealousy and hatred, rose up betwixt the wedded pair; disparity of age and difference of disposition were daily more perceptible and more intolerable. The blight of wounded feeling once more brought sickness to the couch of her, who might, for beauty, have figured on a throne; she withered like a leaf; and ere the summer again shone on her, the Ice-Queen sank from her sphere, of which she was the bright orna- ment, as if “The next sun’s ray Had melted her away.” Tyranny! thou art accursed where’er soever thou rearest thy guilty head; but the greatest tyranny which one being can exercise towards another, is that which enslaves the heart; gives the virgin-hand of innocence and love-inspiring youth to an object abhorrent to the victim; and which barters titles, riches, slaves, and other possessions, in return for love, which cannot be forced, and ought to be as free as pure—pure as the azure vault of heaven, and free as the winds which sweep the surface of the earth below them. The fate of the Ice-Queen is no uncommon occurrence on the continent, and will account for the infelicity of wedded life on the one hand, and for its depravity on the other. A MOTHER’S GRIEF, BY CAPTAIN M’NAGHTEN. A MOTHER’s grief!—ah, there is much To raise a mother’s grief: Disease her infant’s frame may touch, While yet its days are brief. To see its tender form consume, And its young soft cheek lose its bloom— This is a mother’s grief. To see it writhe in bursts of pain, While yet its speechless tongue an but by bitter cries complain, With which her heart is wrung. Its tearless, anguish'd, eye to see, Roll wildly, in its agony— This is a mother’s grief. And when, in boyhood’s riper years, The parting hour arrives; And hope, with her maternal fears, In vain, within her strives: To think she never may again Enfold the form she presses then— This is a mother's grief. And when at length, in manhood’s prime, Her age’s pride and joy; Comes death, in that most happy time, The blessing to destroy; Or her fair daughter’s ripened bloom, To snatch unpitying to the tomb— This is a mother’s grief. THE WANDERING WIND. BY MRS. HEMANS. Tue wind, the wandering wind Of golden summer eves! Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones among the leaves? Oh, is it from the waters, Or from the long, tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathinzs pass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The wind, the wandering wind! No, no, the strange sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Or the fir-trees, whispé?ing low. They are not of the river, Nor of the caverned hill: ‘Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill- They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the wind, the wandering wind!

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118 ATHENAIS, &c. ATHENAIS. Tur history of Athenais, a Greek of obscure rank, ‘whose beauty and talents raised her to a throne, would wear the appearance of romance, had not its autben- ticity been established by historical record. Athenais, the daughter of Leontius, an Athenian, was born about the year 393 of the Christian era, and educated by her father in the sciences, philosophy and mythology of the Greeks. Her progress in every branch of learning was uncommon and rapid. As she advanced towards maturity, her talents, added to the charms of youth and beauty, attracted the attention and commanded the homage of her countrymen. Her father, proud of the charms and attainments of his daughter, and exulting in the admiration they excited, persuaded himself that the merit of Athenais would prove’a suflicient dowry. With this conviction, he divided his estate between his sons, bequeathing to his daughter only a small legacy. Less sanguine in the power of her charms, the fair Greek was shocked at this disposition of her father’s fortune, and, appealing from his will to the equity and affection of her brothers, she besought them to do her justice. Her brothers listened with coldness to her remonstrances; avarice stifled in their hearts the voice of nature and justice, and drove her from the parental roof. Athenais sought shelter with her aunts, who received her with kindness and sympathy, and com- menced, in the cause of their niece, a legal process against her brothers. Athenais was, in the progress of this suit, conducted by her aunts to Constantinople. Theodosius the second, who at this time held the im- perial sceptre, divided with his sister, Pulcheria, the cares of the empire. To this princess Athenais pre- ferred her complaint, and demanded justice. Pul- cheria, having questioned the young Greek respecting the particulars of her cause, her family, her education, and her deceased father, was charmed by the propriety and modesty of her replies, and the eloquence with which she related the little incidents of her youth. She introduced the fair stranger to her brother, who was equally struck with her graces and acquirements, and determined to exalt her to be the partner of his throne and dignity. The intelligence of her good fortune was received by Athenais with a modesty that heightened the lustre of her charms. By the desire of her royal lover, she ‘was instructed in the principles of the Greek church, and, being converted from paganism, assumed the name of Eudocia, on her baptism by Atticus, the me- tropolitan patriarch. The royal nuptials were cele- brated amidst the acclamations of the capital. With a mind highly cultivated in Grecian and Ro- man literature, the empress, in the bloom of youth and pride of beauty, continued, amid the huxury of a court, to improve herself in those attainments to which she owed her elevation; her talents were devoted to the advancement of religion and the honour of the em- peror. She composed a poetical paraphrase of some of the books of the Old Testament: to these she added a canto of verses from Homer, applied to the life and miracles of Christ. She also wrote a panegyric on the Persian victories of Theodosius. “ Her writings,” says Gibbon, “ which were applauded by a servile and su- perstitious age, have not been disdained by the can- dour of impartial criticism.” Eudocia, after the marriage of her daughter, re- quested permission to discharge her grateful vows, by a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. In her progress through the east, she pronounced, from a throne of gold and gems, an elegant oration to the senate of Antioch, to whom she declared her intention of enlarging the walls of the city, and of subscribing towards the resto- ration of the public baths. For this purpose, she allot- $e nificence in the holy land exceeded those of the grou Helena, and she returned to Constantinople, covered with honours and laden with relics. Hitherto, time and tranquil possession had seemed to make no abatement in the conjugal tenderness of the emperor. But the glory of Eudocia now became obscured: a cloud passed over its meridian lustre. Her pilgrimage or rather her triumphant progress, through the east had tainted the simplicity of her original manners: ostentation paved the way for a stronger passion: ambition awakened in her heart: aspiring to the government of the empire, she mingled in court intrigues, and contested for power vith the princess, her benefactress, whom she sought to supplant in the confidence of the emperor. The people flow began to murmur at the exhausted state of the treasury, having lavished, by her donations alone, twenty thousand four hundred and eighty-eight pounds of gold! Perceiving the affections of the emperor to be alien- ated, Eudocia sought permission to retire to Jerusalem, where the remainder of her life might be passed in retirement, and consecrated to the duties of religion. Her petition was granted; and the latter part of her life was passed in exile and devotion, in building and adorning churches, and in administering to the wants of the poor and necessitous. Her daughter hac been early married to Valentinian the third, emperor of the west. This prince was assassinated, and his throne usurped, by Petronius Maximus, who, to secure him- self on the throne, compelled the widow of the late emperor to marry him. She invited over to her as- sistance Genseric, king of the Vandals, who ravaged the country, and carried her prisoner into Africa ; “she was, however, released, after eight years’ confinement, and ended her life and misfortunes at Constantinople. Eudocia, having become reconciled to Theodosius, returned to Constantinople, and continued with her husband till his death. After experiencing a life of uncommon vicissitudes, she expired at Jerusalem, in the sixty-seventh year of her age. During her power and influence, magnanimously forgiving the barbarity of her brothers, she had pro- moted them to be consuls and prefects. Observing their confusion, on being summoned to the imperial presence, she kindly said, “ Had you not compelled me to leave my country, and visit Constantinople, I should never have had it in my power to bestow these marks of sisterly affection upon you.” SPANISH POLITENESS. Near Naval-Moral, we met a Spanish family of rank travelling, a sight very uncommon. The ladies and female attendants were seated in a large, heavy, old-fashioned carriage, covered with carved work and tarnished gilding. This vehicle was drawn by eight mules, which two fine-looking men on foot guided solely by the voice, calling out their names, to which they appeared by their movements to answer with great docility. ‘The gentlemen of the party rode with the male servants, all conversing familiarly together ; and the last often put their heads into the carriage- window, and spoke to the ladies. The Spaniards, I have often observed, however exalted their rank, are exceedingly kind and affable to their servants and inferiors. And, indeed, the lower classes have much natural politeness; nor is there any thing in their lan- guage or manner which disgusts or offends. They have no vulgarity in their freedom, nor servility in their respect. I have often sat round the fire of a Posada, amid Spaniards of all classes, whom chance had assembled together, and been quite charmed to mark the general good humour, and the easy, unem- barrassed propriety of behaviour of the common pea- ted two bundred pounds of gold. Her alms and mu- sants. “a> +> wm — =

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y of lies vy, ind ght led ich ith ith THE GATHERER, &c. 119 Original. THE PAINTED LADY, Sue trips so lightly o’er the verdant lawn As scarce to press the herb—so like a fawn, So fleet—or like some gaily dancing sprite! And the deep crimson colour on her cheeks Thro’ her skin’s snowy texture mantling breaks, Lighted by eyes than morning dews more bright. Who then shall sneering say, that art bestows The matchless colour on her cheek which glows, In lustre vermeil-tinted, pure and deep? Could then that lady, beautiful and fair, In colours borrow’d from man’s art, e’er bear Her cheeks, more sweet than summer’s breath, to steep? Tell me not a thing so far from credence! I never will believe it—hence, far hence, Ye haters of the angels I adore! Scoffers! I tell you, art would fail to make Such hues, in blushes from her cheeks that break— Away! each feeling heart must you abhor! You might extract the moss-clad rose’s hue, And mix it with the lilly’s whiteness too, And even add the pink flower’s richest bloomn— You might take from the orient dawning day, The rosiest tints that on its bosom play, P Ere yet the sun comes from his ocean-womb. Sill would you fail, with all your labour'd art, A semblance of that colour to impart, Which mantles richly thro’ her pearly face. Nature paints well her flowers, clouds, and fruits, And to each sep’rate object nicely suits Its own peculiar hue, and proper grace. Nature (her wisdom we in all things find, She never to her creatures’ wants is blind, Nor stamps upon their brows her impress faint,) Nature collected all her ghasten’d powers, When she had finely colour’d sky and flowers, The modest female’s blushing cheek to paint. A DIRGE FOR TERESA. Sue's gone!—she’s gone!—now from the field of rest Turn sofily back its sward: where lime-trees weep Their flowers, beloved of bees; and graves are drest With daisies, like a flock of fairy sheep;— Lay the fair girl to sleep. The sun will love to linger where she lies, The dew to keep her covering ever green; For her, the winds shall sing soft obsequies Of low-toned music, gentle and serene— For such her life hath been. What dread had Death for her, he came not near Her couch, with hasty step and angry eye; Not with anguish keen—the pang severe, The fear of heart, which some must bear, to die;— She went without a sigh. Without one shade of pain across her brow, One short convulsive breath—one feeble moan— We heard her last farewell; her voice was low, But naught of sorrow trembled in its tone; A smile—and she was gone. No early care had worn the tender ties That bound her here—no grief her heart had bowed ; Only, too pure for earth, she seemed to rise To her own heaven—as doth some silver cloud Before the winds grow loud. She dwelt amongst us, an unconscious saint, Where’er she passed, a holy peace she shed, Her eye was such as limners love to paint, Smiling above some sinless infant's bed: Sweet music was her tread. . She’s gone!—she’s gone!—In silence make her grave, But not in tears—ye would not from its home Recall her happy soul—perchance to brave A weary lot—too gentle far to roam Through years of gtief to come. 7 THE GATHERER. * A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.’” SHaksPeaRe. Drapery never should form part of the furniture of oom intended for music. It destroys reverberation, by absorbing the sound. A writer in the London Quarterly Review affirms, that he sensibly felt a damp cast upon the voice of a singer in a small room, upon = entrance of a tall lady, habited- in a long woollen cloak. Matrimony is properly called a fender point, for a hand is not unfrequently awarded to the largest tender. To arrive at perfection, a man should have very Sincere friends, or inveterate enemies; because he Would be made sensible of his good or ill conduct, tither by the censures of the one, or the admonitions of the other. The Abbe de Marolles was so fond of book-making, that he published the names of all his friends and all their acquaintance in a catalogue at his own expense. gentleman said to one of his companions, “ My kissed while they were struck under the fifth rib. verses cost me very little.” They cost you as much as they are worth,” replied his friend. A man is thirty years old, before he has any settled thoughts of his fortune: it is not completed before fifty; he falls a building in his old age, and dies by the time his house is in a condition to be painted and glazed. Of all chaste birds the pheenix doth excel Of all strong beasts the lion bedrs the bell, Of all sweet flowers the rose doth sweetest smell. Of all pure metals gold is only purest, Of all the trees the pine hath highest crest. Of all proud birds the eagle pleaseth Jove, Of pretty fowls kind Venus likes the dove, Of trees Minerva doth the olive move. Ihave known men grossly injured in their affairs, depart pleased, at least silent—only because th were injured in good language, ruined in caresses, an

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120 RECIPES. The corrupt part of the sect of epicures, only bor- rowed his name: so the monkey did the cat’s claw, to draw the Chesnut out of the fire. The most favourable combination of circumstances for sleep, are moderate fatigue, absence of pain, light, noise, and other circumstances calculated to produce a strong impression on thé nerves, or organs of sense ; and, above all, a tranquil state of mind. He that will undergo To make a judgment of a woman’s beauty, And see through all her plasterings and paintings, Had need of Lyceneus’ eyes, and with more ease May look, like him, through nine mud walls, than make A true discovery of her. A statesman begins to lower himself when he con- sents to be hired by others. It is recorded that one of the pious and devout, in imitation of the Messiah, travelled the world around. He one day stumbled on a valley, and in it sawa sepulchre, at the head of which was a plate stone, with this inscription :— “ We built a thousand cities; afterwards we sought one measure of harley with a measure of pearls, but could not obtain it, and died of hunger.” Thy portion of the World, O Man, is a single one, therefore seek not for ten, or if thou dost, ask thyself, “ will it be granted.” The trade of a blacksmith is one of little labour to himself, inasmuch as most of his work is done by a vice. I own it, that from Whitsuntide to within three weeks of Christmas—'tis not long—'tis like nothing: —but to those who know what death is, and what havoc and destruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about—'tis like a whole age. Families are some times chequered—as in brains, 80 in bulk. A woman of fortune being used to the handling of money spends it judiciously: but a woman who gets the command of morey for the first time upon her marriage, has such a gust in spending it, that she throws it away with great profusion. A shrewd observer once said, that in walking the streets of a slippery morning, one might see, where the good-natured people lived, bysshe ashes thrown on the ice before the doors. 2 . He is rich, whose income is more than his expenses, and he is poor, whose expenses exceed his income. Lying isa hateful and accursed vice. We have no other tie upon one another, but our word. My business has been to view as opportunity was offered, every place in which mankind was to be seen; but at card tables, however brilliant, I have always thought my visit lost, for l could know nothing of the company, but their clothes and their faces. It is remarkable that in music those strains please the most, which are allowed to be dull set, (dulcet.) The Scripture, in time of disputes, is like an open town in time of war, which serves indifferently the purposes of both parties; each makes use of it for the present turn, and then resigns it to the next comer, to do the same. Modesty is a polite accomplishment, and generally an attendant upon merit. A sentence well couched takes both the sense and the understanding. I love not those cart rope speeches that are longer than the memory of man can fathom. Urban the Eighth was a man of wit, a fine scholar, and an excellent magistrate. “No pope,” he was i used to say, “could ever boast of such extraordj nephews as I can. Cardinal Barberini has reformation always in his mouth, but I cannot find that he grow, any better; he is certainly a saint, but I never heanj any of his miracles. Cardinal Antonio is generoys and munificent, but he never gives away any thing of his own. Maffeo is certainly a great general anj commander of the ecclesiastical troops, but he never goes to war.” The excesses of our youth are drafts upon our oj age, payable with interest, about fifty years after daye. Life’s buzzing sounds and flatt’ring colours play Round our fond sense, and waste the day; Enchant the fancy, vex the labouring soul ; Each rising sun, each lightsome hour, Beholds the busy slavery we endure ; Nor is our freedom full, or contemplation pure, When night and sacred silence overspread the soul. The same care afi toil, that raise a dish of peas a Christmas, would give bread to a whole family during six months. y Time once lost can never »e regained. When reason, like the skilful charioteer, Can break the fiery passions to the bit, And, spite of their licentious sallies, keep The radiant track of glory; passions, then, Are aids and ornaments. Triumphant reason, Firm in her seat, and swift in her career, Enjoys their violence, and, smiling, thanks Their formidable flame, for bright renown. Virtue makes smiles of tears; vice, tears of smiles. A false friend is like a shadow on a dial; it appean in clear weather but vanishes as soon as that is cloudy. Zeno being told that love was unbecoming a philo sopher ; “ If this were true,” replied Zeno, “ the fate of the fair sex would be lamentable, not to be loved bu by fools.” EE RECIPES. A SALMI. Cut off the flesh from the bodies of a pair of cold pheasants, partridges, or wild-ducks, or an equal quan- tity of small birds. Beat it in a , Moistening it frequently with a little broth vy- Then pas the whole through a cullender or sieve. Put it into a stew-pan with a piece of butter about the size of a walnut, rolled in flour; half a pint of port wine or claret; two whole onions, and a bunch of sweet-herls. Let it boil half an hour, and then stir in two table spoonfuls of sweet oil, and the juice of a lemon. In another pan stew the legs and wings of the birds, but do not let them boil. Stew them in butter rolled in flour, seasoned with pepper and salt. Cut some slices of bread into triangular pieces, and fry them in butter. Lay them in the bottom of a dish, put the legs and wings upon them, and then the other part of the stew. Garnish the edge with slices of lemon, hand- somely notched with a knife. If the Salmi is made of. partridges, use oranges instead of lemons for the juice and garnishing. COLD SALMI. This is prepared on the table. Take the liver of 8 roast goose, turkey, or ducks. Put some of the gravy on a plate, cut up the liver in it, and bruise it with the back of a spoon or a silver fork. Add three tea- spoonfuls of olive oil, the juice of a lemon, and cay- enne pepper and salt to your taste. Mix it well. When the bird is cut up, eat it with some of ths sauce.

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—, ordinary ormation 1€ grows er heard Benerons thing of pral and 1 never | our old fter date. " smiles. t appears 8 cloudy. a philo- e fate of oved but ‘of cold al quan- tening it nen pass it it into size of a wine of et-herbs. vo table- n. he birds, er rolled ut some them in the legs rt of the n, hand- oranges

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